We interrupt this feed of wonderful cars to give you news that the latest installment of sludgo’s Mile Markers will be postponed until next week. That’s the bad news. The good news is that we will have a new edition of sludgo’s Riding Shotgun interview series ready to publish early next week. Please subscribe to the Mile Markers page to make sure you don’t miss out on either!
It was almost three in the morning and even though I was exhausted from being up late studying for midterms, I was wide awake. Climbed into bed anyway and as I did heard my new downstairs neighbor just getting home. A burly bearded bear of a dude, I hadn’t met him personally yet but knew from scuttlebutt around the apartment he worked swing-shifts for the railroad and drove that clanky never-been-washed Plymouth Duster parked in the end garage. I also knew he liked Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Loved it even. Not the album. Just the song. Was easy to figure out because in the week since he’d moved in every morning when he got home from work he’d play it on his stereo. Loudly. So loudly that the pictures on my walls would buzz and rattle. And that morning was no different. There was some muffled thumping and banging around downstairs then a brief pause before I heard the ‘pop’ of a needle dropping into a groove and the all-too-familiar opening chords of the Boss’s masterpiece began thundering up through my floor. Groan.
We first connected in the middle of a busy season for me, but @BodyByFisher was patient and kind as delay after delay hit on my end. When we finally did chat more at length about interviewing him as the next subject of the Riding Shotgun project, he kept expressing that, while he was honored by the ask, he couldn’t figure out why he’d been chosen since there was nothing particularly special about him. But as is often the case, a book can never be judged by its cover, and when it came to riding shotgun with this modest and self-effacing gentleman, the honor would be all mine.
Last Monday morning was bright and warm and sunny as I pulled the ‘B into my newfound favorite parking spot at MorningLight, the ‘senior living center’ where Big Sis and I transitioned the Beehive two months ago. It’s a big facility and parking is at a premium so I was glad to discover the curbside slot, right around the corner of the reception hall and dining room where all the ground-floor residents have patios and yard spaces that extend down to the street. Honestly I’m not sure it’s an official spot, but no one has said anything about it to me, so I’m going to keep parking there until they do. Besides, it’s right in front of Artie’s place and I knew he didn’t mind. After all, he was my newest and bestest car-buddy.
It was an ordinary day, just like any other. I got up at six and let the dogs out to take care of their business. Brought them back in then took care of mine. Shaved and showered and got into my jeans and a fresh t-shirt and my blue hoodie and Tom’s. Watched the sunrise while I sipped a steaming cup of black coffee and took inventory. Felt pretty good about things and around eight o’clock thought I’d give myself a treat and go to that new breakfast place that just opened down the street for a big plate of runny eggs and crispy bacon and near-burnt hash browns and whole-wheat toast slathered in melty butter then smeared with a thick swipe of homemade blackberry jam. Yum. Trotted out to the garage and climbed into the Audi. Fired it up and putted the couple-few blocks over to the joint then turned into its freshly paved and painted parking lot and that’s when it happened. One of the most dreaded experiences a car owner can have. My ‘check engine’ light came on.
This is Part 2 of two-part series. Click this link to read Part 1.
The Über had just dropped me off at the McBungalow when my phone rang. Saw that it was Klaus so I picked up. Let myself into the house while he grimly gave me the bad news. As suspected, the code the TT had thrown translated to something serious. Evidently Bank 1 had reported itself rich at idle and upon inspection Klaus had discovered the strong odor of fuel in the crankcase, a sure sign of a failing mechanical fuel pump. So I’d need a new one installed toot-sweet and unfortunately that job wouldn’t be cheap. Said he couldn’t get to it right away so I had a couple days to think about what I wanted to see happen, then he cleared his throat. Coldly reminded me we were talking about a fourteen-year-old Audi with over one-hundred thirty thousand ticks on the clock that wasn’t worth throwing a lot of money at anymore. Told me that, with respect, if it were him he’d sell it as is and find a newer replacement. Something with lower miles. Something maybe still under warranty. Okey-doke, Klaus. I’ll think about it. Click.
I was running behind. Way behind. Again. Always, or so it seemed back then. Had jammed as much as I could into my day thinking foolishly the meetings and sessions I’d scheduled would all go as planned, like clockwork. But of course they hadn’t because they never did. This person or that person would need a few extra moments of my time or my lecture would run long because there were lots of questions or the computer was glitching or the overhead projector wasn’t working. And on that particular day I was hauling tail though town in the A6 trying not to be too late for my meet and greet with the new District Judge at the courthouse when I tried to beat a yellow at an intersection and some old coot in a big green Sedan DeVille made a left right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and the ABS did its job, stopping me only inches short of the Cadillac. I leaned on the horn, my rage-filled eyes hidden behind my Ray-Bans, and saw the balding, snowy-bearded Caddy Captain looking back at me and shrugging his shoulders and that’s when it happened. I gave him the finger.
A dignified gentleman with a genial smile, twinkling eyes, and a snowy-white thatch of hair, @trusted_one began our ride by pointing out that he was wearing his car show shirt, expressing how funny it was to discover when he pulled it out of the closet after all these years that it had shrunk so much! I laughed at the joke as he humbly confided he was suffering from “imposter syndrome,” finding himself the subject of the latest Riding Shotgun series. Told me he couln’t hold a flame to most of the guys on the site. But I wasn’t concerned that I had an imposter on my hands. Not one bit. Knew right off the bat I had the Real Deal.
I hate flying. Hate it. Such a hassle. Fighting traffic to the airport and finding parking. Then waiting in line to check in. Then waiting in another line where they make you empty your pockets and take off your jacket and shoes and belt and put everything into a tub for screening before you’re pointed into the Whizbang 9000 Deluxe Hijacker Detector to dutifully assume the position. Then there’s that one last line to wait in along with the rest of the herd when you finally board the plane. Moo. I’d probably enjoy the experience more if I flew first class but the cheapskate in me chokes at the expense, remembering the Oldsmobile Man’s observation that the nose of the plane gets wherever you’re going just as fast as the tail does so the ‘complimentary’ cocktails and snacks and marginally wider and deeper seats really weren’t worth the extra scratch. But exactly two weeks ago, as I inched through the expansive first class section of my plane then wedged my behind into my more-than-snug aisle seat back in coach I began questioning Pop’s sage advice. I shook off the thought, though. Didn’t matter. My ticket was bought and paid for and I already had enough on my mind as I buckled in and switched my phone to Airplane Mode. I was heading to Arizona again. Down to the house in Sunset Acres one more time. But this time would be different than all the rest. Very different.
This is Part Two of a three-part series. To read Part One, click this link. Part Three is linked at the end of this piece.
My flight to Phoenix got in on time. Wasn’t as bad as most. My seatmate was a chatty blonde eighteen-year-old with big blinky blue eyes who cheerily introduced herself when I first sat down. Saw me glance at her name tag and explained she was on her way to Lubbock, Texas, to attend missionary training school. I asked if she’d ever been to Lubbock before and she shook her head sweetly. I said I had and found it to be a pretty cool town. Told her it was Buddy Holly’s birthplace and she crinkled her nose and said she didn’t know who that was. I laughed then quickly sang a few choruses of his more famous tunes—“Peggy Sue,” “That’ll Be the Day,” “Oh Boy”—but only got a goofy grin out of her. No matter. I spent the next two hours listening to her talk about how wonderful her life had been thus far and how excited she was about all the terrific plans she had for her future. I smiled wistfully all the while, remembering what it was like when I had more days in front of me than behind me, back when I was giddily optimistic and ever-excited for tomorrow, constantly wishing it’d hurry up and get here. Then, just like that, it had.