Car Trouble
A romantic saga of working on an old pickup.
A few weeks ago I bought an old truck with the last scrapings of my summer money.
A 1988 Ford F-150, square-bodied white and rustless. Perfectly preserved by the high mountain air.
The only problem was it wouldn’t run.
It would start, and then sputter out, the soft poofs of fuel delivery failure.
There aren’t a lot of mechanics out here in the desert. I had to try to do it myself.
My former boss John was there to help, thank God. He’s a plumber and wood stove expert by trade, but he knows everything.
We thought it was the fuel diverter valve.
So I spent all of Saturday underneath the big beauty replacing it with a new one, getting soaked in gasoline as I reinstalled the fuel lines.
We did a few other tune-ups while we put off trying to start it.
With a little starting fluid aimed at the air intake, we got her purring. But only for a few minutes.
Then that same poof, shudder, and stillness.
One time we managed to drive around the block before she stalled out. We drove home backwards down the hill.
It still had to be a fuel delivery problem. Everything else was working. It had to be either one or more of the three fuel pumps, or the intake manifold.
A fairly easy fix but without a lift and a proper shop, beyond my pay grade. And to get it done professionally, beyond my pay check.
So I communed with my truck—fondled the seats and dash, took photos for the memory books—and said my goodbyes.
She’s on the market, and I’ve learned the inevitable, beautiful impracticality of classic cars.
I should’ve learned my lesson after a childhood of standing on the side of the road. My mom’s 1964 Buick, my dad’s 1982 Mercedes—charming, elegant, gas-guzzling, and moribund. You buy them for a little and fix them for a lot.
But I haven’t really learned my lesson. I wouldn’t be caught dead driving a dependable sedan. It’s like wearing sneakers in public. (I’m only half-joking.)
One day I’ll get her back, or something like her.
In the meantime, I’ve tried my best to fix her myself. Now I won’t ever have to wonder what might have happened if I’d just looked under the hood.
