Feb 7

Feb 7 One Hundred Thousand Miles: A Memoir

It was sunny, and unusually windy in Fort Worth the day I got my truck. One of those Texas days where you feel like you’re being tumble-dried on low. I remember the trees around the driveway seemed to be a more vibrant green than usual, or maybe everything just seemed brighter. My mom drove me to the Chevy dealership to meet with Jim, our go-to family car salesman. Jim walked me to a lineup of three trucks with a hail damage discount and let me pick a color: red, white, or gray. Durability, longevity, safety? Nah, gray. I was young and didn’t know what mattered. My parents let me pick anyway.

I don’t remember where I was going and I think that’s perfect. Our missing memories teach us as much about ourselves as the ones we cherish most. I was an aimless and ignorant eighteen year old when I drove the truck off the lot, crank window down and left arm in the warm wind.

One month later, I drove to Austin. I assumed making friends would be effortless - like minded people find each other. Instead, several months went by and studying got lonely. I’d drive through the Westlake hills, stopping to study at random Starbuckses to escape my own jealousy of library study groups. Eventually I made friends and the escape became healthier. We’d leave campus to rope swing at the Greenbelt or trek further to a friend’s lake house. Dependable escapes helped us pass classes and stay sane.

Several times a week, I drove to northwest Austin for Young Life meetings. At a party for our annual volunteer initiation, I backed into a plaster mailbox and uprooted it from the concrete sidewalk. The homeowner waved me off and said “HOA will pay for it.” The tailgate dent reminds me of a time with a lot of freedom and little consequences.

I worked the 7AM kitchen shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays at a campus dorm in exchange for free food and parking. The parking decal is a red sticker with a squirrel enjoying a nut. I don’t park there anymore, but I keep the sticker. It reminds me that if you want to eat, you have to wash the dishes. And the red circle is easy to spot in a crowded parking lot.

I graduated and stayed in the city where it’s always summer. A few minutes of solitude in the truck bookend every workday. After work I decompress, I think about how tomorrow will be different than today, I jam out. Then off we go to the social gathering of the day.

My favorite social memories all have friends in the truck bed. Trips to Barton Springs pool, designated driving to 6th street, heading north to the Regal movie theater, I see my friends in my rearview mirror, wind in their hair. Even when I’m alone in the cab, I’m happy. In the truck, I learned that my greatest happiness is seeing my loved ones happy - almost like I take a small piece of everyone’s happiness and keep it for myself.

In my truck, I learned who I am. A directionless kid became a man in the driver’s seat. One hundred thousand miles later, I’ve made best friends and defining life choices behind the wheel. I learned how to drive and eat tacos at the same time. I’ve collected a lifetime of memories one mile at a time.

Then