I know there are certain milestones as one deteriorates over time but doesn’t croak. Gets old in other words.

First you earn that coveted driver’s license, then one day the doorbell rings and the kids are all standing there - fortified by numbers - demanding the keys, saying it’s time to climb out from behind the wheel and stay out.

I’m not that far down the crapper yet, but have reached a life-turning moment just the same.

It happened a few weeks ago when quiet realization dawned; time to be done with the beloved MR2 has arrived. No angst. No drama. No deep mourning.

I am simply finished. Kaput. Time to move on.

And so move on I will. The ‘91 Toyota twin-turbo, 2-seater is going to Kearney, there to live its next life with son Aaron in the driver’s seat.

I was told by retirees that when my time came to hang it up career-wise I would know. Sure enough, I did. It was the same for me with the MR2.

My enjoyment of this car and the normally aspirated 1986 model that preceded it has been enormous. What fun it is to drive such a small, excitable little machine. This was doubly so when we lived in northwest Wyoming where they have mountains. Great big ones. When you have mountains you get switchbacks and when you get switchbacks you cherish just such a car.

But that was then. This is now. ‘Then’ I was younger and less, shall we say, girthy. The reality of ‘now’ is that I live in Nebraska with nary a switchback to be found. Cruising along I-80, carried along a concrete river by packs of 18-wheelers, driving a car that only comes up a tad higher than my hip bone is terrifying on a whole different level than torquing around switchbacks is terrifying.

Both will kill you quick, but only one makes you giggle.

And so another chapter in life closes. The MR2 joins golf, climbing up into deer tree stands, slogging through waterfowl marshes and reaching above shoulder height on the growing list of things I no longer can, or want, to do.

Intuitively, I sense everything is going to be OK. Especially since I upgraded our boat situation just the other day to one that runs across the waves at 30 mph and makes me giggle.

Tradition must be maintained my friends, doubly so in the face of change.


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