For weeks, after switching vehicles, I had refused to reorganize my key ring, instead opting to carry it as it was, featuring the bulky key and key fob to my beloved truck, carrying a separate single key to my new used car.
I can rationalize that my hesitation to the key swap was to avoid the unpleasant task of battling with a key ring, the tightness of the ring requiring the precise prying and wedging with a credit card or screwdriver for those without capable fingernails. But I was probably just holding on to the past.
For the first time in my driving career, I'm not primarily captaining a truck. For a guy with country roots, that's a big change. It's like giving up sausage gravy or Skynyrd.
It's a change of necessity, but one that came with much resistance when I first realized I might have to trade in Silvy, my cherished 2002 single cab Silverado with nearly 205,000 miles.
But once I put my foot down and told my wife that, dammit, we are keeping the truck and I don't care what you say — or something along those lines — and we were able to, albeit in a reserve role, my vehicular anxieties receded like the tide. Still, weeks after making the transition to a more kid-friendly vehicle, changing keys was not something I wanted to do. It was like handing over my freedom. But the hassle of carrying excess keys caught up with me.
It's a special relationship, the one between a man and his truck. If dogs are a man's best friend, then trucks are at least a regular fishing buddy with a good boat.
Silvy's not just a truck, of course. She has spirit, a personality. And we are quite the duo. Robert E. Lee had Traveller, the Lone Ranger Silver. I have Silvy.
She's been mine and only mine since college graduation. She was originally my wild streak, the evidence that I was determined to be my own man — raised in a Ford family, I bought ... a Chevy. And maybe worse, was proud of it. It's a wonder I didn't end up on the church prayer list for that sin.
Silvy was all shined up, painted and doused with bird seed on our wedding day (when my wife and I were married, that is). She was a faithful escort on two years' worth of 44-mile commutes — each way — to work in what feels like another lifetime. She's hauled loads of trash, a small boat, a few whitetail deer, a new playground set and countless six-packs of Sun-Drop.
Silvy's been gradually and unintentionally personalized over the years. She now features all sorts of custom after-market options. The console lid is fully detachable — its hinge snapped during a dull commute one day, sustained-but-routine elbow pressure the culprit.
The audio system has a nearly impenetrable security system. If a car thief wants to locate the preset buttons during a night-time joy ride, he'll need some luck. There are no beaconing backlights to guide the way. He'll need more if he wants to scan the stations. The tuner knob broke and fell off some time back.
It's amazing how such imperfections are one moment the source of embarrassment, then one of pride once the vehicle is no longer the primary. It's like Crash Davis said in Bull Durham, with regard to the hot-shot rookie pitcher's fungus-covered shower shoes: "If you win 20 in the show, you can let the fungus grow back and the press will think you're colorful. Until you win 20 in the show, however, it means you are a slob."
Silvy is colorful.
She is enjoying her retirement (I bought her a new decal as a present). She's parked in the grass and taking it easy. Her windshield frosts over most mornings, and the sun just bakes it away. It's unclear who lies around more these days: Silvy or Slider, my old bluetick dog, who would sleep 25 hours out of every 24 if she could.
But just as Slider instantly perks up at the scent of a rabbit or another dog or the sight of a runaway plastic grocery bag floating across the yard in the spring breeze, Silvy now springs to life when the key fob unlocks the door and I sit down. She's rested up and ready to roll.
And with all the recovery time in between trips, there seems to be more bite to her bark now when I punch the gas. Her eight cylinders sing in sweet harmony.
Our trips are like weekend getaways. Most days now, I'm driving a melting ice cube, a white Scion XB box on wheels, and a hand-me-down from my wife, who is now sporting something with much more street cred. There's nothing wrong with the Ice Cube, and it's more versatile than Silvy, which was the idea, but pretty useless if you need to haul mulch or have the impulse to buy a four-wheeler. Passengers do enjoy the back seats more than a rubber bed mat over ridged metal, though.
Silvy and I dodged a bullet a while back.
I was surrounded by shiny new trucks on a Toyota lot in Hickory. We were there to look at family vehicles, but my priorities drifted, not too unlike a dieter in smelling range of a soft pretzel store. I followed my nose to the $30,000 double cab Tacomas. I felt light-headed. The world was spinning.
In my haste, I offered Silvy straight up for one of them. The salesman was speechless. His blank look revealed that he did not know how to respond. But he didn't have to.
By then, the deal was off.
I had already changed my mind.
