To The Dearly Departed: 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan

It was a handsome car, as far as prosaic family haulers go. The aggressive belt-line crease lent the car an air of lean athleticism. Our Caravan was clad in silver with black trim and privacy glass, which aged well in my eyes. Of course, Rachael will tell you that my taste in vehiculars is suspect at best. And frankly she may have a point—my taste in cars, like my taste in music, never truly advanced beyond the 90’s. On the inside, the car struggled to find that same timeless appeal. Not that Chrysler measurably fell short of the commercial standard for the age. It did not. Knobs and buttons were laid out in a thoughtful fashion. And yet. . . .

Allow me to describe it this way: when we sold the car last week, the buyer ran a CarFax right there in the front yard as the rain fell around us (a feat not even possible when the van was built 13 years ago). Falling rain, yes. CarFax, no. Turns out, our Grand Dodge Cara-wagon began life as a rental vehicle in Los Angeles. And that pretty much sums up the trouble with the car.

We got the base model mini-people-hauler, complete with navy-blue carpets and carnival-grade plastic appointments. Granted, cheap plastic and color schemes do not a bad car make; they are strictly aesthetic concerns. But, blue carpet shows dirt, which means I vacuum once a week. A task I religiously observed every Saturday. Cheap plastic scratches easily and shows wear unless episodically saturated with copious amounts of Armorall. And this we did not do.

A lover of pragmatic machines, I loved the van. Few cars can compete with a minivan for sheer practical applicability. One minute it hauls people, the next it becomes pickup with a camper. Combine with that the reasonable price tag tied to a Caravan, and suddenly you’re staring at one of the greatest wheeled values known to man.

As I remember it, shooting from the hip now, the van cost us $8500 before the credit we received for the Taurus. In the intervening seven and one half years since that purchase, we drove the van a solid 80,000 miles. Much has been made in the press about the unreliability of American automobiles as compared to their Japanese counterparts. As a young man, fiercely loyal to the country that nurtured me as a youth and continues to offer me liberties of belief and mobility, this rankled.

Now somewhat older and the owner of a ‘95 Nissan XE, my position has softened. Today, I freely acknowledge a clear disparity in build quality and many times in engineering and design. In some cases, American manufacturers simply do not build the type of vehicle I would like to drive. (Think: compact wagon, manual transmission.) And yet in most cases, at least for the last several years, I’m not sure that the disparity in quality and design merits the discrepancy in cost. The act of buying our Caravan put that proposition to the test.

Fortunately for us, the wisdom behind our position has been borne out. In rough numbers, I figure the van cost us at most $13,000 over eight years to own and to maintain (not including gas or oil changes). Since comparably aged and equipped import minivans fetch between $12k and $14k used (with more miles), I feel like we made the right decision from an economic standpoint. Okay, so I’ve waxed didactic and in so doing stand to obscure to true magic of this minivan. What is important for our purposes today is that the van was fairly reliable. When it wasn’t, I was able to handle most of the repairs on my own with a little help from my friends YouTube.

These repairs included replacing the tires, thermostat, blower fan capacitor (twice), serpentine belt, belt tensioner, rotors and pads, alternator, battery, and water pump. Mechanics helped with rear drum brakes, a couple of oil leaks, and the air conditioning (twice). All told pretty minor stuff.

It is not my purpose in writing to justify my position on purchasing American-manufactured automobiles. I offer these thoughts as a memorial to a great vehicle that schlepped our family and gear for the better part of a decade and did so economically. Ultimately, the ever-expanding size of our family (until Ivy, that is) and the growth of our children combined with our interest in gear-heavy outdoor activities (i.e., camping and cycling) led us to begin looking for a larger, more powerful, and more substantial vehicle.

We invested in roof racks, bike trays, a car carrier, a hitch, and a hitch-mounted rack. All this allowed us to extend the van’s hauling capacity as the kids grew and absorbed more of the available space in the van. And yet, the tell-tale reverse rake, wobbly cornering, and increased squealing from the back seat all portended an end of an “transportative” era for our family.
 

One day, I will spend a few minutes memorializing the reasons behind our purchase of the Caravan’s successor. But out of respect for the dearly departed, today is not that day. O Caravan for your years of faithful service we salute you. We do not blame you for your cheap plastics, periodic minor repairs, and waning handling. We lay that at the feet of Detroit with all her troubles. In short, our Dodge Grand Caravan represented a convenient, economical set of wheels for a young family. It’s great gas mileage and sliding doors will be sorely missed.

Dear Caravan, adieu.

 

 

Today: Urges

 

As a full-throated, bare-chested enthusiast of mountain cycling, and as the owner of—not one, but three—“mountain cycles,” I find myself assailed at times by these inexplicable urges. . . .

 

• Urges to seek out the nastiest, rockiest, rootiest horse trails known in these parts.
  
• Urges to leave the mountain cycles, what with their accommodating trail geometry, their knee-preserving crawling gears, and their wide tire munificence, hanging forlornly on the garage wall.
• Urges to mount my 25’s with the reflective whitewalls on the road cycle and then maneuver the road bike through the bottomless mud holes and slimy leaf-strewn obstacles on those horse trails.

That was Friday evening. The urge satisfied, the thirst slaked, I wiped down the steel tubes and hung my century-distance steed back on its hooks in the garage.

 

Today: Flight (revisited)

The rain stopped all those no-handed, high-speed shenanigans 

 After six pieces of free pizza for lunch yesterday and the prospect of no exercise today, I doggedly resolved last night to ride my bike to work today even as torrential rains lashed the house and tore at the eaves. Okay, so I exaggerate. No lashings or tearing took place. But the rain did fall in steady torrents, both last night and today. And I did ride. The total elapsed ride time remained about the same usual: one and a half hours of soggy bliss. By the time I had been in the saddle 4 miles, I was wet throughout. By the time I coasted into the garage here in Bellevue, the rain had clawed its way into my backpack to "moisten" my clothes, leaving me with a lingering reminder of her presence all day long. The best part of the ride? After 25 miles of this punishment for my overweening pride, I shuffled into and shivered through an hour-long meeting with a few of my peers, my boss, and my boss' boss. There I sat strategically positioned below the icy draft of an air vent in my dripping bike clothes. I soldiered through as best I could.  When it was all over, I needed a warm shower so badly, I didn't even mind all the creepy body building pictures in the gym. So cycling might be the closest thing to flight short of sprouting wings, but that doesn't change the fact that flying in inclement weather is no fun.

There's Mercer, but I don't see much of Seattle today.

Today: Flight

Back in January, I allowed myself—against my better judgment and repeated vows—to be persuaded to ride the STP again this year. So now I have to figure out how to train for a 200-mile ride while remaining gainfully employed and juggling the needs of church and family. Despite rumors to the contrary, I actually enjoy seeing my kids and speaking with Rachael. Tuesday night it rained all the way home. That was an unmitigated drag. Last night, however, reminded me why I put up with all the physical and emotional abuse. The weather was dry and relatively warm. And in spite of a stiff headwind, my yellow-tinted safety glasses enhanced the fresh green-ness of the budding cottonwoods lining my route home. The sun rimmed everything with bright reflection. On days like these, there’s nothing in the world like a hard ride on a well-tuned bicycle. It’s the closest thing to sprouting wings and flying. 

In Renton, south across Lk. Wash.

Who's the clown that's following me??

West across Lk. Wash.
Mercer Island in the background

A Revisionist's History: Mom

I had the opportunity to speak to a group of women at my Church on Tuesday evening. I was asked to consider the women that have had an impact on my life and—this was more suggested than stated—speak to how these women made do with their limited resources to overcome the challenges they faced in their time. Ultimately, I believe, it was hoped that by sharing these experiences we would be able to impart a measure of hope to the women attending.

Obviously, that was no small order to fill. Anyway, when I finally got around to putting something to paper, the following remembrances sprung, almost as it were, fully-formed from the pen. As it happened, I didn’t share what follows that evening. But since the Muse was kind enough to guide my pen, I thought I’d pass her beneficence on to the “interwebs”.

Today: Dream Job

Looking east from John's house in Winter.

One of the aspects I enjoy most about my current work is the opportunity to meet and interact with people from all over the United States. After working with more than 80 corporations scattered across three countries and 30 different states, you develop an appreciation for the sheer breadth and variety of experience in this world. In part because of this experience, I have come to believe that everyone has a story worth telling, everyone.

Four years in this current, and at times unsatisfying, position has taught me a great deal about what matters to me in a career. Ironically, had this job stretched me more than it has, I might never have asked the questions that have lead to these realizations. Chalk that up for silver linings. In terms of revelations, it turns out that meeting and getting to know people, the act of discovering or unearthing their “story,” really motivates me.

Today: The Happy Place

Way back during our Austin days, Rachael and I took a journey to the Gulf Coast. We camped on Mustang Island with some friends. In spite of infernal heat, a woeful lack of basic camping gear, and an incessant wind that scoured our car, our kids, and our faces with fine beach sand, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. For one, we learned something invaluable about Rachael.

We learned that she has what we have come to refer to as a “happy place.” Which I take to mean, a place where she feels so completely carefree as to cause her to momentarily drop the baggage of life at the door and enjoy herself . . . for a while. As luck would have it, this illusive “happy place” is far more ubiquitous that you might think. All she needs is a little sand, some water, and copious amounts of sun. Put all those things together, add kids and a camera, and Rachael can live off the happy memories for a year.