I have been driving cars for half of my entire life, yet I have almost no knowledge of how to repair them. In a way, I suppose that I long for the days when it was possible for a guy to change his own oil, filters, and repair carburetors and whatnot in his own garage. But these days, cars are so obtusely electrified and computerized that I’m afraid of doing anything other than swapping my summer tires out in the fall. I know that this is an illogical fear, and that I’m smart enough to figure out most things, but it’s just the fear of the unknown and the associated knowledge that anything I screw up severely will cost an arm and a leg to fix at the shop.
So this morning when I got into my car to go to work and the starter wouldn’t even turn over, I was somewhat chagrined. It was my moment of truth. All my talk about being a bright person who could “figure out” how to fix a car in an emergency and now the car gods had decided to make me prove myself in their eyes. And me without my peyote…
I first consulted the owner’s manual which was very helpful. The solution to all my problems was “Consult your local dealer”. Seriously. Apparently, the car company has decided that everyone who buys their cars are too stupid to know how to do things like change air filters, oil, brake fluid, and batteries. Another example – they instruct owners not to “soak their air filters in gasoline, benzene, or other hazardous cleaners which may cause explosions”. Really? So much for my “In-Car Huff-o-Matic” for “today’s juvenile delinquent on the go” that I was developing to bring to market.
With the manual being about as helpful as an overripe tomato, I called my local dealer and shockingly* I got my service guy on the phone on the second ring. He proceeded to tell me that it may be the battery (my suspicion all along), or the alternator, or the starter, or the flux capacitor, and so on and so on, as he rattled off a list of increasingly more expensive-to-fix things. Visions began dancing in his head of a new Vespa scooter, or a new sport bike, or a Harley Davidson, or a Corvette, or a Bentley…
Once I got off the phone with the dealer, I figured I’d try to replace the battery myself, since I was only about a half-mile from a Pep-Boys. I called them to make sure they had a replacement battery for my car in stock (which they did) and then proceeded to figure out how to extricate the battery from it’s little S&M harness. First I had to remove the shroud covering the battery, and then detach the strap holding it down. Once that was done, I loosened the cable connections from the terminals and pulled out the battery, the thrill of testosterone-laced victory hot in my nostrils…
…but the battery didn’t come out. It sat there, locked tightly in place by some unseen force. This was aggravating. I had no idea if it was just stuck with some loose oil or grime or something or if there was a mysterious “invisible bolt” holding it down. Somewhere, I could hear my dealer laughing insanely at my plight while trying to decide between the 36’ and 48’ yachts.
That’s when I decided to swallow my pride and call my dealer again. Naturally, he was screening calls at this point, so I did was any person would do in the kind of unhealthy, abusive, dysfunctional relationship I have with my dealer – I called my ex-dealer. Fred Baker Porsche Audi in Bedford Ohio is the single greatest car dealership on earth. They were always nice and their shop guys never fixed something that didn’t need fixing. If I ever got another Audi, I’d drive out there to do it. And as usual, Mike not only confirmed that my problem was the battery, but he also told me where to find the hidden bracket that was holding the battery in place. Thanks Mike!
Once I got the battery out, I put it in four plastic grocery bags and then slid it into my old college backpack, which was about the perfect size to hold it. Still, batteries are heavy! It must have been about 20-25 pounds or so. Once I strapped it on my back, I made for Pep Boys. Since I had a bit of time on my hands, I proceeded to make a bunch of phone calls to friends and family that I haven’t talked to in a while and that would be up at that hour. It took me about an hour to walk there, pick up the new battery, drop off the old one, and head back home. And it was raining the whole time, but I had my ginormous umbrella, so I didn’t mind since the rain was cooling off the atmosphere from the 100 degree days we’ve been having lately.
Once I got home, I installed the battery in the holder, re-tightened the invisible bolt, reattached the leads, and tried to start the car, all my hopes and dreams contained in this brief few seconds, which would either validate me as a man or reduce me to a quivering mound of emasculated pseudo man-jelly.
But lo and behold my engine roared to live almost immediately! I felt like a new man, similar to what I believe young caveman boys must have felt like when they brought down their first mammoth or giant sloth. I did a little dance, but refrained from re-enacting the victorious hunt around a giant campfire a la Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves. Because that would have just been silly.
* My dealer is notorious for never answering the phone, but instead screening all their calls to voice mail and then never calling back. It’s like a dull and unattractive “Rules Girl” who’s worried that every phone call is a stalker so they refuse to pick up the phone and then never call anyone back because it’s “the rules”.
So this morning when I got into my car to go to work and the starter wouldn’t even turn over, I was somewhat chagrined. It was my moment of truth. All my talk about being a bright person who could “figure out” how to fix a car in an emergency and now the car gods had decided to make me prove myself in their eyes. And me without my peyote…
I first consulted the owner’s manual which was very helpful. The solution to all my problems was “Consult your local dealer”. Seriously. Apparently, the car company has decided that everyone who buys their cars are too stupid to know how to do things like change air filters, oil, brake fluid, and batteries. Another example – they instruct owners not to “soak their air filters in gasoline, benzene, or other hazardous cleaners which may cause explosions”. Really? So much for my “In-Car Huff-o-Matic” for “today’s juvenile delinquent on the go” that I was developing to bring to market.
With the manual being about as helpful as an overripe tomato, I called my local dealer and shockingly* I got my service guy on the phone on the second ring. He proceeded to tell me that it may be the battery (my suspicion all along), or the alternator, or the starter, or the flux capacitor, and so on and so on, as he rattled off a list of increasingly more expensive-to-fix things. Visions began dancing in his head of a new Vespa scooter, or a new sport bike, or a Harley Davidson, or a Corvette, or a Bentley…
Once I got off the phone with the dealer, I figured I’d try to replace the battery myself, since I was only about a half-mile from a Pep-Boys. I called them to make sure they had a replacement battery for my car in stock (which they did) and then proceeded to figure out how to extricate the battery from it’s little S&M harness. First I had to remove the shroud covering the battery, and then detach the strap holding it down. Once that was done, I loosened the cable connections from the terminals and pulled out the battery, the thrill of testosterone-laced victory hot in my nostrils…
…but the battery didn’t come out. It sat there, locked tightly in place by some unseen force. This was aggravating. I had no idea if it was just stuck with some loose oil or grime or something or if there was a mysterious “invisible bolt” holding it down. Somewhere, I could hear my dealer laughing insanely at my plight while trying to decide between the 36’ and 48’ yachts.
That’s when I decided to swallow my pride and call my dealer again. Naturally, he was screening calls at this point, so I did was any person would do in the kind of unhealthy, abusive, dysfunctional relationship I have with my dealer – I called my ex-dealer. Fred Baker Porsche Audi in Bedford Ohio is the single greatest car dealership on earth. They were always nice and their shop guys never fixed something that didn’t need fixing. If I ever got another Audi, I’d drive out there to do it. And as usual, Mike not only confirmed that my problem was the battery, but he also told me where to find the hidden bracket that was holding the battery in place. Thanks Mike!
Once I got the battery out, I put it in four plastic grocery bags and then slid it into my old college backpack, which was about the perfect size to hold it. Still, batteries are heavy! It must have been about 20-25 pounds or so. Once I strapped it on my back, I made for Pep Boys. Since I had a bit of time on my hands, I proceeded to make a bunch of phone calls to friends and family that I haven’t talked to in a while and that would be up at that hour. It took me about an hour to walk there, pick up the new battery, drop off the old one, and head back home. And it was raining the whole time, but I had my ginormous umbrella, so I didn’t mind since the rain was cooling off the atmosphere from the 100 degree days we’ve been having lately.
Once I got home, I installed the battery in the holder, re-tightened the invisible bolt, reattached the leads, and tried to start the car, all my hopes and dreams contained in this brief few seconds, which would either validate me as a man or reduce me to a quivering mound of emasculated pseudo man-jelly.
But lo and behold my engine roared to live almost immediately! I felt like a new man, similar to what I believe young caveman boys must have felt like when they brought down their first mammoth or giant sloth. I did a little dance, but refrained from re-enacting the victorious hunt around a giant campfire a la Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves. Because that would have just been silly.
* My dealer is notorious for never answering the phone, but instead screening all their calls to voice mail and then never calling back. It’s like a dull and unattractive “Rules Girl” who’s worried that every phone call is a stalker so they refuse to pick up the phone and then never call anyone back because it’s “the rules”.
Comments
I felt like a man, too, the first time I fixed a flat tire on my bike. Although the feeling was diminished (alas no dance around the fire) because my stick-like arms produced insufficient force to pump the tires back up to pressure, so I had to ask someone manlier to help.
Nice weather pixie, by the way. She has a very comely 1-pixel-wide cleavage line.
I have, however, pulled off the entire dash to replace a turn-signal switch and replaced a pull on the alternator - without the help of an intimidating car mechanic.
For the last 10 days, though, Blazy the Blazer has been sitting in the garage - unable to start her motor. Fortunately (for them), her parents work and shop close enough to home that she gets to rest in peace. When we eventually take her to a shop, we have our fingers crossed she won't be actually Resting in Peace.