It took me ages to get my driver’s licence. I mean ages – if you’re one
of the hundreds of people who gave me a lift to a party between the
years 2010 and 2015, thanks for letting me drink in the back seat and
sorry about all the terrible music I insisted on playing via aux cable.
When I finally passed my test and bought a sensible secondhand
hatchback that was nothing like the 1970s Datsun I actually wanted,
I realised what I’d been missing out on. Driving rules. It’s the only
hallmark of adulthood that actually lives up to expectation, maybe
even surpasses it. (Having a credit card? Messy. Working full-time?
A cruel, cruel joke. Cooking your own meals? Occasionally fun,
except you’re broke and tired due to the aforementioned factors,
and therefore unlikely to enjoy it all that much.)
All this is on my mind because I recently entered the throes of a
mid- 20s crisis, sold said car, and moved overseas. I don’t have
regrets, but I was surprised by how much it hurt to say goodbye to the
vehicle I learnt to drive in. When I handed over the keys to my trusty
little red four-door, with Gold FM as its first radio preset; a million
stupid bumper stickers that would always peel off in the Melbourne
rain; and some minor-ish dents that I still insist weren’t my fault,
I was overcome by a near-physical pain, reminiscent of heartbreak.
Cars, it turns out, have meaning. Mine was crammed full of
memories, as well as a lot of physical detritus that passengers had
to sweep aside in order to sit. On an ill-advised overnight joyride
to the country, an evil ex-boyfriend and I folded down the back
seats and slept in total discomfort. On a poorly-planned Tasmanian
holiday, I insisted on taking the slow and winding scenic roads and
nearly missed the ferry home. One time, after years of pushing the
empty tank to its absolute limit, I found myself suddenly stranded in
the middle of a quiet suburban street, and had to hike to the nearest
petrol station in disgrace.
Nowadays, adulthood is confusing and hard to define. Few traditional
markers of maturity feel like they’re in reach. But owning a car
actually suited my transient millennial lifestyle of inconsistent jobs
and short-term leases – my car moved with me between no less than
four sharehouses, split between two different states on opposite ends
of the country. It was a means of independence when I felt like I had
few. Even when my bank account chugged towards zero, I’d buy five
dollars’ worth of petrol and cruise around the streets by myself, feeling
somehow safe and in control, like the outside world couldn’t hurt me.
Owning a car means being able to make moody solo trips through
the suburbs late at night when you can’t sleep, blasting your favourite
tunes and pretending you’re in a movie. It means litres of frozen Cokes
from the drive-thru during impromptu beach days. It means every hard
rubbish pile is a shopping centre where the price tags all say $0.00. It
means, as the hundreds of dad-rock songs about driving on highways
can corroborate, total freedom.
Not that there weren’t downsides. I never could get the hang of
parallel parking, and oddly seemed to get worse at it over time.
And cars are exquisitely costly to run and maintain; it never made
any financial sense whatsoever for me to own one. There were
environmental downsides, too – my bicycle rarely made the cut
when it came to choosing an I’m-late-for-work vehicle, and for that,
I apologise. Still, I loved that car like an expensive, accident-prone
child. Goodbye, old friend. May your next owner be more inclined to
look over their shoulder while reversing.braking up
KATHERINE GILLESPIE BIDS FAREWELL
TO HER BELOVED FIRST CAR.
PhotoLukasz Wierzbowskisomething to say