My car is ‘Alaskified’

It has already begun. I thought it would take a bit longer, that I would be able to hold it off for at least a year or two, if not altogether. I guess if I am being honest, it started even before I crossed the border back into Alaska. At any rate, it’s official — the Alaskafication of my car is well under way.

When I was living Outside and would come home to visit, I would sometimes shake my head in astonishment when examining the state of many Alaskans’ cars. Layer upon layer of brownish-grey dirt would be encrusted on all surfaces. Windshields would be spider-webbed with cracks and have dings and craters that rivaled those on the surface of the moon. Bumpers would be dented, cracked or torn. Sometimes cars would be rusted clear through or have quarter panels of a completely different color.

Mind you, these were just the sorts of cars that I grew up driving. My father had a wizard-like way of keeping cars going despite the major forces of the universe conspiring against them (the greatest of which I now realize was probably me), and resurrecting cars that had died long before. I don’t remember ever washing my car, and I certainly never repaired or replaced a windshield or addressed any body damage that I had inflicted on the poor machine. I thought that this was the normal state of affairs for everyone; that cars were utilitarian beasts of burden that usually smelled a little and had to be broken before they could truly be owned.

This philosophy was slowly whittled away as I moved to places that received little or no snow, had basically no gravel roads and certainly weren’t awash in glacial silt. My cars were gleaming, proud machines that shone like justice and were free of any damage. Looking back, this was of course little to do with my behavior, but rather due to a kinder vehicular universe. Additionally, the places I lived would encourage good behavior by banning some automotive blights from their roads altogether. The government of Luxembourg, in particular, was savage in its assessment of a car when granting registration.

The words Société Nationale de Contrôle Technique would send shivers of fear through the members of Luxembourg’s expatriate community. Those of us who did not have a strong grip on the French language were the most vulnerable, and the 100-plus-point inspection inflicted upon vehicles to ensure road safety by the Société would often send us scurrying to mechanics. I recall when I first arrived in Luxembourg trying to purchase a used car, a boat of a machine made by the Italian company Lancia, and it was recommended that I take it to the auto club where they offered a mock test similar to the one used by the government. Any car that did not pass the government’s exam could not be registered, so I paid my 25 euros and had the car pre-tested. The car failed one point — the temperature of the brake fluid was a few degrees too high. Although auto shop was one of my favorite classes at Palmer High, I can’t say that I fully understand the ramifications of this. I then took the car over to a mechanic who offered to fix it for a cost greater than its price. I thanked him and left, and returned the car to its owner.

I think this all contributed to the warping of my Alaskan understanding as to what a functional car should look like and how it should behave.

When my wife and I purchased our car before towing it up here, I promised myself that I would not allow the Alaskafication of my car. I would wash my car weekly if need be, vacuum it regularly and fix any damage as it happened. I loaded my new steed onto the U-Haul trailer, foolishly leaving it uncovered, which predictably encouraged the wrath of the Alaska Highway. By the time we arrived in Palmer, the poor little beast was pockmarked and had a glacier with accompanying moraine packed into its engine compartment. We washed it, ordered some touch-up paint and wept silent tears for our wounded little hero. Its travails were just beginning, however, and soon the snow came and a plow deposited a healthy bumper-crushing mound of ice at the end of our driveway. I then was treated to a projectile striking my windshield with the force of high-caliber bullet. The latest thaw has succeeded in coating the car with a layer of dirt thicker and more adhesive than its paint. I can only imagine what will come next, but I am sure that it will be devastating in a unique and creative way.

I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though. I had insurance. In fact, I was paying more than twice as much for it as I ever had, so certainly they would help soften these blows. They happily agreed, of course, providing I first pay my $500 deductable for each event. Since a new windshield costs $590, I thanked my agent, cursed him under my breath and walked away.

So that’s that. My days of judging other cars are over. I now realize that Alaska is a different universe altogether when it comes to automobiles and I accept that fate on behalf of my vehicle. By the end of the year I fully expect to be purchasing some uniquely colored body panels to complete the package.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.