We finished our pancake dinner and forced our bloated bodies up from the comfy green leather booth in the cozy cafe to trudge back to my parked car. After getting up at 5am that morning and driving to the trailhead to summit Mount Baden-Powell, the tires rolled back towards home. Though I had not hiked above 9,000′ since summiting Mt. Whitney almost 3 years ago, I counted up the miles to the biggest event of the day: my car’s odometer registering 100,000 miles.
I could not have planned a more perfect location for the moment: this road and mountain have been woven into my life in many unexpected ways. The first weekend after I bought the car, I cruised up into the mountains on this same highway and clocked the first 100 miles.
At 99,991 miles, we left the parking lot at the trailhead for Mount Baden-Powell (named after the Father of Scouting) and drove back down the winding highway into town.
At 99,992 miles, I drove past the campground where I led my Boy Scout troop as Senior Patrol Leader—and survived a bear attack.
At 99,993 miles, a trail led down the mountain to the place where my friend dawdled behind the rest of our backpacking crew so she could ask a me a question in seven dangerous words: “So… what is your narrative of us?”
At 99,994 miles, I eyed the spot where I picked up a charming PCT hiker for a spontaneous picnic.
At 99,995 miles, we pulled into the parking lot in front of the cafe to fill our empty stomaches with nourishment. Yet, despite the friendly company and chitchat with the waitress, my mind shifted back towards all the other memories along this road and with my car from the flat tires and accidents to the moments of pure joy.
I had my first backpacking trip in these mountains. I cruised up here with my first girlfriend to view the sunset and city lights, alone together in a private moment—until the blue and red glow of the highway patrol overheads nudged us to move along.
Back at mile 10, I drove out of the dealership with a new car and a significantly lighter pocket book. My dad told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life purchasing my own car instead of continuing to borrow the “family” car. So, I decided to name my car “Carmen” — a loose portmanteau of “car” and “mine” to symbolize independence as a 20-something year old.
Yet, buyer’s remorse gripped me the day after I drove my car home from the dealership due to the financial irresponsibility of the purchase. I searched for months talking to neighbors, scouring Craigslist, and visiting dealerships trying to find a good balance of price low mileage on a used car. I’d offer crazy lowballs on new ones for fun at dealerships while looking at used ones on the lot. I always got rejected until one day after offering several thousand dollars below Blue Book, a salesman said, “You’re killing me LARRRY!!! ….But, ok. It’s the last day of the month and the last day of the quarter. I gotta move a few more today to meet manufacturer kickback criteria and get my bonus.”
And so my love affair with Carmen began with spontaneity and an urge to make the most of every mile.
Carmen enabled adventure beyond my wildest dreams: dozens of national and state parks, backroads, and roadtrips. More important, of course, than the miles are the moments shared with friends along the way. A camping trip along the Pacific Coast Highway. Dropping one of my best friends and his fiancé off at LAX. Rallying down a snowy, muddy dirt road in the Nevada high desert. Cruising around town after late bowling and rolling down the windows to catch the crisp evening air. In moments of doubt and stress, I always escape to nature to silence the noise and find the truth within and Carmen takes me there.
Now at 99,996 miles, the cafe faded in the rearview and the asphalt descended the mountains back towards Los Angeles.
At 99,997 miles, I could see the train tracks in the Cajon Pass where I used to go train spotting with a dear childhood friend and his dad.
At 99,998 miles, I asked my friend in the passenger seat to get my camera ready because the moment was here.
At 99,999 miles, the camera was out of focus and the odometer blurred.
At 100,000 miles, the moment arrived and I reflected on the past 8 years in 60 seconds. Mostly, I thought about circles. Metaphorically, I pondered how I wound up on the same road and wondered if my whole life was going in circles. Physically, I was just grateful the speedometer still presented data on a round dial in a digital age.
At 100,001 miles, the moment vanished and the road continued as my friend drifted off to sleep.
I am not sure what the next 100,000 miles look like, but I hope it includes the same cast of characters who have filled my life full of joy. I sense several unknown forks in the road ahead and for the first time in while, I am excited and ready to see where the road may take me.
