I dropped my car for service at the Honda shop and took a walk through the no-man's-land between Woodside and Astoria, about where the two branches of the BQE pass overhead on their way to the GCP and Triboro Bridge. I'd seen the car before, a bit forlorn behind the fence of a small repair shop. This time, I decided to take a closer look. I noted the up-to-date registration and inspection stickers on the windshield, and how clean it looked--missing only the "H" on the rear hatch.
I found two guys working in the garage. "I just wanted to ask about the little Civic." "It's not for sale," he offered, before I had even asked. I suppose I'm not the first admirer to stop in.
I asked what year, and, after a quick consultation in Spanish with his colleague, "1978." Yeah, that sounds right. "Do you still use it?" "Yes, sometimes we drive it around." "How many miles?" "Not much, about 60."
60,000 miles, 36 years. What is that in people years, I wonder.
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