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She
came from south of the border. It was obvious she had
been around the block a few times, yet she was in remarkably
good shape for her age. I had seen her once or twice
before, mostly on a friend’s ranch. A real workhorse,
her build was boxy and her style horribly outdated. Yet,
her sheer presence and age commanded a certain amount
of respect. In fact, there were more than a few who found
her beautiful.
Burrita was her name – even said so on her license
plates. And if ever there was ever an automobile that
deserved a name, she was it. From the powder blue paint
job, which still retained a hint of the gloss of her
former years, to the Texas longhorns lovingly affixed
to her hood, she was one of a kind. Bought off an old
man several years back with barely a dent on the odometer,
she had since been sentenced to hard labor, making several
trips from Durango to Baja. However, at merely 70,000
miles young, she was put out to pasture in Durango, retired
to live the life of a ranching truck.
“
They don’t make ’em like that any more,” people
would say wistfully as they admired her square grill,
round headlights, vertical windshield and sofa-sized
front seat.
As for me, I preferred to admire her from afar. Sure,
an occasional ride for utilitarian purposes was fine – as
long as someone else drove. See I had paid my dues in
the “vintage” vehicle department, from a
1976 Ford Mustang to a 1974 CJ-5. But once I discovered
the joys of fuel injection, five speeds and anti-lock
brakes, there was no looking back. I didn’t drive
much, but when I did, it was nice to know there was a
dependable, civilized piece of machinery between me and
the pavement.
And then came the bad news. The spousal unit was taking
our only car on ski safari, leaving me to fend for myself
for two weeks. But in honor of my prematernal status,
special arrangements were made for my transport. Burrita
was coming out of retirement.
When we went to fetch her, it was suggested I do the
honors. As I hesitantly hoisted myself into the cockpit,
I was reminded to always start in second and use the
side mirrors, the rear view mirror had fallen off. I
positioned myself and turned the key. To my surprise,
she came roaring to life on the first crank. I fuddled
around for second and gingerly let out the clutch. Soon,
we were bouncing down the dirt road, catching air with
each rut and pothole.
Burrita was neither built for comfort nor speed. With
the turning radius of a Princess cruise ship, and just
as much float, she was not driven, she was navigated – albeit
with the crudest of instruments. The control panel was
bare bones: speedometer, gas gauge, wipers, blinkers,
heat, radio, lights (the brights, I would later discover,
were on the floor). There were three seat belts, one
in the middle for “riding bitch.” Something
told me it didn’t see much use.
As she approached cruising altitude, Burrita gave new
meaning to “blowing doors.” She rattled,
whistled, creaked and groaned. The side mirrors shook
uncontrollably, making it impossible to tell how many
sets of headlights were stacked up behind you. Not that
it mattered. When it came to the rules of the road, Burrita
was practically assured dominance. And she was in no
hurry. The only thing this country girl needed were loosely
bound hay bales spewing out the back.
As we rambled home that night, I thought I detected more
than a few snickers from fellow motorists. But as I eventually
logged more time behind the wheel, I became less self-conscious
and began discovering Burrita’s nuances. She grudgingly
gave up second for third, requiring a firm yet gentle
hand, and downshifting was usually out of the question.
With two tons of American-made steel behind her, braking
required serious advance planning. Gassing up took a
special skill, not only in wrestling the ancient gas
cap off but in positioning the nozzle so as to avoid
a small environmental disaster at each fueling. I also
discovered her dislike of modern conveniences. A recently
installed stereo rejected any attempt at loading a CD,
and the radio had an uncanny knack for searching out
oldies and static.
Out of sheer necessity, I became more daring with Burrita,
venturing into the county for newspaper delivery or a
trip to the mountain. Each time she performed with unwavering
devotion. I began to feel more at ease at the rickety
helm and entertained thoughts of a longer trip. Although
her rear-wheel drive was not ideal for winter driving,
I decided to take a chance on Telluride one sunny morning.
With clear roads and dog and skis in tow, we hit the
open road. We cruised smoothly through the Dolores River
valley, “Kentucky Woman” playing on the radio.
As we made the ascent to Lizard Head, the roads peppered
with black ice, the mood darkened, and “Wipeout” came
on.
Once safely at our destination, I breathed a sigh of
relief, yet had a wary eye on the weather rolling in.
As the day wore on, the clouds thickened and swirled,
winds whipped, and snow began to fly. I knew the ride
home would be tough. The roads that had been dry on the
way in were now slick and snow-covered.
As we crawled
out onto the main drag and toward the pass, the radio
searched in vain for something suitable, finally settling
on static. Too scared to remove my death grip from the
steering wheel, I had no choice but to accept it. With
Burrita firmly planted in second, we crept along the
winding road, much to the vexation of those behind us.
As we entered the open range at the top of the pass,
the snow turned sideways, enveloping Burrita. I found
myself in a sea of white – not even the longhorns
visible. As if on cue, “White Wedding” suddenly
came across the airwaves. Too terrified to stop and too
terrified to keep going, I held my breath, kept my hands
at the wheel and prayed for safe delivery. Then, after
what seemed an eternity, the white-out subsided, and
the trusty longhorns came back into view – dead
center of where they should be.
Burrita had pulled us through. And as if to taunt the
powers above, she came up with AC-DC’s “Hells
Bells” for the victory descent into Rico. With
the most harrowing part of the drive behind us, we loosened
up for the rest of the drive, eventually venturing into
fourth gear. Happy to be alive, we rolled back into town
to the likes of Barry Manillow and The Supremes. I sang
while Burrita clattered to the beat.
Mission accomplished, I docked Burrita in safe harbor,
aware that our time together was nearing an end. A few
days later, as I squeezed behind the wheel of my Japanese
econo wagon, it was not without a pang of longing for
the powder blue dash, crank windows and Barcalounger-plaid
front seat. And while the adventures of Burrita may be
over for now, I believe she will ride again. In the meantime,
she has reaffirmed for me two of life’s timeless
lessons: simpler can be better and never judge a man
till you’ve gone a mile in his driver’s seat.
– Missy Votel
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