August 9, 2004 ~ Automotive Rivalry
Monday.
As we were driving home in Ryoga from the Wolf Rescue, we turned off the dirt road and onto the winding mountain highway. "You know that noise you'd been mentioning, the one you thought was the wheel or the axle?" Morgan asked. "It sounds a lot worse."
"Well, I'd been telling you we ought to get it checked, but you wanted to wait. How about tomorrow--"
"Whoa. Much worse." He slowed.
"I wonder if we'll be able to drive home on that..."
"It feels all wrong."
"Maybe we should--"
CRUNCH SCRAPE RATTLE SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE
"Ahhhhh! #@$%!!" Morgan pulled over on the narrow shoulder with the steep drop, no guardrail, nothing but stars and trees and night. My door opened to about a foot of ground, then a sharp drop into brush and trees.
"That was the front right axle or wheel," I said.
We got out. Morgan pulled out the flashlight, and tried to look up under the car. "#*$@! I can't see anything. %$#*@^& flashlight. %$#*@^& stupid car! %$#*@^& Highway Nine. AAARGH!!"
I took the flashlight and crawled up under the car.
He hovered nearby. "Can you see anything?"
"Hang on."
"Okay."
"Oh CRAP!!"
"What? What!?! What do you see?"
"Poison ivy. I'm lying in it. Bloody Marvelous."
"Oh. I meant with the car!"
"Thanks for the sympathy." Shuffle shuffle. Strain. I tried to look from a different angle. "Nothing looks particularly wrong. I mean, I'm comparing it to the other wheel, and it looks okay. But we're not driving home on it while it's making that noise, that's for damn sure."
"We're in the middle of nowhere on Highway Nine. And there's no cell reception out here. Damnable car!" he ranted.
"Well, let's try your cell phone."
"But we can't get a tow truck right now, because no mechanic shop is going to be open, so we can't get a tow..." He sighed.
"Here. Tell you what. We'll leave the car here tonight. Let's try to call someone to come pick us up. Then tomorrow morning I can come back out here in Pokey and meet the tower."
"Ah. Okay. I'll see if I can get Sloan."
The half of the cell phone conversation that I heard when something like this, as Morgan moved about the side of the road:
"Sloan? Hello? Hi, can you hear me? ... Sloan? I can't... oh, I can hear you! Can you hear me? ... Hear me now? Crap. ... Can you hear me? ... Now? Oh! Good!"
He was now standing in the road, head cocked to one side.
"I'm going to stand perfectly still where I am, and hopefully this won't cut out. Melissa and I just broke down out on Highway Nine. ... Yeah, I know. I'm really sorry to call you so late, but can you possibly come pick us up? ... Thank you so much. Yeah, on Nine, out past the Light Center. ... Right. Thank you! ... Yeah, thanks. See you soon."
We stood together on the shoulder picking out constellations together until a half hour later the familiar sound of Sloan's little bug made its way up the road. He drove us home and then stayed the night at our house to save him the trip all the way back across town.
This morning, I slowly made my way back up the highway with Pokey. Pokey, the car that Morgan's owned for over eight years, the car that is nearing a quarter century in age, but which has only stranded us once in those eight years, and that time she had the decency to do it in the middle of town, in the parking lot of a restaurant, around noon, when we had two other friends and their cars present. Ryoga has stranded us three times in the year that we've had him. Two of those times have been at night, both in the middle of nowhere. No wonder Pokey's model was named "Reliant." I'll say.
Pokey gave me a little lecture on the way up the mountains:
"Look at this! Just look! Me, an ancient old woman, once again coming to the rescue of that young upstart little Toyota, half my age. Well, I never! Hrmph! And for the last two months, now that you and That Man Who Never Changes My Oil on Time are carpooling, you've practically retired me, leaving me sitting in front of the house every day, never driving me, leaving me to the wear of the sun and the rain and that damn neighborhood cat who likes to sharpen his claws on my "Limited Edition" vinyl roof! Rewarding my service and loyalty with this! Dropping me for that Toyota who would rather leave you stranded in the sticks in the middle of the night! The indignity! The shame! --Hey! Ha! Yeah, you push that gas petal as far as you want, Missy. I'm not going to go any faster than twenty miles an hour up this hill. At my age, I can choose to go as fast as I want."
When the tow truck pulled up, I could tell by the look on the guy's face that he was having a hard time believing that it was more modern Corolla he'd be towing rather than the falling-to-pieces Reliant. Poor Pokey. I think she deserves that bumper sticker (a phrase coined by John Bailey), "When 25 years old your car becomes, go so fast it will not!"
No word yet on Ryoga. Let's hope it's not too expensive.
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