Clint Taurus may have been a lemon, but never could he be called yellow.
For two years that six cylinder beast tanked me from A to B, and sometimes beyond. Fond memories of plowing through the Thunder Bay winter roads, ahead of the snow removal crews, ahead of everyone. Grumbling like an old wooden boat because the muffler had long since fallen off, it took me, and others who were lucky enough to feel the plush embrace of its soft, wine interior, to the Hoito, Thunder Bay Restaurant, America, and Red Lake - anywhere, anytime, anyhow.
Nothing could stop the grey tank. Oh, the price of gas might have limited his driving days and the loose struts certainly caused a raucus internal ruckus, but the stereo could be turned up a little louder to drown that out and the gas prices were no overall match for my desire to drive him. Of all the things to have gone wrong for Clint (soon to seize engine, completely F'd transmission, rear tail-light out and broken, struts, creeping rust, lack of muffler and tail pipe, missing front-end undercarriage, several paint marks from poles, etc., and all the special characteristics that developed that only I knew and understood) nothing did or ever could crush his spirits. He was a tough one through and through and never wanted to give up. Precisely why I feel a bit guilty as I look at all that is left of him now: a bent, rusted and gnarled license plate and the $100 cash I was given to finally let him go.
I hope he forgives me.
Now his fate is to be stripped of his dignity and sold for parts while he freezes, naked, in some cold and lonely lot on the edge of town. No, no come back here. A final putting to rest of a great and beastly lad; of a beautiful transporter; of a friend.
Oh Clint. You drank too much, but when that belly was full and the weight was felt through the wheel by my hands and down through my body, I loved to drive you so. I would take you out on the open highway and use your gears the best way I knew. I could drive that car faster than anybody - too much gas at once and he would rebel, reluctant to speed on under all the pressure. You had to ease him into it, give him some breathing room, and then...he would happily cruise on down the road as fast as I would tell him - like Thomas the Tank
My beastly, crippled friend. You did me proud for what seemed like an eternity. I knew everything about you: your strenths and innummerable weaknesses, but in knowing these was able to keep you that much longer. But, now I have said goodbye, one last time to make it official, to have that closure that is so often needed in inevitable tragedies such as this.
I will miss you, sir.
R.I.P. Clint Taurus 1992 - 2006
well spoken; and well deserved. clint ruled
Posted by: michael wrenshall | January 23, 2006 at 08:24 PM