Frankly, there’s just something about an old truck that is summer. Climbing up into that solid metal frame, launching myself from the ground on to that tattered seat. Leaning far out to yank that door shut with a bang, causing a little rust to flake off. There’s something about having to crank the windows down, and adjust the mirror by hand, the metal hot from the summer sun.
An old truck is what going for drive is all about. It’s not really about getting somewhere; it’s about going anywhere. Something about that heat rolling up through the floor from the engine that roars in my ears, mixing with the cool air whipping in from the open window. I have to have my right arm out the window, waving in the speed created wind, the sun visible on my skin—trying to coax out more freckles. My feet somehow make it up onto the dashboard as I ride along, the music turned up so we can hear it over the engine hum.
I can feel the road under us; feel the thrum of the engine up my spine, and my teeth clatter every time we bounce over railroad tracks. My hair blows out around me and I continually have to tuck it behind my ear as I sing along to the classic rock pouring out of the radio. This is summer and I pity the poor souls at stoplights stuck in their little plastic cars riding low over the ground with their windows up, as the truck lumbers past them with summer on our tires.