Some bikes are ridden so often, and in so many moments and places, that to part with them becomes almost impossible.

They develop value to the owner which has no connection to reality, so selling them is not only unsatisfactory from a financial perspective, but an emotional wrench that can be too difficult to execute.

Same goes with cars.

Our relationship with our vehicle is kind of like the way we treat drivetrains. There are essentially two ways to do that: keep it fresh by replacing the chain every thousand kilometres; keep an eye on the chainrings and replace them when necessary—and hope that doing those things will make the cassette last longer than it may otherwise. Or the other way, which is ride the stuff until it more or less dissolves, then replace the lot in one mad spend-up after a couple of years.

The more traditional among us get a nice set of wheels when they are able, then trade in or up as often as once every couple of years. The alternative lot buy a vehicle that ticks the required boxes and drive it until it dies—or they do.

That has been my style and, so far, I have outlived half a dozen of them—not counting the odd ones I owned briefly in my youth, and the more sensible ones I have shared with my partner.

The last three have been Toyota HiAces. These venerable buses are examples of what I would argue is the Kombi of the South Pacific. These days, actual Kombis are like high end bicycles: their price bears no relation to their functionality. Don’t get me wrong, they are cool things. In their primitive way they will still be clattering along when cockroaches inherit the planet. But, for everyday abuse and long- lived up-for-itness, the HiAce is hard to beat.

Also hard to kill.

The late 80s white example we caned for a decade, had a slipping clutch for at least five years, which Glen used to repair using positive thinking. Just when we thought it wasn’t going to get whatever pile of stuff we’d loaded into it to the top of the next hill, she would send it kind thoughts and it would take another deep breath and soldier on. Some dear friends took it off our hands and toured the country in it, before selling it to a wrecker in Christchurch.

The one I almost wear as a totem is called a Regius, but it is a HiAce at heart. Sidebar: I reckon a good career, if I was a younger man, would be as a consultant to Japanese car companies, helping them to avoid coming up with names like ‘Regius’. And HiAce for that matter. But, I digress. I have heard this model referred to as a “Loser Cruiser”, but it has carted me, my partner, numerous bikes, a kayak, and a caravan over a quarter of a million kilometres around our country and still goes like it did when I got it.

I have just replaced it. I decided that if I get a decent HiAce now, it will probably be the one that stays on the road longer than I do. I took delivery of it last week, and told a friend about it that evening. I honestly thought she was going to cry. In her view, the old van is part of me. “Surely you can’t be going to sell it!” she exclaimed.

Well, that is the plan.

That was the plan. Now? I am not so sure. Yes, yes, I am. Out it goes.

So what’s the attraction for me, in a HiAce? Mainly; that it’s a van. You can drive around in it. You can keep a bike in it. You can get changed in it, take a nap in it, take shelter in it. You can cart a collection of bikes and people, a pile of rubbish, or half a house load of furniture. You can go camping in it—at a pinch, you could live in it. We have done all these things and more.

I prefer to get one that is past the number of kilometres travelled where problems would have cropped up if they were going to. It is best if the thing already has dents and scratches in the usual places. That means any imperfections I add to it will be pleasant memories of tight spots or straight fuckups, not heartbreaking blights on what was a virgin body.

The new one (well, new to me) has very little personality. Personality will develop, as bits of bark get scrubbed off the corners, bicycle tyre marks get added to the interior, kilometres get added to the clock and resale value slowly becomes irrelevant because with any luck I will never sell it.

Like one of my road bikes, it will become so valuable to me, it will be more or less priceless.

Give it time.