I grimaced as he said, “I’ve got news – both good and bad.”
My Cerato could be fixed, but the bill would make me sad.
Still, hope returned; I give the car one final trusting thought,
And reminisce on all the rides I had once proudly bought.
(All images on this page are representative and licensed under Creative Commons.)
At sixteen years I passed the test, a license in my hand,
I scraped a hundred bucks together, dreamt of something grand.
A forty-nine A40, rusted, proud, and bold,
She wasn’t flash, but mate, she gave us stories to be told.
My gateway from a loner’s world to mateship on the track,
Carpool rides and youthful pride, no thought of lookin’ back.
She rolled along through scrub and town, a freedom hard to earn,
That dusty rig with stubborn charm taught me how my wheels could turn.
Two years on and fortune grew, I upgraded to A50,
Yet what she had in function, she lacked in soul, not nifty.
No tales to tell, no laughs or spills, no trips that warmed the heart;
Just fuel and form without a spark, a life too prim, too smart.
When pennies pinched, I took to wheels – just two, not four in line,
A Honda Cub became this traveler’s faithful sign.
She braved the Adelaide-Melbourne stretch, on seminary quests,
And carried me through weekends bound for student churching tests.
The youth I led were not impressed – they knew a bikie crew,
I swapped the Cub for Beetle pride, a ’60 vintage view.
Through sleet and snow past Macedon, and locusts thick as sin,
She kept me warm and dry, until her engine gave in.
Ordination night, the motor blew at Camberwell’s grand cross,
Parents in tow and stranded there – she went out like a boss.
Then Fremantle called my name, three thousand clicks away,
But luck and grit provided wheels: the Crown would rule that day.
A seminary mechanic fixed the deal – a ’71 with fight,
I swept up oil spills for coin, then drove into the night.
Across the Nullarbor with heat, two tyres blew apart,
And mice at border crossings gnawed through patience and through heart.
The Fremantle call was firm and clear -ministry’s fresh demand,
No Crown would suit the wider work, no sedan’s steady hand.
I sought a van both kind and stout, to serve the church’s need,
A ‘68 VW Kombi—now that was built to lead.
She hauled the gear, she moved the folks, through mission’s weekly grind,
Community and care aboard, no one was left behind.
Each Adelaide retreat she rode, a faithful annual chore,
Her engine hummed through desert heat, through dust and ocean’s roar.
Then came a bride beside me there, and with her hand in mine,
We crossed the Nullarbor once more, beneath the blazing shine.
The Kombi bore our dreams and bags, through long and final bends,
To Canberra’s fresh calling there – to churches, love, and friends.
To Canberra we came and swapped the van for trusty steed,
A Datsun wagon, vinyl and gold, to suit our growing need.
We scored her from a traveler, bound for lands afar,
She purred along through family life – a quiet shining star.
She hauled us then to Adelaide along familiar, winding track,
With fam and bags and gathered notes all stacked upon her back.
She asked for little, served us well, through city, coast, and scrub,
A workhorse with a gentle heart – no flash, no pomp, no hub.
But fate can turn on corners sharp, the Hills told such a tale,
A T-bone crash brought curtains down, our hearts began to pale.
Declared a write-off, gone for good… until one day I spied,
That same gold shape on roads again- rebuilt, revived with pride.
An enterprising wrecker’s work? No doubt they saw her spark;
The best car that I ever had, still cruising through the dark.
She lives beyond the paperwork, beyond the loss and claim,
Her spirit in my stories rides, undaunted and untamed.
The Hills were steep, the corners tight – a zippy car was key,
We found a Laser with modest frame, but heart as wild as sea.
She hugged the curves, she climbed with fire, and towed a trailer proud,
A quiet grunt beneath her hood that never cried aloud.
Her roof-rack high with books and gear, she faced the Nullarbor,
And rolled us west with steady pace, through heat and open floor.
That long stretch marked our final call, the post we’d hold for years—
Where prayers and dust and faithful work met laughter, faith, and tears.
No flashy trim, no showy stance, just grit and holy grace,
She served us well on many a road, in every sacred space.
A Laser light through ministry, her strength behind the scenes,
In winding paths and burning sun, she carried all our dreams.
Three Falcons came, each bold and broad, with wagoned grace and might,
Successors to the humble spark that once tore through the night.
A Mercedes, aged and lent by love, made one brief, stately stride,
Its chrome a nod to borrowed time, a gleam before it died.
The Cerato rides in twilight – familiar, worn, and keen,
Companion to these latter years, the miles that lie unseen.
We eye each other, man and car, in quiet daily race;
Who’ll fade the first? The road, she knows, and offers up her grace.
This ode concludes, the steeds all named, in memory lined with care,
Their wheels have turned through faith and flesh, through dust and lifted prayer.
From Laser’s leap to Kombi’s bulk, through gifts and gears long spun;
A pilgrim’s fleet now rests in verse, their journeys gently done.
(except the Cerato!)
Wondering Pilgrim 