Clark Kent had my heart from hello, and other sappy sentiments.

(Really, this post is just a post for the sake of a post. I will post something worth reading very soon. Promise.)
I have a problem, and that problem is my gas-guzzling truck.

For those of you who don't know me, I drive a Chevy Silverado that I bought because it reminded me of an uncle. He passed away in a motorcycle accident a month before I bought it, and in my fifteen year old mind, that was something. When we lose someone, even if we're not close, we try to find some link to bind us with that person. I like to think it's so we never forget.

Some people will tell you that's clinging to the past, but I've gotten plenty of mud on these tires (and running boards and sides and mirrors..).

Growing up, I wanted an old stick-shift Ford Mustang. I mean, I frothed at the mouth over these cars. (Maybe that explains why I'm single....) But that summer, driving home from our barn, I caught sight of Kent for the first time. He was solid, nothing fancy or head turning.

But I had to have him.

One loan and a ton of "I really just spent HOW MUCH??", and he was mine. I named him Kent because of Superman and swore to him that he would always be clean.. Nowadays you can't climb out of him without getting dusty or muddy.

Kent's seen a lot over the years. He's seen tears and happiness, love and hate. He's been the background and the foreground to most of my life. The savior when Clark the camper's air conditioner died. The closet when I used to get dressed on my way to work. (Back in my semi-nudity at the barn stage..)

He's been there for all the tickets I've cried my way out of and all the awkward hugs at the end of all the awkward dates. I can't count the times I've leaned my head against his steering wheel to conceal a smile or a sob.

But the fact of the matter is Kent is a gas guzzler.
And I am a broke college student.
The sensible thing to do would be to trade him in for something smaller, but I just can't. My reasoning isn't because he's paid off or I have to pull a trailer with him.

When I sit in my truck, I can remember tiny moments I'd forgotten, from dancing at stoplights when I was young to praying to let morning come an hour later when I was a working student. (God never made good on that, but seeing as he gave me back my cell phone in the Giant Pasture Incident, we have an understanding.) Selling him almost feels like I'm selling my memories.

Many riders face the temptation to give up their horses in exchange for something more economical, just as I have with Kent. But I've seen their glances in the rearview mirror, and the look they get when the memories come flooding back at the sight of a hoof pick or a halter.

As important as finances are, I think we don't place a high enough value on remembering where we came from or what made us happy. We make decisions based on the bottom line and overhead so much that we forget what a simple trail ride feels like or the joy from driving eighty with the windows down and fluffy pop music bursting from the speakers. We may even live tangled in our choices, forgetting day by day the hours we lived before.

My truck reminds me of everything from my youth, ridiculous and awesome, and my daily quest to stay humble. Trust me, you can't be High and Mighty strolling back to a muddy pick-up.. Unless you're a teenaged boy, of course.

It may sound ridiculous, but I'm keeping my truck. If the gas prices get too high, I can always use the walking..

-- Girl