If
there is reincarnation, I want to come back as a motor mechanic.
That’s
because my current life has been a series of misadventures with machines that
burn fossil fuels.
The
latest involve a faithful old truck that will not move until it has been warmed
up for 40 minutes, an ATV that shut down because of overheating and a
snowblower that never overheats, in fact refuses to start unless its spark plug
is warmed with a hair dryer.
I
have a woeful history of trying to fix things on my own. It’s not that I am uninterested
in motorized things or unwilling to tinker when they break down. But my brain’s
tinkering cells go into overdrive and become confused whenever I attempt to fix
something.
I
tried fixing a cranky snowmobile one time. I seemed to have done everything
right until I pressed the starter button and the engine exploded into flames.
Not
long after that I forgot to shut the lights on my little sports car and the
battery ran down. It was parked on a downward slope and had a standard
transmission so the fix was obvious. I would get it rolling downhill, jump in
and pop the clutch to get the engine turning.
The
slope was slightly steeper than I calculated. The car began rolling and when I
tried to jump in, the open door bumped me into the ditch. The car rolled
progressively faster toward a sharp bend overlooking the lake.
The
car never reached the water, having been grabbed and stopped by a large poplar
tree. The auto body shop bill was quite a bit larger than the cost of a battery
charger, as I recall.
Then
there was the time that a friend gave me an old but perfectly usable
snowmobile. It started and ran great just before we loaded it onto the truck. I
was going to drop it off at my cottage.
It
was mid-February and I was not wearing winter gear, but that was not a problem.
I would quickly pull the machine off the truck and drive it the short distance
into the cottage where I had winter clothes.
The
machine pulled off the truck easily, but would not start. I fiddled with the
choke, checked the carb and a variety of other things as hypothermia began to
set in. As I shivered and cursed, another snowmobile approached.
Its
rider, dressed in black, got off his machine, approached, reached out and
turned off the kill switch, then turned the key and my machine roared to life.
The
stranger turned and left without a word.
My
latest misadventure involved my ATV. I was plowing with it last week when a
flashing thermometer symbol appeared on the console. I checked the ATV manual
to see what that was about.
The
manual said a flashing thermometer means the ATV is overheating and should be
shut down immediately.
I
went to work trying to find the problem. The radiator was hidden under the
plastic hood, which had an entry panel. I got to it, but not before breaking
the entry panel locking pins.
The
coolant was at its proper level so I put the entry panel in place and secured it
with my favourite tool – duct tape. I checked out other parts of the machine,
found nothing, but determined the ATV the cooling fan was not working.
Broken
cooling fans are a bit beyond my mechanical skills so I called the ATV dealer
and made an appointment.
I
spent an hour shovelling out the ATV trailer, then loaded the machine, strapped
it down and hauled it down the highway to the dealership.
The
mechanic asked a couple of questions before logging the machine into the repair
line.
“So
you say the coolant is fine and you checked the fuse, right?”
Fuse?
ATV’s have fuses?
He
gave me a strange look, pulled the seat off the ATV then opened a little black box
that I always had wondered about but never opened. There were rows of little
coloured fuses.
He
pulled one fuse out and said: “Yep, blown fuse.”
Later
that day I was back plowing, my face cherry red, and not from the cold.
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