We’ll all die someday, destined to return to the earth from whence we came. I’d like to think of the body as a vehicle that takes you through the journey of life, a rental with a return date.

Most people would like to return their cars unscathed, because it’s a smoother ride when you’re not dragging your fender across the highway. But when it’s time to turn in my set of keys, I’d imagine that I’d be returning something a little less pristine.

I’ll probably attribute the broken undercarriage to all the backcountry trips I’ve made. Don’t mind the dents, I’d say, they’re just something I got from a couple of bad judgements in life.

The boss would point at the damaged upholstery, and I’d blame that on the people I’ve picked up along the way. Friends and acquaintances that might have had a little too much fun in the back seat. But look, I’d tell him, I took care of it as best I could. I changed the oil and sent it for check-ups regularly. That sound you hear isn’t the engine wheezing its last breaths. Okay maybe it is. I might’ve pushed it a little too far on the straights, but I had to test its limits, didn’t I?

I wasn’t a Lamborghini or a Maserati, capable of zero-to-sixty in four seconds. In fact, I was probably a Honda equivalent—but hey, it got me to where I needed to be. I’d sign the return policy, look at the boss, and say: That was one hell of a ride.