Sometime this spring while I’m on the road, the “Great Ravioli” will hit 200,000 miles.
The older my Toyota Rav gets, the more I adore her.
Wherever we happen to be at the time - I’m predicting North Carolina - I’ll take my trusty four-wheeled friend out for a toast.
She’ll have Super Unleaded - all she wants - on my tab, please.
Cheers! To our next 100,000 miles...
Thankfully, this winter I met a mechanic with a heart. It’s hard to believe, but not every mechanic holds an appreciation for vintage vehicles.
“You’re about due for a new car, sweetie,” an annoying technician at a popular chain auto shop told me when I stopped for just an oil change. “With this many miles, you’re bound to have real problems...”
At that moment, the only problem I could see was this condescending punk insulting both me and my weathered, but devoted ride.
A new car? No way.
I don’t consider vehicle maintenance a “real problem,” so I kept looking until I finally found a mechanic who was willing to teach me how to care for a geriatric vehicle. It takes know-how and enthusiasm to stay one step ahead of an aging automobile.
After a few months of work, Doug Schornstein got my little Ravioli running like a top just in time for my annual road trip to Texas and the east coast.
For Christmas, my little Ravioli received a total tune-up, fresh fluids, four new tires.
For Valentine’s Day, I gave my beloved chariot a new timing belt, her second in my 12 years of ownership. It was an expensive but essential gift.
Next, I splurged for new shocks.
And then just when I thought Ravioli was almost perfect, Doug asked if he could borrow her for a few more days - the speckles and stripes of rust dotting her hood and roof bothered him.
I’m not one to fuss over the look of a vehicle - function has always been my focus. But when Doug mentioned that rust is like cancer to a car, I realized that it might be time to give Ravioli an ultimate makeover.
Every dent on Ravioli comes with a story. I went over the entire vehicle with Doug, explaining this blemish, that pockmark.
“The long scrapes on the roof of the Rav are from my dog sled runners,” I told him.
“And this big dent on the side of the door,” I added. “You’ll never guess what happened here...”
“Did you hit a deer?”
“Uh, no, not quite,” I said, a bit embarrassed. “After the ice storm, my doors were frozen shut for days. That dent’s from my hip bone - I was trying to pop the door open. I’m a lot stronger than I thought I was....”
“Impressive...”
A few days later when Doug returned my Ravioli, I hardly recognized her. She was smooth, rustless, glowing - like new again.
I can’t wait to watch 199,999 roll over, revealing that shiny, new two and a beautiful string of fresh zero’s linked together like pearls across the odometer. I will beam with pride for my little-Ravioli-that-could.
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