Built to Endure

Greg's first roadtrip

At our usual Friday breakfast with the Greenland Sharks, we had one of those deep belly laughs that comes only when a story is both absurd and true.

Greg started telling the tale, one that I was partly in, about his beloved Alfa Romeo Spider. A beautiful red car he’d poured time, money, and love into—new engine, countless improvements, and the joy of a convertible top on sunny days. That little two-seater wasn’t just a car; it was freedom, conversation, and music with no cell phones in the way.

But it was also, well… an Alfa Romeo. Which meant consistent repairs, frustrations, and a body that was rusting out underneath despite how good it looked from above.

One trip in the early ’90s really drove the point home. Greg, my old college roommate Laura, and I headed off to Detroit for Ian’s (A college dorm roommate) Cinco de Mayo party. Since the car really only fit two, Laura somehow twisted herself into the back seat for the whole trip. I don’t remember much of the party—I was more than a little “over-served”—but I’ll never forget the drive home.

After dropping Laura off on the South Side, Greg and I cruised Chicago’s Outer Drive with the top down. Sun, music, good conversation—life was perfect. Until the sky darkened, rain rolled in, and top went down and the wipers went on. We drove for a bit when all of sudden, the driver’s side wiper just flew clean off into the wind.

Greg grumbled, but kept driving. He was midst telling me about how this is what the car does to him when the road dished out another insult. We hit a pothole and suddenly—WHAM!—a tidal wave of water surged up through the rusting floorboards and drenched Greg from the feet up. I’d never seen anything like it. One moment he was dry, the next he looked like he’d been dunked in Lake Michigan. I was completely dry, BTW.

I knew Greg was VERY unhappy. But if you know him, he was still laughing through it.

And if that wasn’t enough, a mile later the car went rough, and we pulled over to discover a flat tire. That was the breaking point. Greg was done with the Alfa. The years of joy had been real, but the repairs were too many. It was time to move on.

At breakfast, as we laughed about it, I thought about my own mileage. Cataract surgeries. Gall bladder gone. Hernia repair. Retinal tears. Two new hips. A cochlear implant in my left ear. That’s a lot of repairs for one body with 60 years on the odometer. I feel like I’ve got a lot of road left—many years of it—but sometimes the tidal waves of life hit me, and I want to throw up my hands and say, “Forget this!”

But then I remember: I’m a Greenland Shark. Slow, steady, built to endure. I’ll keep swimming, even when the waters are cold and dark. I’ll keep showing up for my wife, my family, and my friends. I’ll keep laughing at breakfast and beyond.

Life may give me more replacement parts than a rebuilt Alfa, but unlike Greg’s Spider, I’m not for sale. No trade-in value needed. Sure, my warranty expired a while ago, but I’ve got one hell of a pit crew and fans. And as long as the engine keeps firing, this Shark isn’t pulling off the road anytime soon.

If you think about it, we’re all classic cars. We squeak, we rattle, and sometimes a part falls off when we hit a pothole. But when the engine’s humming, the windows are down, and the breeze is in your face, there’s nothing like it. You forget the repairs, the rust, the years—it just feels good to be out on the open road.