I've become used to the truck. Surprisingly, it has become "my" car. As is often the case, this change was financially driven. The Nissan gets worse gas mileage than the Honda. I'm only driving to and from work, while D is driving all over hell and gone, shopping, meeting his bosses, setting up appointments, meeting with clients. It made sense that I would take the gas guzzler, and, to D's surprise, I let that fact override my discomfort with the truck.
Although I volunteered for the switch, I wasn't expecting an easy transition. The truck is a total rattletrap, emphasis on rattle. I've learned to isolate discrete rattles, squeaks, and bangs: the sounds depend on what's in the bed of the truck, to some extent, but also indicate a loose canopy, a canopy door that neither latches nor locks, a shot suspension....you get the picture. Safety is also an issue. It's missing both bumpers, and hence has no airbag. While we replaced the balding rear tires, in a nod to the rear wheel drive, we still needed to change out the front tires. I suspect the brakes could use a once-over, and we need to remove the anti-freeze from the washer fluid well (chalk that one up to hasty prep for the move and D's confusion with the engine components.)
All that being said, however, it does get me to work, and it gives my arms a nice workout when I pull the manual steering into a U-turn. The latter happens less often, as I learn my way about the city, but I still have to maneuver into parking spaces, so my upper body has a nice taut future. I hope.
I've become used to it being a gutless wonder, and have learned to punch the gas when it falters upon takeoff. I've learned to ignore the sound of sliding boxes filled with bottles (the apartment complex does not recycle glass), and I have programmed the radio stations. I am comfortable with the truck.
So...last Saturday I was driving between branches, thinking about statistics and RFID tags and getting back to LT for lunch before I started covering desks. In other words, my mind was not on the drive. Dimly, I noticed a lurch, a slight deceleration, a sort of stutter in the engine performance, and I punched the accelerator. I turned onto San Pedro and noticed the stutter again. I thought, I hate that this truck has no acceleration, and continued on to Candelaria, at which point awareness trickled in and I glanced at the gas gauge.
Empty. Below empty, in fact.
Now, with previous cars I had a sense of how far I could drive before empty really meant empty. I had never reached that really empty state, so I didn't know the signs, but I suspected that I was observing them now.
Even though ABQ seems to be one long strip mall feeding into another into another, I happened to be on a main thoroughfare that was lined with homes, not businesses. Most pertinently, not gas stations. In growing panic, I urged the truck forward. I could see the stoplights of Wyoming in the distance....just a few more blocks, little truck, you can do it, please, I know you can.
The Nissan slowed, I put on the flashers, and in a moment of clarity, realized I needed to get off the main road.
Did you know that, when there is no gas, the steering locks up? Fortunately, I was already into the turn, and I coasted to a stop, just short of someone's driveway.
Of course, this was the day that D had borrowed my phone while I was getting ready for work, and I had decided to not interrupt his call to get it back. And of course, I was wearing shoes that were definitely not made for walking, along with a nice dress. And, of course, there are no pedestrians in this city. I felt very conspicuous, but walked the three blocks to Wyoming, where, praise be, there was a gas station right there on the corner next to me. I entered the station, and the tall tattooed blonde behind the counter finished waiting on her customer and looked at me. Yes? I explained my predicament, asking for a gas can. She said, we don't have one. I looked at her in disbelief and then asked if I could use a phone to call Triple A. She said, we're not supposed to, you'd have to promise on a stack of Bibles that whoever you call doesn't call us back. Really, it happens all the time, that's why we aren't supposed to loan out the phone. I said, I really just wanted to borrow a gas can. Her partner, a doofy-looking 20-something white male in a baseball cap, said, oh we have one of those.
Really?
It was red plastic, with a white plastic scrunchy hose and a black plastic locking mechanism. The doofus showed me how the locking mechanism worked, explaining I didn't want the gas to splash and leak out while I was driving. I looked at him. He said, oh, yeah, that's right, you aren't driving.
Right.
Although the gas can was probably worth $5, if that, they insisted I leave something for collateral, which was when I discovered I didn't have my ID, either. I left them a credit card, put 3 gallons of gas on it (and into the can), and walked back to the truck.
The locking mechanism leaked. I was dripping gas onto the ground. Magically, on this empty street, a car appeared. They had been driving past on Candelaria, seen a nice lady in a dress fussing with a gas can, and had pulled in to see if I needed help. By then I had figured out how to tighten the hose attachment, so I stood and watched the nice young man as he poured the gas into the tank without incident. But it was nice of them to stop.
I tossed the gas can into the back and drove to the station, pulling up at the only empty pump. I went into the station to retrieve my card and buy more gas, and the blonde said, forget something? Smart ass. I bought a Skor to tide me over and put $30 of gas in the truck.
All that being said, however, it does get me to work, and it gives my arms a nice workout when I pull the manual steering into a U-turn. The latter happens less often, as I learn my way about the city, but I still have to maneuver into parking spaces, so my upper body has a nice taut future. I hope.
I've become used to it being a gutless wonder, and have learned to punch the gas when it falters upon takeoff. I've learned to ignore the sound of sliding boxes filled with bottles (the apartment complex does not recycle glass), and I have programmed the radio stations. I am comfortable with the truck.
So...last Saturday I was driving between branches, thinking about statistics and RFID tags and getting back to LT for lunch before I started covering desks. In other words, my mind was not on the drive. Dimly, I noticed a lurch, a slight deceleration, a sort of stutter in the engine performance, and I punched the accelerator. I turned onto San Pedro and noticed the stutter again. I thought, I hate that this truck has no acceleration, and continued on to Candelaria, at which point awareness trickled in and I glanced at the gas gauge.
Empty. Below empty, in fact.
Now, with previous cars I had a sense of how far I could drive before empty really meant empty. I had never reached that really empty state, so I didn't know the signs, but I suspected that I was observing them now.
Even though ABQ seems to be one long strip mall feeding into another into another, I happened to be on a main thoroughfare that was lined with homes, not businesses. Most pertinently, not gas stations. In growing panic, I urged the truck forward. I could see the stoplights of Wyoming in the distance....just a few more blocks, little truck, you can do it, please, I know you can.
The Nissan slowed, I put on the flashers, and in a moment of clarity, realized I needed to get off the main road.
Did you know that, when there is no gas, the steering locks up? Fortunately, I was already into the turn, and I coasted to a stop, just short of someone's driveway.
Of course, this was the day that D had borrowed my phone while I was getting ready for work, and I had decided to not interrupt his call to get it back. And of course, I was wearing shoes that were definitely not made for walking, along with a nice dress. And, of course, there are no pedestrians in this city. I felt very conspicuous, but walked the three blocks to Wyoming, where, praise be, there was a gas station right there on the corner next to me. I entered the station, and the tall tattooed blonde behind the counter finished waiting on her customer and looked at me. Yes? I explained my predicament, asking for a gas can. She said, we don't have one. I looked at her in disbelief and then asked if I could use a phone to call Triple A. She said, we're not supposed to, you'd have to promise on a stack of Bibles that whoever you call doesn't call us back. Really, it happens all the time, that's why we aren't supposed to loan out the phone. I said, I really just wanted to borrow a gas can. Her partner, a doofy-looking 20-something white male in a baseball cap, said, oh we have one of those.
Really?
It was red plastic, with a white plastic scrunchy hose and a black plastic locking mechanism. The doofus showed me how the locking mechanism worked, explaining I didn't want the gas to splash and leak out while I was driving. I looked at him. He said, oh, yeah, that's right, you aren't driving.
Right.
Although the gas can was probably worth $5, if that, they insisted I leave something for collateral, which was when I discovered I didn't have my ID, either. I left them a credit card, put 3 gallons of gas on it (and into the can), and walked back to the truck.
The locking mechanism leaked. I was dripping gas onto the ground. Magically, on this empty street, a car appeared. They had been driving past on Candelaria, seen a nice lady in a dress fussing with a gas can, and had pulled in to see if I needed help. By then I had figured out how to tighten the hose attachment, so I stood and watched the nice young man as he poured the gas into the tank without incident. But it was nice of them to stop.
I tossed the gas can into the back and drove to the station, pulling up at the only empty pump. I went into the station to retrieve my card and buy more gas, and the blonde said, forget something? Smart ass. I bought a Skor to tide me over and put $30 of gas in the truck.
And now I know
a. How far I can push the Nissan
b. How to put gas in the car, using a gas can
c. How to get by without a cell phone or ID
Three valuable lessons, well worth the 20 minutes out of my lunch hour.
a. How far I can push the Nissan
b. How to put gas in the car, using a gas can
c. How to get by without a cell phone or ID
Three valuable lessons, well worth the 20 minutes out of my lunch hour.
Muy bueno, mas comico pero tan pedante!
ReplyDeletesi, eso me
Delete