The Four Paths of Life

Here is my theory. My beloved car broke down yesterday because I've only given it a North-South experience all these years.

A bit of background: In my youth, having grown up in Michigan, my first cars were big American cars, manufactured in the '60s. They were old by the time I got them, and they broke down with a regularity that provided the bookmarks for the various chapters of my youth.

The last of them was a van of questionable quality, emblazoned with the words "Ft. Myers, Fla." on its sides, which I finally sold to a group of Hawaiian surfers for three $100 bills from our place on Pine Street, in the early '70s, after a burglar had ripped off most our of treasures from Afghanistan from it when it was parked on the alley (Wilmot?) next to SunDance, at 1913 Fillmore, late in 1971.

From then on, I only purchased foreign care -- Volvos and Hondas -- until the year 1999, when we were living in Maryland and I rediscovered Americans cars, specifically Saturns. I shipped the first one out here when we moved back west in 2000, and it did fine, so when the time came in late 2003, when I was a still youthful 56, to for the first time ever to buy a new car, of course, I bought a Saturn!

That little car has performed well these past five years, but the great majority of its service has involved commuting up and down highways 101 and 280, between my home(s) and Excite@Home, Stanford, MyWire, and these days, Predictify.

Last night, my car decided to cry out in protest. The clutch pedal popped up six inches, making it extremely difficult to nurse homeward, where we encountered the dramatic geyser I described last night in this space.

Still later, some desperate soul smashed in one of my rear windows, no doubt seeking something to trade for drugs, alcohol, food or whatever.

But I was oblivious to this early today when I drove the clutch-challenged vehicle to a mechanic a mile from here. I did sense more noise and air from the rear right, but I was too focused on the fog, rain, and faulty clutch to notice that my backseat was filled with broken glass.

When the diagnosis came in, I realized how badly I've treated this loyal friend of mine, this automobile. I bought it at a very low moment, psychologically, after my Mother had died, quite suddenly, and a very special girlfriend had left me, flying off across the Pacific, never to return.

So today, contemplating all of this, I wondered whether I might have prevented my car's breakdown if only I had also allowed it to migrate west and east, which might have provided some of the balance that an auto no doubt covets, as do all creatures, natural or created, here on God's great earth.

The problem is that here in California there is no west. If you try to drive that way, you will have no option but to disappear below the riling surf of the violent Pacific, which continuously slams into our mountainous coast, ripping rocks, trees, bones -- anything his continent has to offer -- down into its foamy brine to be reduced to tiny particles of reminders of what once seemed impregnable, impressive, alive.

You can drive east, but if you do, you will hit first the valley, then the foothills, and then the mighty Sierra. Be prepared. If you are not, this season of the year, you may come face to face with one of the enduring stories that make us Californians shudder -- the Donner party.

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