The Elder Goth - Christine

Your first car should always be a bomb, petrol head lore, the proud tradition a father passes to the teenage student driver the day they pass their driving test. I am devoted to German cars since my first car, my first real car was a 1979 VW Golf. White, two-door with what remained of an 1100cc motor. I paid cash for an absolute shit box requiring constant and costly repair when you’re a young adult in the real world earning minimum wage to support your vices. I called her Christine, she drove short distances like a dream, the rest of her story reads like the Stephen King novel but she was my first car. She broke down a lot and I pushed her more than I drove her. Barely anything worked correctly on her but I persevered enough to pass her roadworthy and tax disc, the start of a lifelong mutual dislike between me and the licensing office. I fixed what I could on my beg, borrow or steal budget. With a garage full of tools, a wallet full of nothing and a head full of cotton fluff I lovingly tinkered the old girl to barely running, there was a lot more wrong than right mechanically but she was mine. My freedom, my adult independence, my social burden. Christine was inconsistent. She would refuse to start at inopportune moments, stall for no reason, surrender random parts operational but by the racing gods could go like hell when the lights changed green. I pushed her a lot. One morning as I drove home from work Christine decided to stall on me roughly three blocks from home. I’m sitting behind the steering wheel cursing, I’m tired and not in the mood to struggle-shoot with her. It was close to 04h00 and I figured leaving her where she was meant walking home to sleep then walking back to get her home and my tired mind wasn’t computing it. I figured what the hell, it's only a few blocks, the streets are quiet, I’ll push her home. What strapping young lads think is a good idea. Half an hour later I’d moved half a block, remembering at the end of the street where we stalled out was a slight incline curve in the road. It was brutal exertion; my heart was pumping hard to keep my burning muscles in motion. It was nearly an hour later when I cleared the bend onto the straight road leading to my driveway, I was exhausted, sweat soaked and breathing heavier than an iron lung yet spurred on to push on. My pace quickened, Christine started rolling a little easier, we were finally in the zone and I was pumped. I looked up for a moment to see a jogger approaching; he looked speechless as we neared to pass each other in the street. From the blank space of random floating around in my head the words escaped my mouth the moment we met eyes; ‘you have your training, I have mine.’ 

Try pushing a small motor vehicle several blocks to make good time, one hell of a workout.