Yesterday as I was driving to Cincinnati my car passed 150,000 miles. It is a milestone worth noting.
My car is a black 2003 Acura sedan, and its condition reflects the mileage. After all, 150,000 miles is a bit more than 3.5 circumnavigations of the Earth. The side doors are pitted and pockmarked, the inevitable result of countless dings suffered from parking in tightly packed garages. The windshield has a chip or two, and the hood has uncomplainingly borne the indignity of innumerable bird droppings and scratches of unknown origin. Yet still the car sits in the driveway — battered, yet triumphant and ready to serve, having survived to roll on and on where many of its fellow graduates of the class of 2003 have long since been consigned to the scrap heap.
The inside of the car feels as comfortable as an old shoe. The seat and rear view mirror are positioned just where I want them. I know every inch of the interior. I love and trust this stalwart, dependable vehicle because I know it will faithfully take me where I need to go (and with pretty good gas mileage, too). I want our mutual journey to continue. My next goal is 238,857 miles, which is the average distance from the Earth to the Moon.