“Truck Terror”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

Vehicle repair – never a good time.

I pondered this truism recently when needing a tune-up on my aging Ford F-150 pickup. A veteran vehicle with over 170,000 miles on the odometer. I had wanted to consider buying a new vehicle from one of the dealerships in my area of Ohio. But a quick online search for possibilities sent me crashing back into reality. A preferred choice registered monthly payments of $659.00, something literally impossible on my retirement income.

The old hoss and I seemed destined to spend a bit more time together.

I called a familiar repair shop in Ashtabula County, and began to explain my needs. The owner was a fellow who had helped me repeatedly in the past. A veteran mechanic, iconoclast, widower, and unruly political conservative. He sounded disinterested as I began my spiel. “The STX has been running raggedly. I tested it with my OBD II scanner and got a code of ‘Cylinder 1 Misfire, P0301.’ I would guess that it needs a fresh set of spark plugs at the least...”

My cranky friend scoffed at the amateur diagnosis.

“There are over 900 codes possible with your truck!” he shouted. “Any one of them could mean any variety of things wrong. I see this all the time. It could be plugs, wires, ignition coils, a fuel problem, maybe a more serious engine failure… or bird poop clogging the intake!”

I nodded silently. “Right, that is why I ran the diagnostic scanner.”

“What motor do you have?” he asked.

“The 4.6 liter V-8,” I said, already regretting my call.

He hammered the desk. “NO! WE DON’T WORK ON THOSE ANYMORE! I HAD A CUSTOMER HERE, HIS PLUGS BROKE OFF, DAMN FORD PLUGS, HE HAD TO REPLACE A HEAD AT THE DEALERSHIP, IT WAS $1800.00! WHAT A MESS!”

I badly wanted a beer. But it was only 10:30 in the morning.

“NOPE, WE WON’T REPLACE THOSE PLUGS, I WANT YOU TO KNOW!” he continued to rant. “DAMN FORD ENGINEERS! DAMN THEM ALL! FORD AND HILLARY CLINTON!”

My friend had worked on the pickup several times, doing routine maintenance like replacing the alternator or putting in new joints for the 4WD system. Always grousing that his cobbled-together Chevy Trailblazer, despite many obvious faults, was a better ride. He had inherited it from a customer, who trashed the SUV due to brake-system failure, and a resulting lawsuit. But today, his attitude had gone completely sour. I could only listen and tremble.

“So… it sounds like I should just take the ‘gray Ghost’ elsewhere,” I mumbled with defeat.

“YES!” he yowled. “YES YES YES! PUT A ‘FOR SALE’ SIGN ON THAT THING, IT IS JUNK! SCRAP METAL! SEND IT TO THE BONEYARD!”

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Send it to the crusher because it needed spark plugs? That did not sound logical. But arguing the point seemed… well… pointless.

I offered my thanks and ended our conversation.

A call to DRC Truck Repair in Madison came next. A fellow there had helped when I became stranded with a different vehicle, after a tie-rod snapped. I figured that fate had decreed we should rekindle our relationship. But there was no answer. Just an extended repetition of ring tones in my ear.

Finally, I texted my sister. A ride from my brother-in-law would be needed, regardless of the final destination. As I explained my quandary, she mentioned a shop in Chardon, not far from my home. A place that had provided service for her minivan, and once helped when I needed a cheap, replacement tire.

With humility, I gave thanks for this bit of inspiration.

The phone rang twice before someone answered. A polite man said that I had chosen the wrong number from their website. He offered a different line for the service department. Then finally, I made contact with the one who had helped me over a year ago.

“I have a 2006 F-150 STX, four-wheel drive. With the 4.6 liter V-8,” my words echoed purposefully. “Likely in need of a basic tune-up. It is an old horse, lots of miles on the clock. Running roughly just now. The ‘check engine’ light came on last week.”

The owner was matter-of-fact and courteous. “When can you bring it in for a look?”

I was completely surprised. “Well, today would be great. My fear was that you might be shy about looking at this particular motor...”

He laughed out loud.

“We work on all makes and models here,” he boasted. “There is no problem doing a simple tune-up on your truck.”

My pulse began to quicken. “Okay then! I’ll have it there in a jiffy!”

I made arrangements to meet my brother-in-law at the repair depot. The ride from Thompson was clunky and clanky, but successful. I left the keys on their front desk, after a minimal description of the issue-at-hand. By now, it had grown late in the day.

My relative had gone to the wrong shop, by mistake. So I waited on a bench, outside. Storm clouds were thickening, in the northern sky, toward Lake Erie. I fretted over being left out in the rain. But thankfully, that did not happen.

Throughout the night and next morning, I worried over my plight. Was the old crank in Geneva justified in his anger? Would there be a precipitation of disaster waiting when I revisited the shop? Should I make plans to be burdened with a loan payment for years to come? Was the old hoss really at its end of service? Would I be better off walking, two canes at the ready, hobbling like homeless wreck?

A call came around 4:00 in the afternoon. It was a woman in their office. She chirped cheerfully that my truck had been fixed with no trouble. It could be picked up at my convenience.

My heart thumped powerfully. “Fate be damned!” I could get on the road, again.

This time, my brother-in-law arrived without meandering to a false destination. I managed to arrive before another hour had passed. The office woman described their repair regimen, which sounded completely professional. I gestured with my canes to demonstrate why I had not done the work myself. She thanked me for patronizing their business.

Then, at last, I was in motion again.

The gray F-150 ran more smoothly than ever. I needed to get prescriptions, and headed for Giant Eagle. It had been a long day since being verbally squashed by my erstwhile cohort in Ashtabula County. Yet I reckoned that this represented a new start of sorts.

And another respite from monthly payments – at least for today.

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