A Big Day Disguised as a Normal One

We depend on our cars to take care of us for the long haul. Unfortunately, like anything in life, cars get old. They need repairs, maintenance, and attention—usually in the form of money—to continue providing reliability and safety. It’s a fair trade. I blogged just the other day about our truck’s tire going flat… you can read that story in Ganbaru, and our perfect plans.

That whole (no pun intended) flat-tire incident refreshed the ongoing discussion about our second car—a reliable but older Toyota Highlander with 275,000 miles. The postponed questions resurfaced: Will it make it to Oklahoma? What about the check engine light? That light had been addressed several times in the past and stubbornly refuses to accept any repair as a “fixed” solution worthy of turning itself off.

We decided to take the Highlander back to our mechanic. The small town we lived in—lived in now—by sheer population didn’t offer many auto repair options. There were definitely some good ol’ reliable mechanics, but with the continued rise of computer technology in vehicles, many cars are nearly impossible to diagnose without expensive equipment. For small, independent shops, that technology is often out of reach.

We lucked out a few years ago when a new repair shop opened that had the equipment needed for modern diagnostics. Not that a 2002 Toyota Highlander is modern, but it’s far beyond what a backyard mechanic can tackle. The owners—two buddies who got along better than brothers—partnered up to purchase an automotive shop that had shut down two years earlier. Shout-out to Foothill Automotive Repair on Highway 20.

We called Harvey, explained our situation, and told him we were heading toward Oklahoma that very day. We hoped he’d take one more shot at convincing the check engine light to turn off while we were on our road trip. He agreed. We dropped the car off, left the keys in the “secret key box,” and returned to our friend’s house.

Since my martial arts instructor offers a special once-a-month session for Black Belt–level students, I wanted to attend before we left. This session focused on Ssang Jeol Bong (meaning “paired jointed sticks”), better known as nunchucks. The lightning-fast movements seen in martial arts movies by masters like Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris are not as easy as they make them look. Even with years of practice, one quickly learns—often by hitting oneself on the head, elbow, back, or any exposed body part—that Ssang Jeol Bong is truly an art. Still, the coordination required and the joy of learning this tool are rewarding, even if slightly painful.

With training finished and the car dropped off, we headed back to pick up our trailer from our friend’s house. Saying goodbye took longer than hooking up the trailer and packing our belongings. It was a “stick a fork in it… we’re done” moment. We climbed into our truck, trailer in tow, and headed out.

After a few quiet minutes staring straight ahead at the road, we looked at each other and said, “That’s it.” The last two years—everything we worked for—had come down to this moment of leaving our once-beloved California.

In the saddest realization of all, I was once a proud Californian. But over the last ten years, discontent and misguided laws made the state impossibly expensive for two seniors on a fixed pension to survive comfortably without working a menial job until the end. California’s beauty and beloved geography remain undeniable, but cost is what ultimately steered us out the fastest. I’ll leave that topic for another day—if it’s ever truly worth my time to write about.

As a side note, when we travel, we don’t tell people we’re from California. It avoids the “don’t come here” looks. We never felt particularly welcomed, except by other California escapees who understood our need to head east and not look back.

As we drove out, we navigated the familiar city traffic of larger metropolitan areas, keeping our speed steady and determined—something we knew we wouldn’t miss. We talked about the moment we were living in, the months spent preparing, and our hopes for both the near and distant future. Normally, we’d listen to music, radio stories, or talk geography on long drives, but this time felt different. None of that mattered.

What mattered was that we achieved what we set out to do. We were doing it. The future held promise.

The road east is long, and once again, we had nowhere to be. All we needed to do was get there safely.

We pulled into a familiar hotel in Bakersfield—one we stayed in years ago when our kids were younger—and shared memories from that time. We hadn’t officially left California yet, but we were well on our way. And that was our greatest accomplishment of the day.

Reflecting & Moving Forward

• Big changes often arrive quietly.
  Life-altering moments don’t always come with ceremony; sometimes they’re wrapped in routine tasks and familiar responsibilities.

• Letting go happens in stages.
  Leaving home wasn’t a single decision, but a series of small goodbyes—each mile making the change feel more real.

• Forward motion brings clarity.
  Once we were on the road, uncertainty softened into resolve, and the promise of what’s ahead became easier to embrace.

A Big Day Disguised as a Normal One

"It Didn’t Sink In Until We Hit the Road"

Leaving our home state happened between ordinary moments—dropping off a car, finishing commitments, and saying quiet goodbyes. It wasn’t until the miles started passing beneath us, that the magnitude of the day became real.