A few months ago, a letter arrived in the mail which stunned me.   ‘Airbag recall – you must stop driving your car immediately’.  My white 1999 Honda CRV, 325,000 on the mileage meter, was sitting in the driveway as I read the letter.  My heart skipped a beat, my stomach sank.   Oh no! Supported by my mechanic David at the local Liberty Garage, I was hoping to drive it until it dropped.   I loved it!  Even David advised me not to trade it in on my sister’s Hyundai i135 when she was selling it recently as he thought my old Honda would last longer.  But now it seemed, the decision was being taken out of my hands.

A year or so ago there had been a previous recall of Honda’s for airbag replacements.   I’d heaved a sigh of relief when I realised my 1999 model wasn’t included.  But now it seemed airbags in the older model had an unacceptable risk of deadly shrapnel being released from the airbag in an accident. Recall notices had been sent out by Honda.   This time there wasn’t the option of having airbags refitted – parts were unavailable for older models. A buy back offer was on the table - $2900 plus $400 for costs associated in making the transition. 

I was conflicted, it was a wonderful offer.  I didn’t want to let go of my car, but at the same time, would be lucky to get $500 for it if I sold it.  And, realistically, I needed a car that would be more likely to see me out, a ‘last car’, ideally another Honda CRV, but 10 years younger with lower mileage. 

You see I love Honda’s – this had been my third.  My previous favourite was a teal blue Honda Civic Station Wagon I drove during the 1980's and 1990’s, a model based on the original little Honda runabouts but with an extended chassis.  I would still be driving this car if I could!  Sadly, it never recovered after having flooded with oil by a servo attendant on work experience, ending up as a farm vehicle on my sister’s farm before being entombed in a hidden gully. 

A few cars later, another very reliable Honda, this time a dark blue Honda Accord sedan with gold special edition badging from Pat Claridge's car yard.  In an urgent quest for a replacement vehicle after an accident in which it had been written off, I found the white CRV at Laurie Lowen’s car yard.  What a find!  Reliable, comfortable to get into as knee and back problems kicked in, so easy to see out of and enjoy broad rural landscapes sitting quite high relative to the road. Although more recently items listing knocks in the engine appeared on service reports, they didn’t seem to be getting any worse and David didn’t appear worried.   I didn’t want to let go of it, but had little choice. 

The search began – for another Honda!  I unsuccessfully looked through car yards in Shepparton.  Encouraged by a friend to look on Gumtree, I found a silver-grey Honda CRV within my price range being sold in nearby Baddaginnie.  Taking my sister with me, I inspected it.  The owner and her sons showed it to me proudly, highlighting its ‘special edition’ features; that it was being serviced by a Benalla mechanic who did not think she should sell it, and more. The owner explained that she had driven it from Queensland to Baddaginnie, where, now living with her sons and rarely driving it, the money would help with extensions to their house.  My instincts were that it was going to be okay.  It would also meet my criterion of being 10 years younger -2009 - and having lower mileage - 148,000k.  The price was also in range with the payout from Honda of $3300 factored in.  Sold!

That’s not quite the end of the story, however.  A few weeks went by before arrangements were in place for the tow truck to arrive to take my treasured white CRV on its final journey to the Honda graveyard in Melbourne.  I drove it while I could still do so, each time enjoying the drive; each time wishing that I didn’t have to sell it.  I reluctantly emptied it.  The day came when the tow truck pulled up outside and I watched it being levered up the ramp and placed securely on the tray of the truck.  I felt so sad.
 
I don’t think I ‘anthropomorphized’ my car - I didn’t have a name for it or talk to it - however I valued it highly.  It had shared a decade of my life, been on so many adventures with me.  It had carried boxes of teaching resources from Wangaratta, as I made the transition from working at GOTAFE to retirement; taken my mother on many happy drives when she was living at Alkoomi nursing home in the years before her death in September 2014; driven me to Albury/Wodonga for treatments when I had breast cancer in 2013; taken me ‘north’ to meet my half-sisters and nieces for the very first time in 2014; just last year taken me back to Sydney to see my 102 year old godmother, and so much more. 

In fact, it had rarely skipped a beat in ten years.  And yet now, to reduce the risk that a piece of shrapnel would enter my body if I had an accident which could lead to my suing Honda for millions of dollars, it was on the back of a truck, heading for a crusher and car graveyard in Melbourne.

The silver-grey Honda CRV special edition 2009 now sits resplendently in my driveway.  It’s more glamorous than its predecessor (to those who care about such things) and is performing very well, despite limited opportunities to drive it far during the COVID-19 break. 

I am gradually learning to trust it, to understand its features and quirks, yet still feel quite sad when I think of my old white Honda CRV sitting valiantly on the back of the tow truck as it pulled out of Monds Avenue on the journey to its Melbourne graveyard.

It just isn’t the same.  However, one day, given my track record for becoming attached to my cars, I am sure it will be…
 
Bev Lee
July 2020

In January 1982, an exchange teacher armed with the obligatory international driving licence, I arrived in Kamloops, BC, Canada, to find a town covered in a thick blanket of snow.  The hills surrounding Kamloops were a beautiful white, disguising the rather plain, grey hills which appeared a few months later when the snow melted. 

On the kitchen table of the apartment I was to live in for the next  year was a car key with a note from my exchangee explaining there was a car with snow tyres in the basement car park for me to drive around town. 

At first I didn’t worry about driving.  I was finding it hard enough walking on snow!   Eventually I ventured to the basement car park with car key in hand, finding  a pale blue ‘limo’ of uncertain age with wide bench seats.  I decided to take a quick test drive in neighbouring streets.  While I wasn’t worried about driving on the ‘wrong side’ as I had done this before, I was uncertain about driving on icy, snow covered roads. 

Driving out through the car park’s automatic roller door into lightly falling snow, I turned into the salted snow ploughed side street.  The car immediately slewed around… and continued to do so as I zig zagged around the block.  Emotionally drained, I returned the car to the basement car park where it stayed until the snow thawed! 

This old blue limo then proved to be a very handy local runabout.  

It was, however, quite unsuited to taking my mother and aunt on our planned holiday to Banff, Jasper and Calgary in Alberta. 

I decided to rent a more modern car for a few weeks and in preparation took some driving lessons to help me to cope with Canada’s driving conditions.  I remember the driving instructor  observing that wasn’t as vigilant about scanning the sides of the roads as I should be– me who had never hit a kangaroo despite them often running  across from the side of the road in country Victoria where I lived!. 

The drive across the Rocky Mountains to Alberta with my mother and aunt has become the setting of my most often recounted ‘car story’.

We were ascending a huge mountain in a reasonably fast line of traffic when …thump…shudder… shudder …!  I managed to manouvre the car to the roadside where I assessed… ‘rock damage’! (Perhaps the driving instructor was right about my not being vigilant about scanning the sides of the roads after all?)

My brave almost 70 year old mother began directing traffic around the car while her adventurous younger sister began to walk for help!  Heart in my mouth and hugely concerned about my ability to do it quickly (necessary given the location and other traffic on the road), I set about changing the tyre. 

Suddenly and miraculously, some young people in a camper van pulled up, jumped out and offered to help.  Enormously relieved, I accepted.  They were as keen as I was to change the tyre quickly, so keen they began to change the wrong tyre!  Not long after the correct tyre was changed, profuse thanks offered, and they, then we, were on our way. 

I have so many memories of Canada which involve car stories, memories triggered every time a garage door is opened with a remote; my niece’s car snow tyres need fitting; I hear warnings of ‘icy roads’; see a sign indicating ‘falling rocks’, have a flat tyre ... and ... when I remind myself to keep scanning the side of the roads when driving!