"Hut 1, hut....ike"

Caption: "Come on Paul. We're just getting started."

 

 

I look back on this story now with some awe. It was truly a different time. So this is what's meant by another ERA?

 

For instance, it was around, but the drive towards health enmasse wasn't there?

 

Drinking was clearly more casual.  And beer was way out front as a choice. And while not talked about in this story, smoking was generally accepted...and that included smoking at your desk in the work place. Non smokers were the ones who had to go outside. I was not the only member of the "smoke WHILE you jog" club.

 

Lifting weights consisted of taking the trash out once a week. "Six Pack Abs" just meant that is where you kept your beer.

 

Before I get too far off track, this is not a comment on the relative values of either era. It is just a clear document to me that we have clearly moved on. Therefore, let us move on to:   

 

 

                    ATHLETE’S ANONYMOUS

                                  Part 2

 

Let’s get one thing clear. We have, in fact, participated in the artful play of jogging, golf, tennis and skiing. It’s just that we’ve always had a little different take on the fundamentals and rules of these games. Explain? Okay!

 

Jogging:  As joggers, we see no good reason to be up before the Sun. And we see no good reason to be going though all that heavy exertion in bad weather. We jog when conditions are perfect. That typically translates into about two weeks out of the year.  And you know? Maybe jogging is the wrong term to describe what we do.? Coach always told us the quickest way to get into shape is to run wind sprints. So that’s pretty much what we do on those days. How to spot us?

 

Look for us around 10 am in the morning on a holiday or weekend, hugging an oak or elm tree. Do not interpret this to be a form of perversion. We are just hanging on for dear lifeafter elevating our heart rates for two blocks. You will never find us in groups. This is no time for peer pressure to be applied.

 

If and when we get back to the front porch? Look for the guy wearing his high school gym shorts over the top of his tattered sweats. The dog is there waiting. Fido has been back for half an hour and wants to play.

 

Now I’ve already indicated Tennis is not our game. However, we’ve dabbled in it. When? Typically around midnight after downing a few beers. The rackets are the same ones we stole from the tennis players brave enough to cross our football field back in high school. The average number of strings left on a racket? Five!

 

The ball we get from Fido who has been chewing on it for about six months. Warm up? Why? We try a few times to hit the ball into the court, but discover we are more adept at seeing how far it can fly. If we’ve had enough beer, this typically disintegrates into seeing if we can hit each other with the ball. Soon the ball loses all capacity for flight. That reduces us to turning our tennis rackets into epees and we have a few sword fights. None of this lasts long. That’s Tennis!

 

Now Golf. We have tons of fun on golf courses. We typically start on the 19th hole to loosen up. We are not the kind of citizens you can convince that golf is a finesse game. It’s a power game and that is the way we play it. Most of us can REALLY drive off the tee. We can really drive off the tee right into the rough. Then it’s a real male bonding thing to form a safari and go looking for the ball. We play a sort of elimination tournament. If you lose you’re ball, your out. We have a rule that if anybody hits his ball into a water hazard, he has to wade in a get it. But that’s not all. We don’t let him out of the water until he’s got a ball for all of us. Starters don’t like us much because we don’t let people play through. We don’t think that’s polite. And we have ways of dealing with rude golfers. Golf for us is a dawn to dusk affair. So we don’t hit the links very often.

 

Skiing is definitely not for us, or anyone within three miles of our effort. We are the guys, who, when tired of hanging on to a rope tow, just let go? We can be seen laughing uncontrollably as we are knocking off skiers below us like bowling pins.

Lessons? Why? We just get to the top of the hill, spread the sticks apart, and “let ‘er rip!” We are bit hard to spot skiing. We spend a lot of time in emergency rooms and bars with our lift tickets torn in half. We don’t ski much because of the long recuperation time.

 

But there are activities where we are far more identifiable as somebody you know. I’ve saved those revelations for the final chapter. Maybe after you identify us, you’ll want to organize an intervention or two.  See you tomorrow.

Hut 1, Hut 2,Hike!

CAPTION: We tend to exercise in shadow.

 

It's that time of year here when the weather makes it possible to keep trim and fit with outside activities. And that is a good excuse for me to pull another one of those Life in The Middle Lane stories out of the morgue and run it up the flagpole. Let's see if anyone salutes.

This is a story meant for men in their 40's and 50's. And by that I mean they are the ones who may benefit from the text. The rest of you will find yourself saying, "OOOH, do I know that guy." And you'll laugh, politely I hope. That's because there was a day when I was a card carrying member of:

       Athlete’s Anonymous

                                         Part 1

                         By Paul Reinertson

                                    1982 

 

There are few more pathetic among the millions of men facing mid-life changes than those who once called themselves athletes.

 

Here is the scenario. The kids are now beyond the little league age. The vicarious thrill of watching a game on TV is losing its luster. It’s a lot harder to get the guys together to talk about that catch in the back of the end zone in ’60. But what doesn’t go away?  It’s that nagging thought, “I’ll bet I can still do it. I just need a few days to get in shape.”

 

This will not be an easy journalistic expose. For one, I must count myself among this pathetic lot. And there is a chance that when this gets out? People are going to be after me. But I look at it this way. I can die by the sword trying to convince my friends in the huddle the elastic left our jockstraps ages ago.  Or I can die in a pickup game in an alley somewhere.

 

We are not easy to spot. The guy who gets up every morning at five am, puts on his Nike jogging suit and rhythmically jogs five miles with the dog? Not us!

 I’m sure you’ve seen him, as you open the door to get the paper, just as the sun is coming up? The dog collapses on the front porch. The jogger, not a drop of sweat on him, longingly looks over his shoulder, wondering, “should I do one more mile.” He stretches his fatfree body and lightly beats his chest. He is clearly not one of us. We’re still in bed dreaming about that class of ’60 touchdown.

 

You know the guy out on the tennis court with graying temples, gracefully stroking the tennis ball? His serve isn’t blistering, but the top spin makes it non returnable. His shot choices are classy. The ball is always in play. He is pacing himself. Not us! Tennis has never been our game.

 

Out on the golf course the guy whose drives off the tee always land in the middle of the fairway? The one who lightly curses his fate when the ball is a few inches off his planned lie? Nope! Not us! He talks of that totally embarrassing moment three years ago when he had to three put? He does not match our profile.

 

You are up on the chairlift and look down on the trim middle aged skier carving these graceful turns commensurate with his age. He has a smile on his face, stopping frequently just to breathe in the crisp air, and admire the sylvan environs.  He is the guy who stops by when you are lying on the snow spread eagle unable to right yourself.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

He is a very irritating guy, and we do not want him to hang out with us.

 

So who are we then? Well tune in tomorrow and get some graphic illustrations of the profile of a good candidate for Athlete’s Anonymous.

 

Break Time

CAPTION: "Mister Sandperson, bring me an out of body experience!" 

 

Need a break? Me too. Sometimes when I get this tired all over, believe it or not, poetry just flows from my soul. How about you? Well this was the case back in 1983, and here's what came out:

 

                         AWE full

            by Paul Reinertson 1983

                    "Now I lay me down to sleep."

                     I'm not sure how I did that.

                     Nite.

I don't why. Everytime I read the darn thing I laugh.

Phew!

CAPTION: I'm sorry Paul. But that really IS kind of a funny story.

 

Every station in life has it's requirements. I said when we started out on this unplanned adventure, I was giddy. And I've learned by experience that GIDDINESS is a clear prerequisite of Living in The Middle Lane.

It's pretty clear that living between the fast and slow lanes, we are trapped. Someone else is in charge. There is often no way to get to the offramp.

And, so, if we are going to display any semblence of something interpreted as sanity? We can become Walter Mitty and fantasize we are ACE PILOTS OUT ON THE RUNWAY OF LIFE. Or We can learn to LAUGH AT OURSELVES. In fact sometimes it's advisable to do both.

These are matters to ponder as we jump into the final chapter of

                 THE CARBURETOR DID IT

                        

                      The final Chapter 

 

Back to the phone with MY MECHANIC? He’s just told me the car has slipped the timing chain?

“Well, what does that mean.”

“It means at least 150 dollars, it means I’ll have to order the parts, and it means I can’t get to it today.”

 

Ah, from aggression to abject depression in seconds.

“Are you SURE that’s the problem?”

 

“I’m absolutely sure. Do you want me to go ahead with it?”

 

Barely audible I say, “yeah, go ahead.”

 

“I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow when you get off work.”

 

I take the bus to work and arrange for a ride home late in the day. There is actually a slight sense of relief I don’t have to worry about the dragon for a day. The idea that a car provides you personal freedom is at least an overstatement. It’s almost relaxing riding the bus.

 

The next morning anticipation builds slowly. Even though MY MECHANIC  says it will be early evening before the car is ready? I can’t resist a mid morning call just to see how it’s going.

 

“Hey, the parts are in and I’ll have it ready for you when you get off work.”

 

This is comforting. At least the parts are in. I put everything in the back of my mind until mid afternoon. Well, maybe just one more call.

 

“Say I’m glad you called. I’ve got a problem.”

 

“Oh, shit! What now,” I blurt out with perfect eloquence.

 

“I had a guy call in sick on me. I can’t get it done this afternoon.”

 

“WELL, WHEN, THEN!”

 

“Calm down. I’m going to work on it starting now and have it ready for you about 9 tonight. See you then.”

 

Suspicious, I call back precisely at 9.

 

“Hey, I’ll have it done in a half hour. Come on down. I just need to test drive it. I think you’re going to be very happy with it. I put in a new carburetor.”

 

“YOU WHAT!!!!?”

 

“Yeah, it wasn’t the timing chain afterall.”

 

“BUT YOU…..SAID………”

 

“You know I’m almost 100 percent right on these things. I’m glad I figured it out. Saved you 20 bucks.”

 

It’s been several weeks now that I’ve had sole possession of the car. It hasn’t STALLED, it hasn't POPPED, and I've seen no FLAMES coming from the CARBURETOR or the EXHAUST.

 

But there is this little vibration going on down by the engine mount? On the front passenger side? Any ideas?

Now that's FUNNY!

Oh, yeah!! I almost forgot. It still TWEET, TWEETS!

Cop Out

CAPTION: "Oh what a tangled web we weave....."

 

Police Officers can be nice. We who drive in the Middle Lane  call upon them a lot. But there are two times in our daily agendas where cops are not terribly appreciated. One you can guess right away. You know, when you've comitted a crime?

The other? Well thanks for joining me for the next chapter of....

 

                  THE CARBURETOR DID IT

                              Part      6

The cop riding shotgun jumps out first. He has the eager look on his face that says, “I’m getting to the bottom of this situation right now!" Rookie!

 

The other cop gets out from behind the wheel very slowly. He clearly knows a quasi-crisis when he confronts it.  But there is another reason this particular cop is in no hurry to diffuse this non-criminal behavior.  He is an old friend. We'd actually worked together in a past life.

 

He is doing everything he can to squash his smirk.

 

We exchange pleasantries. Then he gets on the horn and calls for a tow truck. I'd like to think he didn't want to sit around and watch my pain. A man stripped of his testosterone can be  an ugly sight.

 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“We’ve gotta run. There’s a B and E (breaking and entering) on Colfax. Let’s get together one of these days and catch up.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. Thanks for droppng by.”

"No problem."

 

Yeah, and wipe the smile off your face.

 

The cavalry retreats, and soon the chagrined mechanical trinity are shuffling feet like they’d like to be cleared from the scene as well.

 

“Why don’t you guys go ahead and get out of here. I’m okay. And thanks for your effort. Oh, and thanks for listening.”

 

“No problem. God bless you.!”

 

With that they once again become shadows in the bushes.

 

I sit alone with my imagination now, waiting for the tow truck. I see myself sitting at an oasis in the middle of Arabia. My camel is taking a break.

 

Then hordes of camels arrive with their robed riders. The riders put all the camels in parking spots, and pick up drive-in theatre like speakers to listen to Imams dispense advice on choosing the right mechanic.

 

I am somewhat shaken back to reality by the flashing lights of the tow truck.

 

In between tobacco spits, this driver loads my dragon onto his flatbed.

 

Then we are off to MY MECHANIC'S shop with my new late night friend getting his life story in as we motor along.

 

As we drive along I find myself back at the oasis where veiled dancing girls are tightening down nuts and bolts on my car.

 

It’s just a few minutes before midnight when we reach the garage. I am surprised to see my paid expert still here working. My cynical notion is he is just up reading a “HOW TO” book. He quietly moves to the car, surveys it, and then?

 

“Got a problem?”

 

My fighting spirit is dead and gone. I mumble something about the timing chain, and he mumbles something about that being impossible. He mumbles something about checking with him in the morning, and I return the mumble.

 

I get a few hours sleep, switching my stream of consciousness roaming to a war zone. Great armies are charging each other armed with tie rods and pistons.

 

I wake with the alarm in a sweat.

 

After a cold shower, and a shave I stagger to the phone. I carefully dial the number of the shop and ask for MY MECHANIC. I am going to forcefully tell him I am sure it is a timing problem. Well he gets in the first shot.

 

“It’s really hard to believe, but I think you’ve jumped the timing chain.”

 

Is there a law against strangulation over the phone?

 

Well let me try and calm down and I’ll see if I can’t find a climax to this sordid tale. Be back tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion.

 

 

Merciful Mechanic

CAPTION:"Be an Angel and give that guy a hand down there. That's an order!"

 

It doesn't make sense that some things get juxtaposed. How does a blasphemous dragon driver end up in the parking lot of a Super Church?. And why doesn't such a crossing of paths lead to a black hole level implosion?

I think it just goes to show that Life In The Middle Lane is a lot more complex than we've imagined. Join me once again as we explore that great mystery of yester- decade:

          THE CARBURETOR DID IT

 

                              Part Five

 

So here I sit on the curb of this frontage road, immobilized, praying someone will deliver me from this nightmare. Gathering up a little composure I venture to survey my surroundings. Well surrounding me actually, is one of these new wave, guilt free protestant churches that seats about 10 thousand for Sunday services, not including those listening to loud speakers in the parking lot. But no one is around now. And its dark and it’s eerie.

 

Eerie turns to scary when I see three shadows moving in the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. They grow larger and seem to be coming towards me. I think any level of paranoia I’ve reached at this point is well earned. I kick up my courage and wait their approach.

 

They are three young men, dressed in intimidating Levis and tee shirts. I decide it is time to put on a show. I jump out of the car. I kick the beast in several places and shout out all the profanities I can muster up. I'm telling myself, "look tough mister."

 

Well I would liken the Levi set response to my feigned tirade to, you know, like when you’ve just handed your dog his bone, when actually he just wanted to go out?

 

Their combined looks of incredulity are mesmerizing. The shortest member of the trio speaks first.

 

“Can we help you?”

 

Hell, I don’t know whether they can or not. I just throw my arms in the air screaming, “What do you suggest?”

 

“Well, sir if you can calm down just a little and tell us what’s wrong?”

 

It’s like I’m just starting a session with a shrink. I'm near tears. I tell them the battery is dead, which is probably a good thing, because when it works the car turns into a medieval fire breathing dragon. I babble on about all the advice I’ve been getting.

 

They really seem to be listening? The short intruder moves his right palm to his chin and starts rubbing. There is this terribly long pause before he speaks. Finally,“I think I can fix it. But first we need to get you off the road here."

 

I’m thinking, “how profound?” (That would be 'Duh?' in today's vernacular) I don’t verbalize it because I don’t think I can handle another bout of the “hurt puppy” expression. The Littlest Counselor tells me to get behind the wheel and put the car in neutral. Suddenly I feel myself and the dragon lurching backwards, up, mind you, a steep grade. The short kid shouts, “crank it hard to the left!”

 

I have no imagination left. I’m just following orders. In no time at all the beast and me are sitting comfortably in the middle of the church parking lot. Amazingly not a single car crosses our path during this dramatic maneuver. God MUST be on our side.

 

Now the tallest of the three speaks for the first time.

 

“I’ll get the church truck and charge up his battery. I guess we’ll need a flashlight and toolbox, too.”

 

Oh, no! These guys are with the church come to do the Lord’s work. Imagine my humiliation at the way I’ve been expressing myself. Red faces don't show up in the dark, thank 'goodness.'  The Littlest Christian opens the hood, piddles with the engines eternal (Honest to God faux pas. I'm leaving it.) organs a bit, scratches his chin some more, and then makes a familiar proclamation.

 

“It could be the firing sequence is off. It might be in the distributor cap or the ignition system. My number one guess is the timing is slightly off. I don’t have all the tools I need to set the timing, but I think we can set that distributor to get you where you need to go.”

 

The truck arrives, and the battery gets charged. Littlest Christian has me hit the ignition as he moves to a safe distance to watch the flame thrower. I shut down the engine and guess what? He retards the distributor just a hair. I fire it up and it purrs, briefly. He is instructing me not to give it too much gas on the way home when the old “POP POP” returns.

AND LOOK, there are the flames shooting out of the carburetor. Littlest Christian begins scratching his chin much faster now. He looks like he’s just fallen short of some heavenly trial. He has failed to complete the pilgrimage.

 

He speaks.

 

“It won’t hold a time. As much as I find it hard to believe I think you’ve jumped the timing chain. I would take it back to the mechanic whose been working on it.”

 

All is quiet. A “what the HECK”cloud is forming itself over us all. And as we sit here in this pseudo peace, can anything else go awry?

 

NOW THE COPS ARRIVE. They arrive and it is just one car, two cops. There is no Swat Team, No National Guard.

 

This could get interesting. Go do what you need to do, and we’ll reconvene tomorrow.

 

 

Life's LIttle Intersections

CAPTION: "HELP ME!"

 

It is amazing what you can become part of in life without any initiative. You just seem to show up. I'm glad you've decided to show up for :

                       THE   CARBURETOR DID IT

                                                            Part four

As I cruise along meandering roads bordered by intimidating mansion walls, the car begins to stall again. The first few time it fires right back up. But then a new manifestation of the undiagnosed malady arises. All of a sudden flames begin shooting out the exhaust. These flames are accompanied by loud explosions I imagine are of the magnitude of mortar fire.

 

My car has become a virtual weapon of war, and trailing motorists are jumping curbs and doing slalom maneuvers to avoid me.

 

My new found skill of finding the emergency flasher lever and pulling it kicks in. But these are now skills that seem insignificant while driving a flame thrower.

 

I make it to the top of a hill as security lights start coming on behind the mansion walls. At least now I’m going to be going downhill. At the bottom of the hill is a light at a very busy INTERSECTION.  If I can make it through the light, I’ll at least be out of the high rent district.

 

I accelerate my fire breathing dragon hoping against hope I’ll make the green light and be gone. Oh, well.

 

(Let me remind you this is not fiction.)

 

The light turns red. I don’t make it. The car stalls. I’m sitting in the left hand turn lane of the INTERSECTION.

 

I fire my guy up a few more times just to let the traffic behind me know they might want to take an alternate route. For the record, exploding exhaust flames are very effective at traffic control.

 

Wide eye motorists are forming this wide serpentine around me. I’m thinking all this commotion will attract the police who will at least get me out of the INTERSECTION. There has been some bombings in one of these local castles recently. Certainly this kind of racket will draw a squad car or two, and maybe a swat team. But before that can happen?

 

The “DRAGON” dies. I can no longer make it produce fire. I’ve missed my date with destiny.

 

No longer able to strike fear into the hearts of motorists it is inevitable a motorist will mistake my emergency flashers for a turn signal and pull right up behind me. Done!

 

Mister inevitable is a leader of sorts. He has an army of followers forming a line to turn left just as soon as I get out of the way. This guy estimates I’ve now backed traffic up for at least three quarters of a mile. And with sounds ranging from “tweet” to “bleet” they are urging me to get on with it.

 

I get to know Mr. Inevitable as quite well right away. I see him getting out of his car. He looks big and MEAN. He is coming towards me. I am steeling myself. I’ll be ready for him. Whatever angry, vulgar charges he levels at me, I have responses prepared and practiced. I time the rolling down of my window with his approaching pace. As the glass just disappears below the felt I hear him utter, “CAN’T THESE IDIOTS SEE YOUR FLASHERS ARE ON?”

 

Well I did not have a response repaired for such a declaration.

So this BIG guy I fear is now walking down the row of traffic banging on other motorist’s windows and screaming, “can’t you see his flashers stupid?”

 

These, of course, are my sentiments exactly.

 

Soon he returns.

 

“We’ve got to get you out of here. “

 

Once again? My sentiments exactly.

 

Have I mentioned this guy is BIG. The light turns green and I find myself speeding through the intersection powered only by the sinew of this good Samaritan. I have no time to tell him that without engine power I’ve got no power steering and I’m unable to make the left turn. That leaves me jumping the median crossing two lanes of shocked traffic, jumping a curb and finally coming to rest on a frontage road facing a very large religious edifice. I make it. I look for my good Samaritan to thank him profusely. Like Superman or the Lone Ranger, he is gone.

 

“Who is this guy.”

 

Well what's this religious edifice? Does it play a role in the intrigue? Wouldn't you like to know? And you can do just that by showing up tommorrow. See you then.

 

Chitty Chitty Boom Boom

Caption: "Now class here's the question. Is the word diesel a NOUN or a VERB? Yes Mary?" 

 

Didn't I tell you? Everybody is talking about it, right? If there is one thing that remains constant over time, it's that living in the middle lane is really not that simple. And at times, it can be down right aggravatin'.

So let's how it's going out there on the odd byways of life.

            The Carburetor Did It 

                 part three

 

   For about a week I am gleeful. Not only am I getting where I need to go and back, I am even getting to some places I just want to go. However, almost a week to the second my father in law helped me advance the distributor? Out of nowhere the popping returns. But now it is much louder. Testosterone ego or no, it’s time to drive this puppy to a garage.

 

The mechanic greets me with open toolbox. I tell him the whole sordid story and wonder why he isn’t taking notes. He does utter something akin to the expression, “hmmmm?” I press for specifics.

 

“I really don’t know. I’ll give you a call when I figure it out.”

 

Ill at ease, I shuffle off to work. I feel like I’m dropping the baby off at the babysitter for the first time. Well sort of. I can’t concentrate at work. I get tired of waiting for his call, so I boldly call him near the end of the day. I was so happy to hear, “nothing wrong at all. Just needed a little tune up. You can pick it up any time.”

 

Wow! How great to be working with a pro. So that’s it? All it needs is a little tune up? I sneak away from work early. I pay the man, and joyfully drive out of the garage.

 

I get three more days of bliss. I develop a powerful sense of connection with my new automotive artisan. From now on I’ll take no cheap advice. I’m going with the man paid to know.

 

As I’m sure you’ve surmised, this can’t be the end of the tale. On day four my blind faith in my new WRENCHMAN begins to wane. My newly tuned up vehicle begins to DIESEL. Maybe some of you think like I did, that DIESEL is a noun defining a a form of fuel. Diesel also functions as a verb, describing a behavior whereby the engine keeps running after the ignition is turned off. I call my new pro and he says?

“Sounds like you got a bad tank of gas.”

“But I got the gas from you!”

“Well, then, it must be something else. Bring it in and I’ll take a look at it.”

 

Weakly I do as he asks. I take the baby to the babysitter a second time. It is no easier.

 

Late in the day I call.

 

“Found your problem. Your idle was too high and so I retarded the distributor a hair.”

 

Getting into the lingo I venture, “did you check the timing chain?”

 

“Yep! I could set my clock by it.”

 

I pick the car up with absolutely no confidence it’s repair will last more than a day. I wonder if “Murphy” needs some graphic examples to support his law? At this point I am hoping to get home and get a good night’s sleep.

 

I just can’t get a break. Just as I walk through the door I get called to an emergency meeting a medium range missle distance from home. Even though I am shaking with fear the entire drive, I reach my destination without an incident.

So at the meeting I toss in my two cents and head back to little “tweet tweet.”

 

I gingerly slip the key into the ignition and fire it up. FIRE is a pretty accurate description of the moment. Huge billows of black smoke meander out of my exhaust pipe. The engine stalls several times amid the pall of smoke. Finally it settles down. Hoping to avoid inevitable comments and queries, I high tail it out of there.

 

I travel several blocks and it happens again. But now as the smoke despoils the air, guess what? The POPPING is back. Only much louder now. I pull to the side of the road to reflect on my dilemma. For some reason adrenalin and my right brain are screaming at me, “ get out there and fix it yourself.”

 

I leave the engine running, and open the hood. I am not ready for what I see. Small flames are jumping out of the carburetor. I rush to the ignition and shut the engine off. Continuing to imagine I’m in control, I pull a wrench out of MY toolbox and advance the distributor just a hair. Whoa! It works! I, yes I, fixed it. I’m feeling so good I decide to take a longer route home. I’ll drive through the country club area and prance, that’s what I’ll do.

 

So, did he fix it? Does he drive off into the moonlight, and everybody is happy ever after. I can only say there appears to be some drama left on the stage. Get your tickets at the box office and be here tomorrow.

 

 

 

Tweet-Tweet

CAPTION: Why don't we run our cars on sauerkraut. Think about it.

 

You'll need to read on to absorb the meaning of today's title. And, hey, if you've come this far? I think I can promise it will be worthy of your interest.

It is amazing to me retelling these stories how much daily life has changed in twenty years. As late as the mid 80's, you weren't much of a man if you didn't at least change your own oil, or rotate you own tires, or put in a new fuel pump if it was time.

Do some of those things today? 

"Im sorry sir you've voided your warranty."

So, travel back in time with me again for part two of:

             The Carburetor Did It

 

Prior to the latest queries from my panel of WRENCHMEN, I’ve changed the oil, moved up to an advertised brand of gas, and the gas station attendant tells me my plugs are fine.

 

(Boy! I didn’t see that coming’ before I typed it. For me to describe to ye of fewer moons the personage referred to as a gas station attendant? I think it would be very time consuming, and I don’t believe, sadly, I can come up with a similar wide spread existing role to give you a comparable. So save me from having to add a footnote to this tome. Just ask someone over the age, oh, I’d say, to be safe, of 55? And to those of you who at one time or another thought Oregon was on another planet? Here’s some support for that theory. They still have gas station attendants. And it’s the law.)

 

Well, at least I’ve narrowed down the possible sources of my problem. And at this point I’m sticking to the WRENCHMEN’S big hit, “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT.” The problem is still intermittent and the car is still getting me to and fro.

 

BUT! A few days later the cancer spreads to the battery. On random days I walk to the car, toss my briefcase into the passenger seat, slide in behind the wheel, jam the key into the ignition slot, turn it only to hear? CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICKETY CLICK. Now I’m covered on this issue short term. I’ve got one of those little battery chargers where you string an extension chord across the living room, out the window, back into your garage and hope you still have enough length to reach the battery terminals.  With an hour delay on given days I am back on the road.

 

Well puzzlement finally makes me a man of action and I call in the BATTERY unit of my WRENCHMEN.

 

“You’ve got a short in the system somewhere.”

“The battery is sulphating on you.”

“You’re putting too much strain on the battery with all that stopping and starting.”

“Sounds like your alternator is going bad.”

“Have you checked your belts?”

“When’s the last time you cleaned the terminals?”

“It’s those damned original batteries.”

“Have you checked the water level.” (Something else you’ll have to ask an age superior about.)

“It has to be in the ignition system!”

 

As I’m getting accustomed, I get no specific remedial advice. But of my own initiative I run out to buy a new battery. Well a funny thing happens to me on my way to the battery store. Half my horn system decides to take a break. I know that because? Well this idiot pulls in front of me with a milli-second notice, inspiring me to shout out a few of my favorite “emotional expressions” AND LAY ON THE HORN. What comes out is this little “tweet-tweet” like your hear on a scooter.

 

It had to have been quite heart pulsating to the miscreant in front of me. In fact, he quickly pulls to the shoulder and slams on his breaks. As I pass him I see him slumped over the wheel taking in deep breaths.

 

Okay, I arrive at the battery store, and this young man who’d just graduated from gas station attendant school, jams these two big ice picks into the battery’s mass. (Walter Mitty or Don Quixote would have seen a matador, daggers over head, ready for the moment of truth.) The moment of truth as he pulls out the daggers?

 

“Nothing wrong with this battery.”

 

I get a full charge on the battery and leave with a certain air of pride. I’ve sort of fixed the problem myself. A faulty horn has been drinking the battery's juice. The HORN did it. I don’t even care that I drive a street legal tank that goes, “tweet-tweet.”

 

 Still I’ve yet to resolve the stalling problem. While it remains occasional it begins to happen during some rather life threatening situations. Well, like stalling out whilst racing a semi to a merge lane. Still I’m hesitant to call in the WRENCHMEN because nothing new has happened. Then one stormy wintry day, comes a new automotive behavior. The car starts making this POPPING. "POP! POP! POP!  Let me see if I can tastefully describe it. You know when you eat of bowl of sauerkraut? And then about an hour later…? Well just magnify that a hundred times. Time again for a meeting of the experts.

 

“I just knew it was the choke.”

“Boy, that timing really is off, isn’t it?”

“The son of a bitch is flooding on you!”

“Somebody has the wires crossed on the firing sequence.”

“I think you’ve jumped the timing chain.”

“I still think it’s those new fangled electronic ignition systems.”

“Your plugs have got to be bad!”

“It might be in the distributor.”

 

“Why don’t you get rid of that damn thing.”

 

NOW THIS is the only explicit action advice following months of turmoil. But who will buy it? And? Well buoyed by my fixing of the battery I vow I will fix it all myself. Well not exactly by myself. I’ll call in my father in law who I trust explicity in this arena. We decide on a course of action. We tie down the choke, clean the air filter, and as he explains it, advance the distributor a quarter of an inch.

 

WOW! WOW! WOW!  It’s running like its brand new. I am bouncing up and down in my seat. And the fixes are so simple. I want to drive everywhere. I don’t think I even hear my father-in-law say, “I doubt we’ve solved all the problems.” It is running, it’s not popping or stalling. And I kind of like the “tweet-tweet.”

 

Crisis averted? What do you think? Will "tweet-tweet" and "pop-pop" be back? If I were you, I'd be back tommorrow to find out. It's what EVERYONE is going to be talking about.

What's a Carburetor?

Caption: "Some 'yo yo' has stalled out in the intersection down there backing traffic up for five miles in every direction.!" 

 

I've wrestled with whether I should share this next story. Reason? Well it involves car trouble and the rough road to recovery.

By subject it really is dated. Somehow the auto industry has matured significantly since then. But the frustration of living in the middle lane rolls on. I'm thinking this will kind of be like telling your grandkids "how you walked five miles to school with two feet of snow on the ground."

There is an important editor's note for you before launch. This writer has an open propensity to let his imagination take it's course. This Story? No matter how incredulous?  It's all true.

This one is going to have a few chapters...I hope you enjoy..........

               The Carburetor Did It……………….

        By Paul Reinertson Circa 1984

 

Have you ever been to that point where sheer frustration and anger send you down a path that, in the end, leaves you in a total state of giddiness? Well that’s the mood I’m in now as I sit here ready to tell you this story.

 

Like most people who drive in the middle lane, I know THIS about my automobile. I know where the gas goes, how to open the hood, how to open the trunk, how to start the engine, how to turn my lights on, operate the turn signals, adjust the heat or ac, and tune the radio.

 

Once in motion, I follow the flow of traffic in the middle lane, know how to get off at my exit, and make the return trip home. My dependence on my car is such, that I expect it to function the same every day. Even the slightest change in its behavior is nerve wracking. I do not want to understand or remedy any malady it develops. There are people who make livings doing that sort of thing, at least that’s WHAT I THINK.

Several months ago this little four wheeled pal of mine begins to show a disconcerting behavior. It decides on a whim to just stop and take a break right in the middle of any given busy intersection. Were I to personify my friend I might conjecture he just needs to take a break once in a while. [Come on all ships get to be SHEs. I think cars can be HEs.]

 

Now were I not in traffic?  I can live with that. At least it always fires right back up, and horn honking behind me is at a manageable level.

 

I am a little concerned, but it’s still getting me around.

 

I, of course, do share my dilemma with acquaintances who always seem to have wrenches hanging out of their back pockets.

 

“Sounds like the choke to me.”

“Timing must be a little off.”

“I’ll bet you’ve got some crud in the distributor cap.”

“Have you checked your plugs lately?”

“When is the last time you changed your oil?”

“It’s the damn ignition systems on these new cars.”

“It’s got to be in the electrical system.”

 

With such a wide array of analyses, you would think a long list of possible remedial actions would follow. No!

 

My Wrenchmen all seem to take the cue from the same choir director.

Okay chorus, now, all of you, in unison!

 

“Doesn’t sound that serious to me. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

 

And so I vow I won’t.

 

But? As days go by new symptoms of the malady arise. Now my pal, the car, sputters to a halt following each left turn. And, it tends to take place just as I enter the traffic flow. Well I soon develop a brand new set of skills.

I now know where the emergency light lever resides. And I know how to pull it in a nanosecond.

 

Yes, the horn honking steps up a level. But, still, it starts right back up and I’m on my way?  And I’m kind of enjoying this “don’t worry about it” advice. And my car IS a little bigger than the rest of them. He would do well in a fight.

 

Did I mislead you? I think I did. See my car is actually a VAN (pre-SUV). It’s one of those vehicles where your passengers can sit back, watch TV, drink mint juleps and pretend the rest of the world is non-existent.

 

So…I’m not worried. But what the heck. I'll still share the latest development with my WRENCHMEN.

 

“Must be a short in the left hand turn signal.”

“No it’s got to be the timing chain.”

“Sounds to me like the vacuum system.”

“I’ll bet it’s your pcv valve.”

“Those plugs have to be bad.”

“You still using that cheap gas?”

 

You might have already guessed this story is going to take some time to tell well. So let's all take a break for the day.

 

Unless you want to wait? There’s coffee and two day old donuts there in the lobby. Just stay out of the work area. Wouldn't want you to get hurt and sue me.