Reality is so much messier than dreams.
The first job was to check the battery to see why the car had died at the gas pumps. Turns out the connection on the positive terminal hadn't been tightened enough, and it had come loose. That was an easy fix. Now that I could start the car, the question was would I dare to?
Hoping the car would have somehow healed itself overnight, I got in and turned the ignition key. Chaos ensued. The motor sounded as if it was suffering underneath its own private hail storm. I quickly shut off the engine, and then drove Daphne's car to the auto parts store. I don't think I had ever appreciated how smoothly and quietly her car drove before this morning. After scanning all the available products, I decided to go with an oil additive that "eliminates engine-knock". "Knock" seemed too polite of a description for the racket coming from the car, though.
I used the manual to find out where I should pour the additive.
Not knowing exactly how much I should pour in, I dumped in half the bottle, shrugged, and poured in some more.
Low and behold, after about five seconds of clamor, the little engine quieted right down. Success! I felt pretty good about that, especially after having called my dad the night before to explain the noise, and then having him yell at me that I had ruined the car. I quickly called him to brag.
I used the manual to find out where I should pour the additive.
Not knowing exactly how much I should pour in, I dumped in half the bottle, shrugged, and poured in some more.
Low and behold, after about five seconds of clamor, the little engine quieted right down. Success! I felt pretty good about that, especially after having called my dad the night before to explain the noise, and then having him yell at me that I had ruined the car. I quickly called him to brag.
Since the car was now running at a volume that wouldn't wake up the neighbors, I took a drive around the block. Releasing the clutch into first gear shook the car so hard the driver's side door threatened to open, and the front wheel was still "crunchy" and spraying grease. These are problems oil additives cannot solve. So, I took it to the closest repair shop.
Back in Rock Valley we always took our cars to Vern. He had worked at the Co Op repairing cars, and then later he opened a business of his own. He did good, honest work. And he never charged more than his estimate. I guess we were spoiled.
This particular shop quoted me $400 to repair the wheel. The next day, over the phone, I was fast-talked into spending $200 on more other repairs that had to be made. I then didn't hear from the business for EIGHT days. When I finally contacted them, I was treated as if I had abandoned my child, and asked why hadn't I removed my old car from taking up valuable space on their busy lot?
I jetted over there to get my car, only to find out my bill had inflated to $1200. Astounded, I immediately asked to see the shop manager. He called in the mechanic who had performed the work, and that guy jimmer-jammered as fast as he could about all the needed repairs that I had supposedly approved. All the while the manager nodded his head as if he was really keeping up with this stammered stream of consciousness. At this point I knew I was being screwed, and there wasn't anything I could do about it... I wasn't inKansas Vern's anymore.
In the end I paid over $900. I walked out shaking my head, and I vowed I would never take this car a repair shop again. As I drove home the transmission shook the car harder than I could ever shake my head.
Fine. I would tackle this problem myself. I purchased the book "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive: A Manual of Step-by-Step Procedures for the Complete Idiot", and figured that was the text for me. I found the chapter on clutch problems, and read this:
My heart sank. "Remove the engine" was just one step in fixing this problem? How was I supposed to do that? Crap. Before I even started working on the car I was already out of my element again. What was I going to do? I had put myself in danger by just driving this car home. I had to do some work on it.
And I did. Just like in 1990, I rolled up my sleeves and cleaned my car again. It took three days, and the Bug looked years newer, but I still couldn't drive it anywhere. I nursed the car into the garage, and that's where it sat for the next five years.
I was such a weenie.
Back in Rock Valley we always took our cars to Vern. He had worked at the Co Op repairing cars, and then later he opened a business of his own. He did good, honest work. And he never charged more than his estimate. I guess we were spoiled.
This particular shop quoted me $400 to repair the wheel. The next day, over the phone, I was fast-talked into spending $200 on more other repairs that had to be made. I then didn't hear from the business for EIGHT days. When I finally contacted them, I was treated as if I had abandoned my child, and asked why hadn't I removed my old car from taking up valuable space on their busy lot?
I jetted over there to get my car, only to find out my bill had inflated to $1200. Astounded, I immediately asked to see the shop manager. He called in the mechanic who had performed the work, and that guy jimmer-jammered as fast as he could about all the needed repairs that I had supposedly approved. All the while the manager nodded his head as if he was really keeping up with this stammered stream of consciousness. At this point I knew I was being screwed, and there wasn't anything I could do about it... I wasn't in
In the end I paid over $900. I walked out shaking my head, and I vowed I would never take this car a repair shop again. As I drove home the transmission shook the car harder than I could ever shake my head.
Fine. I would tackle this problem myself. I purchased the book "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive: A Manual of Step-by-Step Procedures for the Complete Idiot", and figured that was the text for me. I found the chapter on clutch problems, and read this:
My heart sank. "Remove the engine" was just one step in fixing this problem? How was I supposed to do that? Crap. Before I even started working on the car I was already out of my element again. What was I going to do? I had put myself in danger by just driving this car home. I had to do some work on it.
And I did. Just like in 1990, I rolled up my sleeves and cleaned my car again. It took three days, and the Bug looked years newer, but I still couldn't drive it anywhere. I nursed the car into the garage, and that's where it sat for the next five years.
I was such a weenie.
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