Driving up Logy Bay Road Wednesday, the sight of a stranger's car steered me down memory lane.
It wasn't a Porsche, Hummer, Beemer or some vehicle people fantasize of owning.
It was the model of car I drove for almost a quarter of my life, a 1997 Ford Escort.
Big whoop, right?
Hardly a classic vehicle associated with driving fast, looking cool or auto greatness.
Jason Statham never immortalized an Escort in a high-speed movie chase and I doubt Mad Mike ever pimped one on MTV.
To be honest, since mine sold for $50 in January, I hadn't given it second thought.
Until Wednesday morning.
Don't know if it was the lack of coffee or boredom with the radio, but for some reason, that other Escort the same colour and rust patches as mine made me nostalgic about nine-and-a-half years driving an identical car.
It carted me around for almost 200,000 kilometres between 1999 and 2009.
In it, I sang The Fable's Old Woman From Wexford at the top of my lungs.
Got stuck in a snowdrift at 4 a.m.
Ate thousands of pizza slices.
Carted nieces and nephews to movies and junk food runs.
Ordered 10,000-plus large black coffees in the Tim's drive-through.
Listened to thousands of CBC Radio newscasts.
Did beer runs.
Got more tickets.
Watched the sunrise on Signal Hill.
Took wrong turns.
It was strange to associate such things with a car.
But then again, the old Escort was like a close friend always dependable and there for the ride.