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We coasted off the highway, rapidly decelerating as the Bridgeport off ramp curled us back into the familiarity of Waterloo. It was good to be back - we had beaten the devilish Toronto 401 traffic that snared us the night before, and I was riding high on adrenaline (Chad was high on bowl hits).

The steering wheel wobbled a bit as the Tempo laboured around the particularly tight off-ramp to Bridgeport Road. She doesn't like tight turns, you see - she's developed a habit of fucking with me whenever I try to coax her into seemingly routine car-like tasks such as "Turn Right - ALLLL The Way Right." She squeals and complains and pretends like the steering wheel doesn't work anymore, but I know she's just joking.

Today she wasn't joking. As I came out of the turn, a horrible thumping noise punched up through the bottom of the car. The steering wheel felt like a broken arcade machine.

"I think we're fucked," I told Chad. We were most definitely crippled. Somehow we made it into the parking lot of Midas Muffler. As a mechanic drove the Tempo into a service bay, I had a sickening feeling at the back of my mind: "This is it. This is the sad, sad end."

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the verdict was in.

I can't pay this. These repairs almost cost more than the car did, three years ago. Even if I found a place that doesn't rip you off as lustily as Midas Muffler does, I would still be paying upwards of $750.00. It's a no dice situation.

I always knew that the Tempo would be leaving, sometime soon. We're going to Japan and the car can't come, no matter how much it wants to try driving on the 'wrong' side of the road. It would've been sold or given away, a death trap that I would inflict on my secretest of enemies or bestow on fearless friends.

The Tempo has seen its fair share of craziness. It's been ridiculed and derided for its purple tinted windows, crashed into embankments and snow drifts, raced against undercover detectives, raced against hot lesbians on the highway, raced against stodgy elderly couples in PT Cruisers. It was nicknamed Air Force One at one point. I can't remember why.

The car has survived decrepit tires, dangling exhaust pipes and unrollable windows. She's had a tough life under my uncaring ownership and I will miss her dearly. I'm thinking about donating her to a local high school, where they'll fix her for cheap and maybe some student will choose to revive the spirit of the Tempo, to drive her into glorious life once again. Slim potential is a far more comforting prospect than having my poor car crushed into a tiny metal cube at the auto wrecker's.

Goodbye Ford Tempo.

Posted by Chris at 04:30 PM >> Commentations (6)