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.

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.
I can't believe I let time go by and didn't see this post until now, but it is so true. We used to have a habit of naming our vehicles, and we had a pickup that we named Jerky-Lerky, because it did. How we miss it now, when there's something significant to carry, or just when we want to drive up high, proudly, and bouncing a bit.
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