The tech age has rendered many of us would-be mechanics helpless. For that reason, my ego got a boost when I was able — in the period of six months — to diagnose the same automotive problem — twice.
Currently, my diagnostic skills and automotive knowledge consist of the ability to say, “That’s the tire that’s flat” and “The mechanic assured me all it needed was a quart of turn-signal fluid.”
But let’s get back to the diagnoses:
Around Christmas time, I got a call from my son Diego, who was stranded on I-25, near San Jose. When I arrived, he told me, “It’s almost like something’s preventing the gas from getting to the engine.”
Immediately I recalled having read about a cut-off switch that newer cars have that stems the flow of gas after an accident or even a jolt.
The manual points to a reset switch in the trunk, which I pushed, allowing daughter-in-law Connie to start the engine immediately.
That was in December.
Last week, Diego planned to take his three children to Disneyland. His wife, at a convention in the other Las Vegas, was to meet them in Los Angeles. I decided that that since my own car is several years newer, I’d lend it to him. Better yet, I’d help them drive the safer car, and I’d catch a flight back two days later.
The car broke down in Arizona, but before I describe the ordeal, let me list six simple elements of Murphy’s Law that kick in when one has car trouble in Arizona:
1) New Mexico cars are programmed to break down in the area geographically farthest from any city.
2) Arizona temperatures rise 22 degrees after a breakdown.
3) The previously soft breeze instantly becomes a gale.
4) The 75-mph speed limit makes it difficult, if not foolhardy, for others to stop to help. At those speeds, by the time they decide to slow down they’ve left Coconino County.
5) The verdant vegetation along the road becomes prickly, and more so when you’re wearing sandals.
6) Cell phone reception is spotty.
7) Grandchildren always recite, in unison, “We’re hungry.”
The engine died shortly after I took the wheel. Diego pushed back and reclined the seat, and instantly, the engine cut off, allowing just enough time to pull to the shoulder.
A breakdown isn’t too reassuring to grandchildren who range from 3 to 10 years. Immediately the younger ones got panicky.
I called AAA by punching in a host of buttons (“If this is a road emergency, press 1; if you would like to become a member, press 2; if you would like biggie fries with that, press 7, if you’re a Democrat, press 666”) before speaking to a human, who assured me the AAA truck would arrive in an hour. Our spirits raised, we sat on the trunk and played games in which we all would guess which vehicle on the eastern horizon would be our rescue vehicle, a AAA truck.
Toward Holbrook, we saw a procession of black limos snaking its way toward us and hoped it might be our own Gov. Richardson, on his was to a Democratic Governors Association meeting or something in Vegas, maybe a bevy of Norteños eager to help a native.
No such luck. The procession drove past us, but even before that, we realized it was not the Richardson entourage because 1) there weren’t enough vehicles, 2) they were going the speed limit and 3) there was no airplane leading the way.
Because our engine whirred without starting, Diego and I surmised the problem was similar to what we encountered in December.
The manual shows a reset switch near the glove compartment, which we located and dutifully pressed, but still no luck.
Meanwhile, AAA help still had not arrived. When it involves a tow, AAA policy, spells out that the wrecker take the vehicle to the nearest town, not necessarily the next town. We hoped that when help did arrive, the problem would turn out to be simple, as we were not desirous of spending a night in a motel far from our destination.
I kept poking at the reset switch. Then I remembered Diego having said that a wire beneath the carpet that links the sensor to the engine was properly connected.
Ah, but it wasn’t, Second-Born Son. Just like an extension cord that only seems to be connected, these wires didn’t make contact at all. I joined them, and with the confidence of a real diagnostician, someone like my own mechanic, neighbor Charlie Romero, I said to Diego, “Start her up.” With the engine purring like a kitten and back on the road, we felt guilty about having called, but not waited for, a tow truck.
“Should we stop, await the tow truck, act stupid (which we’re good at) and suddenly ‘discover’ the disconnected wire, but somehow make it seem as if the AAA rep himself identified the problem?”
We deduced that as Diego dug his heels into the carpet to move his seat back, the cord under the carpet came loose. Not a particularly good design. After a zillion buttons to press on the cell phone, we reached an operator who didn’t even chide us about having summoned a wrecker that we didn’t need. I apologized, but the operator explained that maybe half of their calls end up that way.
We’re glad she didn’t insist we remain there and wait for the wrecker. Two hours of troubleshooting was investment enough.
“Now that we’re here, why don’t you spend an extra day and come with us to Disneyland?” my grandson and namesake asked the next day.
“Thanks, Arthur, but no Disneyland attraction can match the excitement this master automotive diagnostician experienced yesterday.”