100,000

My eleven-year-old Toyota has 100,000 miles on its odometer as of yesterday afternoon. I watched the zeros come up on the LCD screen. Memories of the rolling numbers of odometers past flew through my mind. I have driven more old cars than new.

Four trips around the world. That's about 100,000 miles. My little car hasn't gone any farther than Watertown, N.Y., at one go. So all those miles were spent going small distances within my own routine world.

The car has carried friends, groceries and lumber. It has helped me move house more than once. Since I know people without wheels, my little car has taken passengers on car trips, to the airport and to do errands.

I dislike everything about the American automotive culture. Unlike my father, who identified with his cars in a way which made me cringe, I respect my vehicle as a valued possession with pragmatic utility. I take it for regular maintenance, despite my distaste for garage waiting rooms. Once a year I apply plastic polymer to its finish to prevent rust. Its patina of dings and chips does not concern me. Badges of a life of good service. Perhaps that is the only way in which I identify with it.

As I was reflecting on my car's mileage, I heard a radio story about Iraq, in which a journalist quoted the death toll of Iraqis since the U.S. invasion at 100,000. I thought of the small changing digits on my car's odometer and the immensity of time and distance represented by 100,000 miles in my one life.  Then I remembered standing in a crowd of 100,000 in 1969 during a peace demonstration. In a world of 7,000,000,000 people, 100,000 people killed in war may seem a forgettable number to some. I am acutely aware of what that number means.