I drive a 1995 Mitsubishi Galant that's been on its last legs for quite some time. We had all the belts replaced a couple of years ago but one of the new belts squealed. We took the car in when the squealing started, but they couldn't fix it so we gave up trying. The squealing was annoying, but usually it stopped once the car warmed up.
Last Friday night I was driving to my monthly poker game. The squealing was a bit louder than usual and, to my disquiet, didn't stop. That is, until I was moving at 65 mph on 270. With a slight "whump" the belt suddenly stopped making any noise. Immediately, the battery light and the brake light came on and, most alarmingly, the power steering quit; obviously, the belt driving the alternator had snapped.
I have to admit, my first thought wasn't the safe and smart, "I should pull over". My first thought was the selfish and stupid, "I am going to try to make it to poker." I've driven without power steering before and while it's difficult, it's not impossible. Seconds later, I noticed that the engine temperature was shooting skyward. Fortunately, I was travelling in the general direction of the dealership and decided that if I could make it there, one of my poker buddies could pick me up and game on! (I don't like having my plans changed.)
I was about four miles from the dealership. As I exited 270 to another highway, other systems started to fail. The car lights began to dim. Clearly the battery was being drained quickly. I shut off all interior lights and the radio. The SRS failure light lit up.
"SRS? Oh, right. The airbags. Well, so long as I don't crash, I'll be fine."
It was at that point, with a mix of revulsion and proud geekiness, I realized that I was enjoying myself. It was as if I was the Captain of a starship under attack and the ship was taking damage. Systems were failing and the damage reports were coming in fast and furious. I had to use all of my skills to make it safely to my home base. (Clearly, I've seen WAY too much Star Trek.)
The result of my heroic struggle? The steam coming out of the radiator on the off-ramp to the local lanes ended my voyage. I then waited three hours for a tow truck to tow me the last two miles.
A few thoughts as I sat on the off-ramp:
Why aren't flares designed to last longer than 15 minutes? They're supposed to warn people of the impending presence of an immobile, heavy, wall of death blocking what is usually a lane of moving traffic. I had, to my credit, three flares in the trunk. I would have needed twelve flares to last me until the tow truck arrived.
Getting stranded gives you a serious sense of contempt for those not stranded. I was consantly amused at those who failed to notice my flashing emergency lights and pulled up right behind me, only to get stuck until all the traffic in the adjacent lane had left. Fools! Had someone crashed into the rear of my car, I probably would have laughed hysterically at them, assuming I survived.
Cell phones are awesome.
And finally, and most obviously, why does it take three hours for a frickin tow truck to arrive?!?
2 comments:
Having been in a similar situation, I can definitely sympathize with the determination not to let it interrupt your plans.
What the hell have you been doing with your car? This sounds like Apollo 13. Did you consider calling someone and saying, Houston,we have a problem.
As for why it takes a tow truck three hours to reach you, the answer is obvious: because you are waiting for it! If you weren't waiting for it, the truck would arrive instantly.
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