Fear the Van

Minivan. It's a term seldom used outside the presence of soccer moms and playgroup gossips. Consequently, it gets a bad reputation as being, well, a sissy vehicle.

But allow me to set the record straight. I own a minivan. In fact, I frequently drive my minivan, a sleek 1999 Ford Windstar in midnight blue, with a fair dose of pride. Not only is this automobile an attractive specimen, sensibly equipped with seven seats and seven cupholders, and gifted with a boisterous digital stereo system. It is also an imposing figure that can tackle driveways and mountain peaks with equal dexterity. Accelerating from 0 to 60 in a slim eight seconds and peaking at speeds upwards of 120 m.p.h, this van isn't just a practical pack of wheels. It is a warrior. It is a speedster.

It could be your worst enemy.

The van, which as of yet is nameless (if you have any suggestions, please submit them), recently devoured some highway during our family vacation. The 3,002 miles of rugged terrain stretched from California, through Nevada, Utah and Wyoming, to our destination, South Dakota. It endured scorching U.V. rays, large trucks releasing troublesome pebbles, the ubiquitous swarms of gnats and storms of dust.

It guzzled down cheap gasoline in the oil-rich Mountain West region, at times reaching such efficient figures as 27 miles per gallon.

Once, there was a close call. Attempting to fill up on some bargain fuel (try and resist $2.62 per gallon), my dad injected a full tank of 85 octane gasoline. Though the van calls for 87 octane, it sacrificially accepted the poison and trucked along.

Then we heard it -- a faint pinging noise a few miles down the road. The van was trying its darndest to operate on sub-par fuel, but the diluted liquid was nauseating inside the tank. But don't think the van puttered out. It took the fuel like a pro, racing through the desert wind, until we found a refueling station with 91 octane fuel. It purred...

But lest you think the van is merely a hard working vehicle, take heed of its ferocity. On our final day, tragedy struck. As we trekked homeward through Truckee, a small sparrow hovered above the vehicle for a few seconds. I will never know exactly what the bird was thinking to taunt such a menacing vehicle, but it stared the van face to face.

It happened quickly. There was a thud. And when we pulled over about an hour later, the gruesome truth was revealed.

At least one bird did not fear the van, and the consequences were dire.

So, friends, next time you see the van, observe its sleek lines and immaculate interior. But examine its tires and growling grill, too. And before you become the latest casualty lodged in the hood, just remember:

Fear the van.