My White Whale

THE FXBG ADVANCE FRIDAY 10/30/26 MIDMORNING READ

By Ranjit Singh, ADVANCE ENVIRONMENTAL COLUMNIST

But look ye, Starbuck, what is said in heat, that thing unsays itself. —Herman Melville, Moby Dick (1851)

Despite appearances, it isn’t always easy being a magazine’s “Environmental Columnist.”

Yes, there are the obvious perks: Invitations to exclusive parties, fancy clothes “comped” by famous designers, never having to pick up a bar tab, etc. But the psychic costs really add up.

Before you hate me, I enter into evidence the object above.

That’s is my mother’s pickup truck on our family farm in Stafford County. It is either a 1994 or ‘95 Nissan (I’m afraid to open the glove box and find out; see below). She bought it used maybe 20 years ago because she is frugal and resists new cars. I should note that my mother vividly remembers World War II, and lived under both Hitler and Stalin. Nowadays, her pickup is used primarily to haul garbage to the local dump. I drive it there regularly.

As an environmentalist, I support sustainability. Frequently, that means keeping old things longer instead of replacing them. Our “throwaway” consumer habits and culture can be horrible for the environment. This bothers people like me.

In fact, a “repair rather than replace” and “old is gold” subculture has risen in recent years in response to this problem. And buying a new car or truck, even given improved efficiency, doesn’t always guarantee reduced harm to the environment. Indeed, it can be better to fix the old clunker than to swap it for a shiny new substitute.

That’s the reasoned argument for not replacing this aging truck. It’s the one my mother relies on.

But this truck has become my bitter arch-foe. I simply hate it. I mutter expletives every time I think of it or discuss it with my wife—which I frequently do—and certainly every time I drive it to the dump, as I did the other day.

Why does a reliable pickup truck propel me towards such hatred? Because it’s a friggin’ piece of sh*t. And I realize that’s a contradiction: a reliable “piece of sh*t.” Especially when it comes to vehicles, objects we all rely upon.

So, let me explain.

Everything on this truck is falling apart. EVERYTHING. There is only one exception. And that exception shatters every rule, thereby convincing me this particular automobile was built in the forges of hell.

Let’s start with the front.

Not the best pic, I admit. But look carefully. Apart from predictable small dents, you can see that the rubber gasket holding the windshield in place is coming off from the top. That means past repairs have not held up. That also means when it rains, it rains on you, and duct tape galore.

Then there’s the cab interior, pictured above. Excuse the mess and jumper cables.

You’ll notice that the interior roof is exposed to the bare metal. That’s because the headliner fabric and foam fell out years ago. (Actually, my son and I tore it out, because it kept falling in our faces as we drove, showering us with bits of dried, green foam.) No more soundproofing or insulation from the cold.

The careful observer will also note that the rearview mirror is lying on the seat. It broke off long ago. But it was never of any use, because the fiberglass truck cap covering the bed—more on that later—occludes any rearward vision. One could barely see out of the car as it was. Now, a driver can only guess what’s behind them. I feel like Lindbergh crossing the ocean in the Spirit of St. Louis, a nearly window-less aircraft guided via periscope.

But there’s so much more.

This is the back. Ignore the holes in the cap—that’s typical wear and tear. Oh, and the rear “Farm Use” tag just fell off. But what’s most obvious in this picture is the bungee holding the tailgate together. That’s because the tailgate hasn’t worked in decades. Its latch is dead, so it falls open without warning. If you forget the bungee, or if the cord snaps, you litter the road with trash. You can guess how I know this.

The risers that are supposed to hold the plexiglass cap window up broke ages ago, too. The window’s sharp edge once fell on my mom’s face, giving her a nasty, bleeding gash near her eye.

So for many years when you loaded or unloaded the truck, you’ve had to find a way to prop the riser up AND bind the tailgate closed. We do the former with a plastic fencepost, like this:

Seeing as this is now the designated “dump” vehicle, the presence of the truck cap itself is also inconvenient. We can’t put tall objects in the bed. You might ask why we just don’t just remove the cap. The answer is that it will break into pieces if we do. It’s been on there so long that it’s now fused in place by rust and the hard glue of time itself, and become inseparable from the truck bed. Besides, no one is going to spend money on a new cap for a 30-plus-year-old truck.

That wouldn’t be frugal.

What can’t be pictured here are things like the electrical “system.” It’s hopelessly mouse-worn; you have to buckle the seat belt even when the key is out or the battery drains. We jump the truck almost weekly. (The damn thing stinks of mouse repellent, too. My wife recently opened the glove box to see a mouse staring back at her.) The speedometer actually kind of works. But the radio and cassette deck died earlier this century.

But that’s nothing compared to the driving experience. The truck’s steering is simply terrifying. Turning the wheel left or right offers only a weak suggestion as to which way the truck should go (and ultimately will). I imagine driving this thing compares to steering a loaded oil tanker. Numerous on-the-spot calculations are necessary to land it where it’s intended.

Now we get to the real problem.

This is the engine compartment. There’s a fair amount of jury-rigging here. You can see that the battery has to be held in place by wires; the tray and brace that once held it secure are broken. Look very closely and you might see a tiny silver wire hanging from the center-front, just over the grill. That’s needed to open the hood, since the latch is broken. I’ve pinched many a finger there.

But all that is immaterial. Farm life is full of quick-fixes and improvisations. The core issue—at least for me—is the motor itself.

I don’t know what the hell Nissan engineers were doing in the mid-’90s. Perhaps they were outraged overachievers, stung by the global prestige of Honda and Toyota. But they did their jobs far too well for my liking. This engine simply will not die like a good engine should after more than 30 years. (And don’t bother asking how many miles are on the truck; the odometer stopped working ages ago somewhere north of 140k.)

Hence, my dilemma:

On the one hand, everything about this stupid truck puts the operator in danger and pain. It is supremely uncomfortable, and hard to load and operate. It regularly needs to be jumped. It draws blood. It is a headache on the best of days. My wife and I have offered to replace it with something newer and safer.

On the other hand, it runs. Every single day (once it’s been jump-started). So, my mom loves it.

And she’s not crazy. For a while, I thought that maybe we had some perversely defective model, a one-in-a-million “god” truck that accidentally exited the assembly line with zero imperfections. No such luck. According to the Kelly Blue Book, the 1995 Nissan pickup is a simply amazing species of automobile:

The vehicle is widely praised for its exceptional reliability, durability, and longevity. Customers consistently report the product as dependable, with several owners reporting over 200,000 or even 300,000 miles without major issues. The vehicle is described as a champion of pure reliability.

Given my uncertainty of its vintage, I also googled the 1994 edition. To provide historical perspective, that was the year I received my first email, and two years before Google was even invented.

Alas, no relief there, either: AI tells me it’s “one of the most rugged and long-lasting compact trucks ever built.” Apparently, tens of thousands are still on the road. That means even spare parts remain easy to get. Which also means, of course, that we’re likely stuck with it for the foreseeable future. (And it’s stick shift, so no young fool is likely to steal it.)

So, it isn’t easy being green. We’re keeping the diabolical truck. It’s not just cheaper than buying another one, but probably better for the birds and the bees, too. Like a damn horse.

Still, in my febrile mind, this isn’t about safety or practicality or even being environmentally conscious anymore. I look at it parked treacherously on the grass, and think violent, irrational thoughts. I am Ahab. This is my White Whale. Only one of us can win.

***

Ranjit Singh teaches in the Department of Political Science and International Affairs at the University of Mary Washington. He’s also an active environmentalist. His “No Lines in Nature” Substack blends history, science, and philosophy to explore our relationship with the natural world world. You can find it HERE.