sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 216 — Explained

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.

Idiot lights. That’s what the Oldsmobile Man called them. And he hated them. Always said they were nothing more than bean-counter substitutes for real-life gauges. When I was a kid I recall thinking they were kind of pretty when they’d flash across the instrument panel of the Delta every start-up. Some were blue and others green and yellow and a few were red, but I knew from Pop’s mumbles and grumbles that all of them had stunningly poor reputations for accuracy and were therefore essentially useless. Consequently, like father, like son, I grew to hate them too, far preferring actual instrumentation for my rides. Have always liked knowing precisely how my machine was running at any given moment. How many revs my engine was turning and its oil pressure and temp. How hot its coolant might be getting and how many amps and volts were sparking around underneath that hood. Simply because having that direct information could warn me in advance that trouble was on its way rather than me unexpectedly discovering it had already arrived.

To be honest, when the CEL came on in the TT I had trauma echoes from the time it happened to me in my old A6 2.7T. It was the end of Labor Day weekend and I was returning home from visiting the eldest in Bozeman. Had taken the back way, down through Norris and Ennis and was moving southward into Island Park. The two-lane was jammy-packed with sloth-like big rigs and looky-loo tourists in their bus-sized RVs yet I was making decent time rowing through the six-speed and putting that sweet biturbo V-6 to work until I came up behind a semi hauling two—yes, two—trailers, both overloaded with uncovered straw bales. All the traffic made passing it a dicey proposition but sooner than later I saw a short opening so I flicked on my blinker, double-clutch downshifted, and punched it. Quickly moved alongside the second trailer but then, without warning, lost power. A lot of power. Looked down at the dash to see the CEL light flashing bright, paired with another light alerting me that the engine’s strength had been cut, as though I hadn’t noticed. Had no choice but to fold back in behind the trailer. Heard the long horn blasts and saw the fingers flying in the rearview from all the drivers in back of me as I limped along at half-speed, flashers blinking, before mercifully arriving at a turnout. Check Engine, indeed.

That was a biggie. A major repair that cost me major bucks. Found out the bad news from Honest Klaus over at Honest Klaus’ Porsche/Audi who told me zat regrettably zee auxiliary conbistulator unit vas failing und if zat ever happened completely, ach du lieber, Herr sludgo. Zat he needed to get it fixed immediately but unfortunately zee part required vas on factory back order zo ve’d be looking at a couple of veeks. At least.

Achtung, Baby.

I parked the TT in the corner of the lot but kept it running. Dialed up Honest Klaus to let him know what was going on and see if he thought it was safe for me to keep driving it. He asked if it was still running okay. Yep. Asked if the light was steady or flashing. Steady. Asked if there were any funny smells or smoke. Nope. Paused a beat or two then advised I could probably drive it, but only sparingly, and that I should swing it by the shop the next day and he’d run the code.

Okey-doke.

I hung up. Sat there for a minute. Hissed out a word that rhymes with spit. Wasn’t hungry anymore so I put the TT in gear and drove it home. Gingerly. Backed it into the garage and powered down then pulled the key and glumly shuffled into the house. Got through the rest of the day by playing plenty of guitar and petting the dogs and was up and at ‘em early the next morning, ready to head across town to Klaus’. Went out and hopped into my little black bug and its honey of a turbo four-banger started right up then settled into the smoothest of idles. And that dad-blamed light wasn’t on anymore.

Well then.

I immediately entertained the wild-eyed possibility that the light had only been a glitch in the matrix. Nothing more than a computer error, Hal. A digital digression. That somehow overnight in the privacy of its garage the Audi had repaired itself for me, just like Christine did for Arnie, and maybe I didn’t have to take it into the shop at all. Maybe I could just keep driving it and driving it and driving it, hoping for the best with each passing mile. But I didn’t hold that thought for long. Knew it would drive me crazy wondering why the light came on in the first place and that I’d always be worrying about when it might come back on again, so I gently pulled out of the garage and headed to Klaus’ as scheduled.

Got there and walked into his spotless shop and found him working behind the front desk. Updated him on the status of the light and he furrowed his brow. Wordlessly reached to the shelves behind him and pulled out his code machine. Led me back into the lot and over to the TT then opened the driver’s door and sat down on the sill. Plugged in the machine somewhere under the dash and when he glanced at the readout I saw him wince.

Spit.

(Next time, Part Two)

Peaceful travels…

sludgo