Why do people do things that they know are silly? Be honest, don't you do things once in a while that might appear totally ridiculous to other people? It might be a habit that you can keep private. Sometimes you might forget yourself and cut loose, perhaps drawing a wary glance from some nearby stranger.  If you haven't done it lately, you probably did at least once in your life.

I'll admit my goofy habit first. I figure that way you'll feel better about your personal idiosyncrasies. You might get to the bottom of this paragraph, decide I'm a lunatic and quickly jump to another blog, but's a chance I'm willing to take. Ready? Now just take your hand off the mouse until you've heard me out. Here goes. My personal bugaboo is...I talk to my truck.

Oh good, you're still there. It's true. I speak out loud to a 1995 Ford Ranger. Oh, it doesn't talk back, and I don't expect it to. I don't know if it's a nervous habit or just that I don't want to feel alone. But sometimes I talk to my truck as we go down the road. I don't jabber along for miles, but I do exclaim, I declare, and sometimes I ask rhetorical questions. What's more odd is that I don't talk to any of my other vehicles. The car only rates an occasional "Come on" when it cranks an extra time or two. To the riding mower and the tractor, I may as well be Harpo Marx. Only my truck ever hears from me...if indeed it can hear. And that's unlikely.

I think cowboys talked to their horses as they rode the open prairies, so there may be a historical precedent. A cowboy's horse and a truck share some important traits. Both are beasts of burden; neither one talks back. Both can carry a solitary rider for long distances. And if you jab the spurs too hard either one can kick its back end loose and take you on a wild ride! My truck doesn't have leather seats, but the cloth reclining buckets are way more comfortable than a saddle.

After a stimulating and rewarding day at work (they do happen sometimes!) I climb in, turn the key and call out "Truck! Let's go home!" I presume the truck gets bored sitting in its parking spot all day, as I do in my cubicle. It might even be anxious to get back to its garage and out of the sun just like I want to get to my favorite chair in my den. Or at least it would if it was alive like Lightning McQueen in Cars. Both our assigned spots are about the same shape; the only difference is that my cubicle faces away from the window; the parking spot has a better view.

If the conversation stopped with just one exclamation it would merely be a ritual and I could brush it off. But it doesn't. I'm in the cab for two hours each day (mostly because my company hasn't yet seen the light and instituted telecommuting) and at the end of the day I'm ready to talk. I point out various doofuses and morons as we make our way through rush-hour traffic. I know the truck hasn't read my Driver's Field Guide but we've discussed it. Heck, I did most of the research for the article from its driver's seat! If, when I park, I leave the lights on or the keys in the ignition, the warning chime rings. I douse the lights, pocket the keys and say "Thank you, Truck" as if it's done me a favor.

I usually talk to the truck as a single entity. Sometimes I address specific parts. I scold the turn signal that clicks off too soon. I cajole various parts to loosen so I can fix problems. When I talk to the radio, though, I'm usually interacting with whatever it's playing rather than with the radio itself. I get into heated arguments with Sean Hannity on AM talk radio and with Daniel Schorr on NPR. Most days, though, I'm not in the mood for indignant political diatribe of either stripe; I just want to mellow out with some music. Once in a while even that seemingly benign pastime can start a discussion. I like oldies stations but I get irked when they play the same song daily ad nauseum: "Aw, not again! Is Joy to the World the only Three Dog Night you own? For crying out loud, play Family of Man or My Impersonal Life! Criminy!" (A similar reaction occurs with The Monkees and Daydream Believer.) I suppose I could pick up the cell phone, call the station and actually complain to the DJ, but there isn't always a safe place to pull over. My way may be crazy, but it's not dangerous.

On very rare occasions the conversation can turn deadly serious. A few winters ago I was on my way home, barreling along on a plowed dry road. I hadn't learned the wisdom of putting a few hundred pounds of sandbags in the bed. I changed a tape as we crossed an intersection and didn't notice that the dry pavement had disappeared suddenly under packed snow and ice. The back end started dancing the hula.

"Hey now, Truck!" I intoned, tapping the brake to kill the cruise. "Where we going?" I popped the shifter into neutral. The hula continued as I tried to steer out of the skid. "Come on baby!" I urged, spinning the wheel from back to forth, turning into the skid. "Come on, come on, come on!!" The dance changed to frantic pirouettes. Helpless, we skidded backward down the wrong side of the road; I stopped talking to the truck. "Oh Lord, HELP!!" I yelled as we bounced off the road, coming to rest in a ditch full of soft-packed snow.

I quickly checked to make sure all the parts were still attached the way they were when I left work. Then I checked the truck. "Okay now," I soothed, "you're a truck. You're going to walk right out of this." The motor was still running; I shifted into second. "Okay, here we go." I brushed the gas. The rear wheels threw great rooster-tails as the snow under the belly of the truck held it like a fly in pine pitch. I tried to rock it loose...shift, gas, nothing. Brake, reverse, gas, nothing.

"Stupid piece of junk!" I yelled, pounding the steering wheel. "Are you a truck or a Geo?" I was fortunate at that point that I had a truck instead of a horse; a horse might have bucked me into a snowdrift and stepped on my hat. Eventually someone with a chain and a bigger truck happened by and yanked us out; nobody said a word the rest of the way home.

Winter ditch parties aside, the little Ranger's been a good companion. It gets me to work and back and it doesn't ask a lot. It's as comfortable as my favorite ball cap. However, it is racking up the miles and its tranny's starting to slip. I know one day it'll head for that big parking lot in the sky. I'll be sad when the day comes that I have to look for a new traveling companion. It's been a long time since I shopped for a truck. Does anyone know any good pickup lines?