Hey! Hey, you! Yeah, you listen to the dirtbag diaries. It fits go off.

How about a little noise, huh?

Fortune Victoria, June 7th.

Hey, all. My new car is older than I am. The owner manual lists the car's colors, impact orange.

It may be bright enough to cause collisions and vision-oncoming drivers shielding their eyes.

I'm toying with the idea of naming the car Helga the Horrible.

It's off to Perth for the two of us. It will be a miracle if we both make it.

I worry more for Helga than for me. Think of you all fits.

That's me at 22 years old. It was about two months into a six month trip through Australia.

My only consistent traveling partner was a 25-year-old car with absolutely nothing classic about it.

I named it Helga. During our three month Odyssey, she became the only constant in an existence of perpetual movement.

I often found myself talking to the dashboard.

It sounds bizarre, I know. But it turns out that this isn't that rare.

A lot of us name our cars. In fact, in an informal survey conducted by the dirtbag diaries, we found that 83.5% of dirtbags named their vehicles.

For some of us, our cars have become the equivalent of imaginary friends. They are our most dependable partners.

Rightly or wrongly, we associate our vehicles with freedom, with independence, with being young.

When we turn 16, our world suddenly seemed to expand.

Now our cars often deliver us from our desks, to ocean swells, to quiet trailheads.

We stuff them full of gear, skis and ropes, and they respond with all-night pilgrimages to mountains and beaches.

Even as we come to terms with the fact that automobiles may be an unnecessary evil, it's hard not to think back to the first surf or climbing trip,

and daydream about open windows, loud music, and a best friend riding shotgun.

Is there something eternal amongst all the spinning gears, grinding brakes, and screeching timing belts?

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