A love letter to my 2002 Honda CR-V

I’ve cried over plenty of different things since I was 16. Long forgotten fights with friends, bad test scores and high school dances gone wrong have all left mascara streaming down my cheeks. Not to mention all the happy tears I’ve shed for college acceptance letters and from laughing too hard in the Walmart parking lot. But for four years, the location of my tears has remained the same: the driver’s seat of my 22-year-old Honda CR-V. She’s been practically on her deathbed since she first came into my possession, but I like to believe I’ve been willing her to keep on living just for me. I have made it my mission to reach at least 300,000 miles before she kicks the bucket.

In 2020, my great aunt tried to trade in her car for a new one, but the dealership wouldn’t take it. They cut her a deal to take the car off their hands and dump it elsewhere, implying that the only rightful place for a car that old was the junkyard. Instead, she gave it to my grandfather, knowing he could fix her up a bit. That’s where I came in; never has something labeled worthless meant so much to me. Freshly 16 and ready to hit the road, my grandfather agreed to bestow the car upon me if I promised to take good care of her. And take good care of her I have. 

The car came with little hummingbird stickers decorating the back windows, so I fittingly dubbed her “Bertha the Bird Bus.” Her battery dies on the regular — in part because she’s ancient, and, in part, because I often forget to turn off the headlights — so I keep jumper cables in my trunk at all times. In truth, she has a long list of mechanical problems in addition to her tendency to temporarily die, but that has always been fine with me — I’ve been known to confidently declare that I can fix the undoubtedly broken. My dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree. The rust over the back driver’s side tire has been spray painted black to match the rest of the car. To drive straight, I have to turn the wheel slightly to the right. The cruise control doesn’t work, which I once blamed for my lead foot. Then, last year the acceleration began to mysteriously malfunction — which I now blame for my snail-like pace. At least I won’t be receiving a speeding ticket anytime soon. Her poor prognosis made my family (and admittedly myself) nervous about trips out of town, but much like Eric and the gang in “That 70s Show,”  I decided that the potential for new adventures outweighed the risk of car trouble.

My friends and I have had our fair share of coming-of-age moments as we’ve driven down the coast of Lake Michigan with our heads out the sunroof. There’s nothing quite like the joy of feeling the cool night breeze rush between your fingers while blasting David Bowie in the empty small town air at midnight. We may have been driving down the main street in our hometown for the millionth time, but the sheer act of moving together like that made the world feel so much bigger. We had the ability to escape the clutches of suburbia and suddenly realized we didn’t want to anymore. It was then that I began to realize the power good friends have to keep your life interesting, even in the most mundane places. 

When the air turns on, the car fills with the scent of the last person who sat in it. I don’t notice my own of course, but my best friend’s vanilla perfume, my recent date’s cologne and the stale scent of alcohol from my night as designated driver all linger in the air. They remind me that my car wouldn’t be the same without my favorite people in the passenger seat, and neither would my adolescence. To this day the memories of all the late night drives and parking lot gossip sessions are so visceral when I sit in the driver’s seat, and I can only hope they’ll stay as fresh in my mind when that seat is getting chewed up by junkyard raccoons. I’d like to think my memories extend beyond the piece of metal that I made them in. For the same reason we keep photographs and souvenirs, I’m not quite ready to let go of my physical reminder of them just yet.

Just as Bertha has left her mark on me, I’ve left mine on her. The 2002 Honda CR-V is also equipped with a fold up table in the trunk, stowed away under a large circular piece of plywood that sits out of sight under the floor mats. The table was missing when I got her, but the compartment remained. Today, the plywood has a thick black tire tread across it from the time I found my best friend stranded on the side of the road with her car stuck in the sand. She had tried to drive around the gate to the beach parking lot after being locked inside after sunset. After laughing at her misfortune for a good five minutes, I remembered that this piece of plywood existed and we wedged it under her tires to give her the traction to escape. I like to believe Bertha doesn’t mind another piece of her being sullied for a good cause. I’ve come to terms with the fact that nothing stays entirely pristine as time passes, but it’s those new imperfections that showcase how much something has been loved. Just like my shoes and my favorite jeans, my car is well worn with a purpose, and I’m grateful I haven’t had to wear her out all on my own.

As my car gets closer and closer to her grave, I’ve started to think about how I’ll manage to move on — both figuratively and literally.  I’ve begun to wonder whether I harbor so much love for my car because of all that she’s supported me through, or because I kind of have to. The United States is one of the most car-dependent countries in the world and, especially in rural areas like the Midwest, there isn’t exactly an abundance of public transportation. Though it’s not particularly efficient, economically sound or eco-friendly in comparison to trains, trams and public buses, Americans sure do love to own cars. I would certainly agree that we would be better off with more public transportation across the country, yet if you asked me to give up my car in favor of a bus pass, I would stubbornly tell you “absolutely not.” 

I have a desperate addiction to independence that is maintained by my ability to go anywhere, anytime, with whomever I please. My car has become a means through which I can connect with the world and I’ve found value in her individuality. Bertha is not just a vehicle to me, she’s a room with wheels that I grew up in. She didn’t judge me when I was a teenage girl waiting for a text from my crush that I would never get, and she doesn’t judge me now, as I spend too much money on groceries and debate my career path every day. While it’s rare to take the exact same train-car across the city every day, I’ve been looking out the same windshield since I had braces and a part-time job slinging ice cream.

A lot has changed from then, but the semblance of consistency that my car offers has helped keep me sane. There’s a certain comfort in braving the new and uncomfortable world of growing up, and always having something familiar to come back to. I may not be able to pack my parents up in a suitcase and bring them to Ann Arbor, but I suppose my car will do just fine for now. She sits in a gravel lot off Vaughn Street waiting for me to come back — ceaselessly opening her doors for me no matter how much I’ve changed and always reminding me where I came from. 

And yet, the sad truth is that I have always known I will not have forever with her. I drive back and forth across I-96 knowing I could be roadside stranded at any moment. For some people, including my younger self, that might instill a bit of fear. As I have gotten older however, I’ve learned to enjoy the ride while it lasts. In the same way I decorate my apartment walls even though I’ll have to move in another few months, I make memories in my car like it’s her job — and it sort of is. I’ll use her until the end of her miles, even if they never reach 300,000. Oftentimes we know that something won’t be in our life forever and we dare to love it anyway because the memories are worth every minute of the mourning. It’s this wholesome sort of summer fling that I share with my car, and as I race against the engine light, I cherish every mile without regret.

Statement Columnist Paige Wilson can be reached at wipaige@umich.edu.

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