#onelastdrive

Steve knew it was going to happen soon. Helga, his friend, his partner, his Winnebago, had gone on Craigslist a week ago. It was tough, but their owners were done with this part of their lives. Sometimes, toward the end, they'd talk about driving. He'd ask her what it was like to just drive all day long. She'd tell him he knew, that he was there too. He'd laugh and say "You know what I mean."

Then one day, a young couple came and bought Helga. Just like that. They were talking about taking her up the coast. Steve was happy for her, he knew she liked the way her springs shifted and swayed on Highway 101. It made her feel sexy, like she was in a car commercial.

Freddie ached everywhere, but his owner didn't let up, slewing his rear wheels again through the gravel parking lot behind the Circle K. "WOOOOOO!" his owner screamed. In a nearby backyard, a lady looked up from putting her laundry on the line, shook her head, and continued her work.

Freddie thought back to his glory days — when his then-owner would take him out cruising. The streetlights would make his scarlet skin shine and there was a steady rotation of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and Doobie Brothers 8-tracks through his stereo. Then Joe got busted, Freddie got sold to pay for the lawyer, then sold again...and again. His scarlet paint faded and was covered. There were fender-benders. There was Bondo. There was primer. A couple of winters in the Northeast gave him some undercarriage rot. A cheap aftermarket stereo, wires dangling under the dash, replaced the 8-track. One owner was going to replace his steelies with swanky alloys, but ran out of money.

And now here he was, with rust holes in his frame, dented, aching, and sliding sideways through the gravel.

But somewhere, deep inside, it didn't matter. The dents, the crappy paint, the aftermarket crap, his litany of broken, squeaky, leaking, aging parts.

Clive loved Autumn. When his owner lifted the garage door on the Connecticut bungalow where he lived, the view was nothing short of idyllic - lawns turned to diamonds with a sparkling cover of frost, trees the colors of fire, the sun turning their tops to gold, and air so crisp you could bite it like an apple.

His owner got in and cranked the engine. Air and fuel pumped through, and Clive's exhaust barked a happy note, then settled into an easy purr. Every day after the surgery, he felt good, he felt powerful. "Clive...." his owner started..."It's time."

Clive flicked his headlights in assent. He knew this day was coming. His owner was on to other projects. He'd heard something about a '63 E-type getting a Skyline v6. It didn't matter. All that mattered now were the driving gloves on his steering wheel, the air roaring through his cockpit, and gulping down Connecticut backroads on a fine morning.