The rush of air pushes me towards the white line of the shoulder then sucks me back to the left as semi trucks fly past, leaving vapor trails in their wake. Actually, every vehicle is flying past us. That’ll happen when your top speed is 60 mph. And 60 feels like 100 when you’re driving a right-side drive, 1995 Mitsubishi Delica camper van. The RPMs are maxed out, everything is rattling and I can feel a draft coming in from the top of the driver’s door frame. It’s raining hard and I have two choices of wiper speeds—slow or medium. We’re currently heading through Oregon on I-5 on our way to Willamette Pass, with plans to overnight at a Eugene Walmart. We don’t know it yet, but we will instead be staying at a freeway rest stop. But this is what I wanted. The slow and simple life.
For years, my wife would make fun of me for driving in the right lane on the freeway. I’d just be cruising along, not realizing I was stuck behind someone driving 50 until she pointed it out. I was just chilling. Lost in my own thoughts. But generally, I do think I prefer a slower pace. I’d rather take winding back roads and scenic highways than freeways. I like stopping for a beer at a weird local bar or trying a cheeseburger at the town drive-in. I don’t mind having to stop to wait for a herd of cows to move off the road. That’s part of the reason that driving a slow vehicle doesn’t bother me. What’s the rush? Let’s explore.
I was able to put this idealistic approach to the test when I traded in my 2019 Toyota Tacoma for a vehicle 30 years old, imported from Japan and geared for slower (much slower) Japanese highway speeds. This JB470 had been on my radar for a few months and looked to be the perfect rig for me and my family. It has a little diesel engine, diesel heater, low-range 4-wheel-drive and a bathroom. But it’s also a utilitarian van. That means manual windows, a weak cabin heater, weaker air conditioner, two-speed wipers … and it’s loud. Even if I weren’t sitting right on top of the engine, any kind of sound deadening comes more from your own sheer willpower than anything physically added to the van.
It feels weird to trade in the luxury of a new vehicle for something completely opposite of luxury. There are certain things that are easy to get used to in a new vehicle—like how it shows how many miles are left before needing to fill up, heated mirrors and soft, cushy seats. Our van, dubbed “Bad Boy” by my 6-year-old daughter, was none of these things. While it is lacking common 21st century amenities, it makes up for it with uniqueness and functionality. Being 30 years old, it has its share of quirks and things that need to be repaired, but that’s kind of the name of the game. But for all the snowboard trips and summer surf missions we plan to take together, this is perfect.
There’s something reassuring about such a simple vehicle. There are no computers to update. No diagnostic codes to figure out. No fancy sensors. Just a little diesel engine reliably chugging away at 48 horsepower for the last 30 years. Even someone like me, with very little mechanical skills, can figure things out. It can be easy to get caught up in needing the latest thing, having the newest technology or rocking the hottest color. But to me, there’s nothing more timeless than using something that’s been built to last—whether that’s a vintage watch, perfectly-shaped snowboard or a 30-year old van.
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Slow, Loud, Cold
