R.I.P. Rashanda the Honda (1996-2007)
Thursday, March 29, 2007
This is a tale of a car, not unlike many others you might see on the road, but in the end very different. She ran on gasoline and required oil changes every 3,000 miles for her little 4-cyclinder engine. She didn't have a lot of power under the hood but could seat 4 comfortably (5 in a pinch) and got 30 mpg on average. And when she wasn't loaded down with passengers or cargo, she loved to let her engine whine and race down the freeways. This is the story of her life.Rashanda the Honda began her life as many Hondas do - as an idea in the mind of some Japanese person who was looking to create a reliable vehicle that was still affordable. Once out the factory door, she was shipped to a dealership in Louisville, KY, where she was purchased by my sister in 1996. My sister chose the Civic because it was all the rage amongst her college friends at the
time (and the price matched the salary of her new job).
Several years later my sister got married and suddenly had too many cars. She put the car up for sale and my parents chose to buy it from her since I was just learning to drive. My mother took Rashanda under her wing and let me learn to drive on the Probe.
When I ventured to the tundra that is South Bend, IN, my parents did not want me driving a ten-year old car that could be on its last legs, so they told me to take the Honda. And from that point on a beautiful relationship began to form. At first I was hesitant. The Civic felt weird after driving a car with some weight and muscle. It seemed like a go-cart in comparison.
Throughout the next few years Rashanda carted my possessions back and forth from Louisville to South Bend. She took me and friends on late night excursions to Steak n' Shake for a greasy meal. In fact, it was on such an excursion that my good friend Maria helped me name her. "Rashanda the Honda," she blurted out, "That was so easy." Senior year she helped frosh Tones get from practice to uniform fittings before any of the other freshmen, almost getting in an accident with a carload of trumpets but turning on the afterburners to cut them off and arrive victorously at the Band Building. One of my fondest memories is driving to and from campus senior year and having Jism playing with the hazard light button as I took her home.
Rashanda followed me to Purdue in grad school where the hits kept rolling. Her amazing gas mileage came in handy on my minimal grad student salary. Having $5 of gasoline last me two weeks was amazing. And then there were the many instances of the Stop Light Game. She even took me and Tones and Faltos to Pittsburgh to watch the Irish woop up on Pitt, a game where I got so drunk I gave my shirt to some lady in her mid-thirties who claimed to be an Irish fan but wasn't wearing green. Oh, scotch. Scotch, scotch, scotch.
After Purdue, Rashanda started the adventurous phase of her life. A few minor modifications -- a roof rack, Sirius radio -- she was ready to see the world. She made three cross-country trips to California, loaded down with possessions but never fearing the obstacle that was the Rockies. She saw such places as St. Louis, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Zion, and Los Angeles. On her final cross-country venture, her exhaust pipe rusted through and fell off. As far as I know it is still sitting on the side of the Interstate in the middle of the desert in Arizona (I had to cut if off with a hacksaw).
Rashanda served faithfully on two annual Fourth of July camping trips to Sequoia National Forest without ever complaining about the rugged terrain. She took us to Palo Alto to watch the Irish beat Stanford to secure a Fiesta Bowl berth. And then she drove me and Ginger to the Phoenix for New Year's and the Fiesta Bowl.
Her last trip was no less adventurous in its nature. In fact, it was to be her coup de grace. A trip to her neighboring country as a sign of good faith and fraternal outreach. She was carrying her friends to Mexico for a 50-mile bike ride, complete with drinking and tacos. Rashanda was ready to take on the world, initially carrying 8 bikes (5 on the roof and 3 on the trunk) and 4 passengers. It wasn't until we got a few miles down the road that we realized she had taken on more than she could handle and her wheels were rubbing on the wheel wells. But that was her style. Never backing down, always ready for anything.
Then the Mexicans took her from me. She was minding her own business, waiting in a strange town for her passengers to return from their long day of riding and site-seeing, when some petty thieves broke into her and forced her against her will to drive for them. The details from that point on are a mystery, but here's how I like to think it happened. The pack of thieves (read, "fucktards"), led by a man named Fernando, drove Rashanda to their secret lair in some Mexican cave. There they stripped the valuable parts -- radio, bike rack, personal belongings -- to sell to corrupt cops. As for Rashanda, there were drug trafficers she could be sold to. And that's just what happened. The drug lord wanna-bes then stuffed her full of marijuana and tried to cross back into the U.S. again.
But Customs was too smart and caught the effers. Rashanda was saved! But little did she know that the hands into which she had now fallen were even worse than the ones she left. Customs had plans that did not involve Rashanda's well-being. All they cared about were the drugs. By golly, no drugs were getting into their beloved United States, and they would do whatever necessary to ensure that. So they started ripping Rashanda apart, piece by piece. Bumpers, glove compartment, rear seats, air bags, vent covers, fuel tank. There was no commpartment too small to rip out and investigate. And what did they care? It wasn't their car and it was a drug-trafficking car. So eff it!
Five and half months later, Customs decided to let me finally have her back. But not before making me pay $900 in impound fees. I tried to get them to let me at least see Rashanda before making me pay, but they said, "No. Fuck you.*" (*paraphrased). Once I handed over the check I saw the debacle that was my poor Rashanda.
She now rests in a salvage yard in San Diego, a car that died before her prime with many more miles still left in her. She will be sadly missed by me and all who knew her. Rest in peace, Rashanda.
Pictures of Rashanda's brutal death.
