Goodbye, You Magnificent Beast.

Tomorrow morning a tow truck is scheduled to come take away the '93 Chevy Corsica that I've driven for 12 years, that up until a week ago, was the only car I'd ever owned. My parents bought it as a "third family vehicle" shortly after I got my driver's license. It would later come with me to college, then move with me out West, where it's been my whip here in Portland for the last five years.

Honestly, I never really drove it all that much, especially recently. I'm a fairly avid cyclist and only put 60K miles on the car that whole time, and it has less than 90K on it now. Even so, the old bird is starting to show her age. Idiosyncrasies that were tolerable for years, like the puddles that accumulate on the floorboards every winter, those reservoirs that swish around with every turn and require me to roll up my pants before entering, are no longer cute. Having the attendant at the gas station tell me that my gas tank cover is flapping in the wind every_single_time I go to fill up got kind of old. Plus it leaks oil, hasn't had a radio in four years, and every six months some part of the undercarriage has to be replaced because the car's tenure in the Midwest left behind a formidable layer of rust that eats through everything in its path. It simply was the CorsiCar's time, not that it hasn't faced its mortality before. Twice someone took off the driver's side mirror. Once the turn signal snapped off, with my lights stuck on bright, late at night when I had 50 miles to go to get back to my college dorm after a weekend back home. I didn't make any friends that evening. Another time some wires shorted out in my steering column, which caused smoke to billow out of it, unless I was trying to show someone, in which case it failed to occur.

I know that it's not realistic to expect to drive your early 90's GM sedan for your entire life, nor is it optimal. But nonetheless, I find myself sitting here, getting sentimental, unable to shake the feeling that I just put Old Yeller down. I have an arsenal of memories associated with that car, and in some instances, it was even a minor character in the stories that unfolded around it. I clearly remember driving through purple mountains in southwestern Montana at dusk, alone, headed to live in Oregon, a place I'd never been and where I didn't really know anyone. It seems kind of silly to say, but it was almost comforting to have that car along with me - I think it made a big change seem less terrifying. Or maybe it just aided an unhealthy case of denial. Either way - thanks, old girl. Things worked out OK, you must have known what you were doing.

But nothing gold can stay, Bluey, and our time together must come to a close. (Can you tell I've been watching a lot of Six Feet Under?) I decided to donate the car to Oregon Public Broadcasting, as an alternative to lying awake at night, wondering if whoever paid me $300 for it survived their trip to the grocery store without the rusted brake lines snapping. A couple weeks ago Beard and I found a 2002 Impreza Sport wagon in great shape, and welcomed it into our little Subaru fleet, now two strong.

Don't get cocky, new car. Even though you're shiny and zippy and impeccably clean, you've got big moldy shoes to fill. I'll start taking you seriously around the six-year mark.

I encourage anyone who has a CorsiCar memory to share it in the comments below. Godspeed, blue bomber. You made us all proud.