I’m sort of freaky hyper about having at least a quarter-tank of gas in the car at all times. It comes from being stuck without enough gas to leave town after a big earthquake years ago. So I was utterly confused yesterday morning when I got into our car and the gas gauge was past empty and the gas light was on. How could I have not seen that the night before?? Yeah, I reluctantly admit my night vision is aging but this was scary.
I ran back into the house to ask Rob to stay by the phone, as I was late to a meeting with a whole day of errands afterwards…now with a gas station stop at the top of the list. Rob hoped to hear from me as I was pumping a tank-full of almost $4 per gallon gasoline. This was much preferred to the alternative stranded-by-the-side-of-a-shoulderless-country-road phone call. Instead, I called Rob from our mailbox. Turns out the problem wasn’t the lack of gas…it was the lack of instruments. Eerily, despite my 10mph trek down our driveway to our mailbox, the car’s instruments indicated absolutely no speed, no engine revolutions, no gasoline, no oil, and no engine heat. A quick u-turn, comparison of schedules, and exchange of car keys and I was zipping down our hill in our other car while Rob started running diagnostics. In other words, checking fuses and the owner’s manual and eventually making an appointment at the dealership’s service center about an hour away.
Much to the worrisome surprise of the service techs, it turns out our car had some weird electrical component blow-out thing…apparently something on a circuit board or some such was charred?? Naturally, a replacement for the now-blackened part was not in stock so they gave Rob a loaner car with an apology that it might be 2 days at the earliest that we might get our sedan back in working order. Rob broke the news to me on the phone. He also had a warning. “The loaner car is a dangerous little thing.” Huh? “You’ll find out.”
I got home later that evening just in time to change into Zumba gear before rushing out again. Rob and the loaner car were in the garage.
“You want to take the loaner.”
“No, that’s OK, I’ll take the SUV…I’ve already got the seat adjusted.”
“You want to take the loaner.”
And so I took the loaner. And by the time I was at the fire station down the hill, I had a Cheshire cat grin on my face, a rockin’ ‘80s song on the radio, the sun roof open, and a newfound understanding of my need-for-speed sister-in-law. The loaner was a rocket on wheels.
Now I’m typically a pretty conservative driver. I don’t take risks, I don’t go exceedingly fast, I don’t scare people. Anymore. But suddenly, this silver hovercraft was transporting me back to my college self, the one with a Ford Escort who viewed every 80-mile trip home as a challenge to see if I could set a personal best time; the one who flew up I-5 so fast one trip when Rob and I were dating long distance that he made me put my mom on the phone to prove I really had made the 8 hour trip in 6 hours. But unlike college, this wasn’t a Ford Escort. The speedometer didn’t peg at 85mph. There wasn’t a need to choose between turning and accelerating. And instead of CHP-peppered freeways, I had a delightful maze of unpatrolled country roads ahead of me.
I got to my Zumba class in record time.
In fact, I got to all of my appointments this morning way ahead of schedule. I’m not typically early and yet I had at least 10 minutes to spare everywhere I went. This car made me so efficient!
But then, sadly, so sadly…the un-charred part arrived ahead of schedule and our sedan was fixed lickety-split. Rob broke the news as I was agonizingly chugging my way through a 25mph zone popular with radar guns. As much as I was loving the zippiness of the loaner, though, its sportiness and road-hugginess were sort of killing my back. Plus I had been hogging it all morning. And so I breathed deeply, put my hands on 10 and 2, and jetted back to meet up with Rob. And waved a wistful farewell to my 20-something alter-ego as Rob pulled away to head to the dealer…disappearing in a blur down a country road.
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