Unless you are someone who really couldn’t give two hairs about cars, here in Nova Scotia they never truly die. Unless you’ve wrapped a car around a pole and it’s non-fixable from any standpoint, a car here has a pretty long life-cycle: a new car becomes a used car, a used car becomes a beater, a beater becomes a mountain/woods/mud-bog vehicle, and it finally gets stripped completely to make an appearance at the local exhibition demo derby at the end of its life. This automotive life-cycle can range anywhere between 6–10 years to 25 years (the Panther-platform Crown Vics and Grand Marquis seem to be the favourite derby car at the Ex these days).
  2004 Suzuki Vitara 2.5 V6. Click image to enlarge |
Oh, I forgot, there is also an official burnout day to mark the transition from on-road chariot to off-road derelict. Which brings us to our Final Drive. Or, as I’d like to call it, Revenge Day.
It all starts at my home in the town of Truro, NS, en route to a friend’s house some 15 km away in the woods where nobody will hear the Vitara scream in anguish.
Shortly after setting off, I hear a rattle coming from the front left suspension. It sounds like a skid plate knocking about a bit. Might be something more serious. No matter, though, we only have ten kilometres to go. I’m sure the old girl will make it.
I roll down the window and light a cigarette. The in-car cigarette lighter still works. Maybe I can get a couple bucks for it on eBay. Maybe, if I bury it somewhere, archeologists will dig it up 100 years from now and gaze upon it as a relic of an era long forgotten – a time when we smoked nicotine delivery systems in human-piloted personal transportation machines.
Eight kilometers in, there’s a left turn ahead at a T-intersection. I signal my intention, slow down, and turn the wheel. Tick-tick-tick – that wheel bearing is really on its way out. There are only six more clicks to go, though. No more turns and slow driving. We’ll get there.
Further down the road, I stop to take a few pictures of the Suzuki as people drive by wondering why I am bothering taking pictures of an old jalopy. For a truck that’s never been cleaned since I’ve owned it, the paint shows well in the photos. Ok, maybe not “well”, but at least decent.
Photos reviewed, I jump back in the truck and get on the road again. Two minutes later, I arrive at my friend’s house with a plan to strip this truck down and salvage as many parts as possible. Before we start to tear into the Suzuki to give it a Lotus-inspired lightening, it’s time for Revenge Day theatrics. My friend’s five-year-old son also needs an education on burnouts. Let’s go.
Up to the houseless cul-de-sac we drive, my friend holding a couple of bottles of used oil between his legs in the passenger seat while his son wonders why the rear passenger window doesn’t work. Sorry, kid. This Suzuki is Death-Proof.
