Last week, I noticed a note on my 1993 Ford Ranger pickup truck's windshield asking me if I wanted to sell. Actually, I was thinking of that.
So, on Monday, I called the number, and with unseemly haste a family raced up from Galt to purchase the vehicle before I changed my mind.
My motive to sell now was mostly due to finances. I had some chagrin about that. I appreciated having two old vehicles to drive, because in the event that mechanical failure took down one vehicle, there was always another vehicle at the ready. At the same, two old vehicles means twice the number of potential defects, and there was always the burden of twice the insurance payments, registrations, and smog checks. Since 2023, when I bought Sunshine, the yellow 2002 Mazda Protege 5, I've been driving the pickup truck only about 1,000 miles a year: hauling stuff and dump runs and the like. So, I'm back to owning just one vehicle which I hope doesn't break down very often.
Maybe I'm worried about what my prepper sister said. She said the Time of Suffering is coming. It sounds like the Apocalypse, except for the secular set. I live in California. I'm not interested in Suffering. But, who knows?
The desire to own a pickup truck hit me at midnight December 2, 2017, while I was driving my 2002 Saturn sports coupe eastward on Highway 50 in West Sacramento at 60 mph. Actually, it was a Ford Ranger pickup truck that hit me, driven by a maniac who worked in a pizza restaurant out near Winters, racing back home to Sacramento after work. This jerk was driving at least 90 mph: probably closer to 120 mph, when he slammed into the back of my car. The crash was spectacular. I hit the pickup truck in front of me, spun out of control, and had real trouble bringing my car to a stop.
Strangely enough, I suffered only a minor cut and was otherwise unhurt. I attribute my good fortune under the circumstances to an acquaintance in Zumba class, who died in a car accident in July, 2017. I had trouble finding her descanso, but in a remarkable synchronicity, finally did locate her memorial on accident date, December 2, 2017. (Ooooowweeeoooo!) I can't help but think angelic power she had gained helped shield me from harm.
I was outraged when the CHP cop that responded blamed me for the accident. Apparently the cop was gullible. He talked first with the driver of the Ford Ranger and accepted his story that I was going 20 mph down the freeway and that's why he hit me while he was driving 60 mph.
I got so angry that I started stalking the home of the driver. A strange passion overtook me. I returned to the accident site and collected broken pieces of my car and the pickup truck's license plate, which had broken free in the accident. Two nearby people became alarmed at my presence and threatened to beat me. Mostly what I wanted was what the Plains Indians customarily did after battles: taking and wearing the clothes and belongings of fallen enemy warriors.
This practice of literally owning an enemy's belongings really creeped out U.S. soldiers in the 1800s. The presence of what appeared to be U.S. cavalry in the distance who wouldn't come to their aid really bothered the besieged soldiers on Reno Hill at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876. The desperate soldiers thought these were Custer's men ignoring them. Not true! They weren't U.S. cavalry at all; just dressed as them!
It's very primal thing to want to OWN your assailant. It's like drinking your fallen enemy's blood to gain strength. I wanted to own everything he owned.
So, I started shopping for a Ford Ranger pickup on Craigslist, and found the 1993 one. Even though it was a different year, it was at least the same make and model as the truck that hit me.
Now, that may not be the best reason to buy a truck, but there it was. By December 21, 2017, the registration process was complete.
I had many good and tender times in the truck. Among these times was when I drove to Placerville on October 1, 2018 to pick up a new puppy. Brave Jasper rode in my lap and tried to look over the steering wheel as I drove him down into Sacramento that evening.
What followed over the years was a process of weeding out various mechanical defects, replacing tires, brake system, and getting a new head gasket in 2019.
The ventilation ducts of the truck accumulated leaves from the hedge looming above its parking space. These leaves were prone to catching fire if I tried to use the heater or the A/C, which yielded the truck's nickname: the Flaming Chariot. On December 3, 2022, I had a massive gas tank leak while driving down the freeway, and indeed, nearly became a real “Flaming Chariot.”
Good times!
I understand the new owners will use the truck for Door Dash deliveries and the truck will typically be found in cherry orchards near Stockton. So, in a real sense I've put the truck out to pasture!
And maybe too, after a decade dominated by Trump and vengeance, the passion is beginning to wind down. I don't need to own a pizza maker. I don't need to own anyone but myself. And maybe too the Time of Suffering is a phantasm that will evaporate. Time for peace.
