By D.T Carmichael II
The inspiration for adventure can be subtle, but it can grow throughout the life of a young man. When I was a boy, my grandmother, Cheech, brought me to Australia. As was her tradition, when her grandchildren turned 10, it was time for them to step out on an adventure. I remember spending the night in the bush. Our guide gave us boomerangs. I was very proud of my boomerang. I kept it on my wall, and even as late as college, I would go and throw it in the large intramural field with my dog. I loved watching it spin through the sky and glide gracefully back at my feet. It was a spark that lit the pursuit. Since going to Australia, I have been involved in a multitude of domestic and foreign adventures that all, in one form or another, can be traced back to the inspiration of those 30 days abroad with my grandmother.
What compels a young man to explore? I will tell you: The desire to see things not yet seen, places not yet known, and vessels not yet mastered. As the years passed and the need for exploration continued, eventually my best friend and I would get it into our heads that we needed to drive everywhere and in something at least twice as old as we are. We needed cars. We had had our own cars as teenagers for only a year when the world inexplicably closed. It was March 2020, and we were told to go home and stay there. We weren’t great at following the rules, so we took our toys and went outside. Gas was under $2.00 a gallon, and the roads were empty. The toy that made its place in our hall of fame was a 1999 Mazda Miata. A small, black convertible that is one step above a go-kart. It was off- roaded, road tripped, lived out of, and pedaled to the metal for five straight months.
The core memories of our extended summer involved this car. It was small enough to fit under the gate at the Bass Pro Shop, using their wonderful scenic entrance as a track in the late hours of the night. It was fast enough to take rolling hills around the lake, and quick enough to evade speed radars as long as you got off the interstate fast enough. It was used to teach many a young man how to operate a manual transmission, and it took on many storms with the top open, gliding down the interstate at 88 miles per hour.
Though the car left a lasting memory on us, its journey was short-lived. In the late summer of 2020, it was totaled after a Toyota ran into the back left panel. The event was a prodigal fate at best, but its memory would not be in vain. The passion for the road, inspired trips to South America, where we purchased a 1975 Volkswagen Beetle, and a transcontinental road trip across North America in a 1986 Isuzu Trooper.
Though I contend earnestly that no place in the world will replace the longing in my heart to drive through the Talladega National forest with my dog, a revolver on my side, and a PB&J in my glove box, I also contend that seeing new, authentic places expands curiosity and promotes general well-roundedness.
The Miata was more than a spark, and our Isuzu Troopers and Volkswagen Beetles were more than cars. They were stories that wore words as tin and framed with steel. They beckoned the challenge, calling upon their young riders to bring them into the unknown. The cars were a commission for a quest. Six years after the Miata’s early departure, my friend Grant wanted to purchase one for a commuter car. He patiently waited for the right time to buy the right car, and he texted me to announce that he had found the right time and proudly bought himself the right Miata. Curious and painfully nostalgic, I went to see his new purchase. He pulled into the driveway at 5 p.m. and gave me a quick honk and a smile. I looked at him with a smile and said, “Grant, that’s the same car.”
His reply: “I know! I got the same year and model.”
My reply: “I don’t mean that…I mean, that’s the same car.” And I did mean it. But surely I was wrong? I stood there and thought, “The car was salvaged six years ago. It is gone. What’s the probability someone bought it, restored it, and the same week Grant decided to buy a car, it got put on the market?” My gut said it was the same car. My rational brain challenged the proposition. Grant went inside while I stood behind it. I looked at it, scrutinized it, and evaluated the possibility. Silently, I concluded, it’s the same car. When I finally stopped theorizing and checked the VIN, an astronomical improbability had become a reality. With no reason for Grant to believe it was true, I kept it to myself long enough to enjoy the news no one else knew. And when the time was right, I looked Grant dead in the eye and said, “Yes, it is the same car. THE SAME CAR.”
I showed him the VIN. His astonishment immediately went to concern. “Oh gosh…Now I know what we did with this thing. This is either fate or karma.” So, the car that had sparked so many adventures had returned. Its name? …The Boomerang.
