The beemer reminds me of my former husband, who had (and still has, I imagine) periods of frenzied activity followed by utter collapse. I've written about this phenomenon before. Two speeds: on and off. As my car has aged, it has developed much the same mode of operating; it's either running at tip-top condition or on the side of the road with me inside (sometimes hyperventilating and crying) calling the auto club.
The on the side of the road thing has become a more frequent state lately. After all, I put nearly an entire years' mileage on the car in about six weeks. A gal can only take so much before she needs a spa day. She had hers in Tucson, which interrupted the last leg of my journey from El Paso back to Rancho Mirage.
The details are gnarly. Interstate high 10 through Tucson was undergoing construction. From what I understand, this is the typical status of I-10 through Tucson, but I didn't know that and neither did my car. Arizona DOT had three lanes merged into one, and most of us know what happens. Drivers dash forward to get as far ahead as possible before the merge. Eighteen-wheelers grind gears and hiss brakes. People who tend toward impatience become intolerant. Those who are kind become strained. Those who are assholes start acting out.
Moving along at 30 mph was OK. Even moving at 20 mph was OK. Stop and go was trying. Stop was just awful and became unbearable.The trouble started when I noticed the needle on the temperature gauge nudge past center. I immediately turned off the air conditioning, even though the thermometer read 106 degrees outside temp. The needle dropped back to center. (Note: one does not become dewy at 106 - one becomes slick.) I turned the air back on for a short respite. The temp needle tilted right again. I turned the engine off. The needle dropped to center again.
We were at the point of the final merge when when traffic started moving again, and I praised Jesus, Buddha, Yahweh, Krishna, Thor, Odin, Zeus and many other deities (you know who you are) at some volume, pressed the accelerator, and .... and ... no power. I pressed harder. No power. I pleaded. The a/c was still off, the temperature gauge in my head was well past center, and the hyperventilating started.Then the egine light came on, the little one that looks lke a valve. I pulled to the side in time to watch all the other drivers (most now fuly transformed into assholes, waving, honking, pointing and laughing) zip by.
I have been a member of Autoclub - or triple-A as most of us call it - for more than 10 years, and have never, ever once regretted it. I bless the money that goes to that organization. They unlocked my old Toyota at least three times (I had a bad habit of leaving my keys on the seat when I got out to fill the tank and then locking myself out); they once came to lift the same car back over a parking lot divider when I accidentally drove over it and got high-centered (don't ask); and now, they dispatched a tow truck that also had to go through the 45 minutes of nasty traffic that I had just suffered through. What a country. What a club.
I had plenty of time to sit in the heat and slowly sweat through every single piece of slothing I was wearing, to practice breathing slowly and stop hiccupping. Few things are as frustrating and frightening to me as car trouble, probably because I feel like I must have done something wrong. (I grew up with car guys - need I say more?) And with a mature BMW, there are getting to be a lot of opportunities to practice breathing slowly.
The tow truck arrived, the nice man who drove the truck told me to get in the cab, the air was runing, he'd take care of this. He delivered me to a hotel near the dealership and wished me luck.
I had never been to Tucson before, and this was not an ideal was to get to know the city. But I happened to be in a motel that was quite affordable ($62 with my AAA discount - bless them again) and it was only a block from a large shopping mall. After I showered, I headed to the food court where I found a Dairy Queen. (Yes, there are quite a few mentions of Dairy Queen in this blog and no, Dairy Queen is not a sponsor, but hey, I think that's a good idea.) My point is that sometimes life gets better when there's a large chocolate milk shake involved. That and a couple high-quality multi-vitamins were what I called a well-balanced dinner that night.
In the morning, another driver loaded the car back up and took it (and me) to the mechanic. For those of you who read my blog entry about eighteen wheelers and people who drive for a living, this is the guy who told me that he absolutely loves his job and that they had lost three drivers between Tucson and Phoenix already this year. Lost as in dead, not lost as in without a compass.
One thing I can thank those aforementioned car guys for is a rudimentary knowledge of how a vehicle works. As a woman consulting with a mechanic, it helps. Once I'm over my fright and actually get to the shop, I'm less likely to be cowed or talked into something that I don't need. As for trusting? How do you trust someone that you're never going to see again? This was the mechanical equivalent of a one night stand. But what could I do? As it turned out, I got to visit Dairy Queen yet again - for the next two days.
The real fun started when I got home and reported in to my own mechanic.
Me: Hi Scott. I need to get in for an oil change and do the control arm bushings that we talked about before I left in June.
Scott: Right, right. How was the trip?
Me: Awesome. Best thing I've done for myself. Had a little trouble in Grand Junction, though. I had to replace a couple tires.
Scott: Well, that's not too bad.
Me: Nope. But then they had to take care of the brakes.
(Pause.)
Scott: Brakes? (suspicious) What did they do?
Me: New pads, and they had to turn the rotors.
(long silence)
Scott: You shouldn't have done that.
This is the inevitable response I get from Scott whenever I have to repair the car or have maintenance done by someone else. It wouldn't matter if I was in te middle of the Mojave (actually, I guess I was kind of in the middle of the Mojave) with nothing but a trickle of water in my canteen - I should not have done whatever I did, even if I couldn't get home any other way.
Me: Scott, don't tell me that. It doesn't do any good now.
Scott: You never, ever turn BMW rotors.
(Silence. I have my head in my hands.)
Me: Yeah, well, when I was coming down out of Yosemite, I figured brakes were pretty important. But I'll get it in and you can get the front end taken care of.
Scott is actually a fabulous mechanic and we have a great rapport. He's always been fair with me, considerate of my pocketbook, worked with me when I've had to split payments (he doesn't take plastic) and realistic about prioritizing work. Each time I bring in the car, I bitch and moan for awhile, despair of the expense, threaten to sell it or trade it in on something new. Scott then gives me his spiel about how it's an older car that now needs more repair because things get old and break and you have to understand that. I nod. I know this. Older cars stop working. Moving parts break. BMWs just happen to be more expensive to fix than, say, the space shuttle. Paying for maintenance and repairs was a lot less painful when I was married to an attorney.
Yet, when I look at the dollars objectively, I'm still ahead on cost. Yes, repairs this year have been high. Or at least it's felt that way because, unlike a car payment which is a set amount each month, repairs tend to take random chunks out of the bank account. If feels more expensive. But the fact is, when I add up and average out the cost, it's still less than a car payment. Right now, anyway. But there are diminishing returns, and if I'm going to sell it, better do it soon. Neither of us is getting any younger.
This is what I tell myself while the car is with Scott for four days. That's because of his own backlog of work, not because the car is so disabled. I mentioned already he's a specialist who is an honest straight-shooter, qualities attractive in any relationship, but particularly with someone who is up to his elbows in my primary mode of transportation. But I steel myself when the car is gone, start looking at Consumer Reports Car Issue.
Then I go out today to pick up Ms. Putt, and see that he's buffed out the headlights which were terribly etched and pitted. He says, "I figured if you're wanting to sell it, that would be something to make it look good." Yes, it does. Thank you, Scott. "By the way, a mechanic friend of mine is looking for one of these." We discuss what I might be able to get for it. I tell him to let the mechanic know that I've got one. We'll see.
Here we are, Putt and me. She looks even prettier with her polished headlights. And with new control arm bushings, her loose front end is tighter (every girl eventually ends up with a loose front end) so she's more responsive and more fun to drive. She likes the cooler weather now, as do I, so we open the sunroof. I crank AC/DC.
I really love this car. When she's working, she's a blast. She is one of the nicest possessions that I've ever owned and I'm not ignorant of the status that comes along with her brand. Right or wrong, this vehicle has in some ways legitimized my presence here in this, the playground of presidents. I feel comfortable in her. I feel safe in this big hunk of German sheet metal that doesn't sound like an empty tin can when I shut the door.
In many ways, this is a metaphor for my marriage, my husband. At the start, it was fun and felt safe. Then it was comfortable, but not reliable. Eventually, it became an emotional rollercoaster that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't, and when it didn't, it really didn't. Through it, I had some of the nicest things I've ever had. But after a point, it became confusing, a question of who owned whom. How much to keep putting into it? The law of diminishing returns. To keep it or not was such a difficult decision, even when the best and sanest course of action was obvious. Unlike the car, my marriage went well past unreliable to no longer functioning and no mechanic could fix it.
So will I sell her if Scott's mechanic friend contacts me with an offer?
I thought so before I got back behind the wheel again.
