Flashing orange and red lights. Reflective dark green error messages. Shards of rusty steel. Screeching sounds and slight vibrations mixed with the smell of gasoline and early morning dew.
No, I am not at a construction site. I am driving to work in my husband’s 2011 GMC Sierra. Forty-five minutes in this vehicle feels like three days in outer space. I am out of my element, trying to maneuver through traffic while airbag, tire, seatbelt, and engine warning symbols light up the dashboard like a Christmas tree. With more than 437,000 KMs on the odometer and a leaky gas tank, I am not confident I will make it down the road.
The dew is thick, and the windows are fogging up. I grab a rag, manually crank down the driver’s window, and begin wiping the mirrors and windshield in place of the broken heater. My passenger-side mirror has turned slightly inward, but I cannot adjust it while driving because nothing in this truck is powered.
After dropping my son off at summer camp, I insert the key into the ignition once more. The truck doesn’t start.
“You have to do the GMC jiggle,” my husband tells me.
The metal teeth on the key are worn down. To start the engine, you have to jiggle the key. But this is no ordinary jiggle. First, insert the key. Then pull it out slightly, but not too far. Apply light pressure. Wiggle it just right. Relieve the tension on the steering wheel. Only then will the truck grudgingly roar to life.
My anxiety is at an all-time high as my ADHD brain plays the bridge of Usher’s Burn on repeat for the entire drive to work.
“I’m twisted ’cause one side of me is tellin’ me that I need to move on. On the other side, I wanna break down and cry. Ohhhh.”
The lyrics loop in my head as I white-knuckle the steering wheel. One side of me knows this truck has reached the end of its life. The other side knows I have no idea how I’m going to make it home tonight, let alone keep driving it for the next week.
But why am I driving this death trap, you ask? Let me paint you a picture.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and my son and I are getting ready to head home from a playdate at his friend’s house.
On our way. Thirty minutes, I text my husband at 4:38 PM.
Less than a minute later, he replies: Take your time and be safe. It just started pouring here.
By 4:44 PM, I’m sitting on the shoulder of the highway with my hazard lights flashing, calling my husband.
“The car is beeping, and the red engine light is on.”
The rain is coming down heavily now, and in the backseat, my son wears a sweet but concerned expression. My husband tells me to get off at the next exit. He’s on his way to help, but he’s still about forty minutes out.
I shift the car into drive, keeping my four-ways on. I know the next exit isn’t far ahead, but every time I accelerate, the same warning light flashes and the same alarm sounds. I pull back onto the shoulder and shut the car off, hoping a quick on-off reboot will do the trick.
It doesn’t.
I can see the exit sign now. I just need to get off the highway. Creeping along the shoulder at a maximum speed of 12 km/h, I’m pushing the car as hard as it will go. Any faster and the temperature gauge needle starts fluttering violently across the dial.
Since my car accident, driving in the rain has always made me anxious. Today, though, I’m oddly grateful for it. The drivers around me seem a little more patient with my painfully slow speed.
There’s a Winners just off the highway, so my son and I wait there for my husband to arrive. We wander through aisles of cute Halloween decorations while the rain continues to fall outside. The cool air is a reminder that summer is almost over and new beginnings are just around the corner.
That hopeful feeling doesn’t last long.
My husband arrives and tells me to take our son and drive home in his Sierra. He doesn’t think my 2021 Hyundai Palisade is going to make it.
“I’m going to try to take it as far as I can, but if I stop, just keep going. I’ll make it home eventually,” he says nervously.
Then came the instructions.
Take a rag and wipe the side mirrors. Keep the windows cracked so they don’t fog up.
He continues listing things I might need to do, but all I can hear are echoes of warning beeps while the image of flashing red engine lights dance in my head.
Before this, I’d driven his truck once. To say I wasn’t confident would be an understatement. The Sierra has always felt like it’s one loose bolt away from falling apart. And, of course, it’s still pouring rain.
Before I can gather my thoughts, he’s gone.
I take my time merging back onto the highway, making sure to stay in the right lane with the slower traffic. That’s probably for the best because the speedometer doesn’t work either.
Through the rain, I can just make out an SUV sitting on the shoulder ahead. As I get closer, I realize it’s my husband.
I drive past him realizing the Palisade didn’t make it. I keep moving forward praying that at least one of us makes it home.
At 6:36 PM, I text my friend to let her know we’ve made it home and explain everything that happened.
My son and I have been home just long enough to get dinner on the stove when my husband calls. He managed to make it a little farther, but now the Palisade won’t start at all. A tow truck is on the way. I turn off the burners, load my son back into the Sierra, and somehow manage to get it started again. We make our way to pick up my husband.
Here we are, three days later, with my SUV still waiting for a diagnosis at the mechanic.
In the meantime, I’ve been commuting to and from work in the Sierra, feeling as though I’m standing in the middle of a construction zone without any safety gear.
I miss my SUV. I miss the power features I’ve probably taken for granted. I miss feeling safe behind the wheel. I miss the way the Palisade drives and handles. Most of all, I miss my tiny little home on wheels.
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