Arriving back in the US after spending months in the slow moving environment of a small sailboat is always a shock. I recently traded small, peaceful islands for acres of pavement with vehicles flying every which way. Originally I had planned to be in this asphalt jungle for only a short period, but it is looking more and more likely that for now, I’m stuck. Without a car of my own, I’m really stuck. I swore I didn’t want to own another vehicle, but am now looking to purchase a used car. I did my internet research and picked out possible heaps in my area. Then I arranged to borrow a vehicle so I could go look at other vehicles. This involved a trip two hours north to borrow the pick up truck of a truck driver who didn’t need his little truck while he was out driving the big truck.
There was one car I wanted to check out on my way to Grandfather's 91st b-day party, and I started out with plenty of spare time. But everyone else was diddling that morning. When I finally got underway, I immediately got stuck in the first little town's annual hoe-down festival traffic. Of course there was the usual moron in an SUV who decided to go sit in the middle of THE intersection into town. He was headed towards the beast of burden parade, and was effectively blocking everyone who was trying to leave. Did it not occur to him that by not letting anyone out of town, he wasn’t going to get in? Finally, cars squeezed together enough to get this idiot out of the way, so that those of us who wanted to escape the yodeling contest could do so.
Free at last from the sight of parents chasing cotton candy covered children down the sidewalks, I was rolling along nicely through the countryside, until I came across my first farm vehicle. Ordinarily these are passable, but the road was very winding with many blind curves. I am not so much of a gambler as are my fellow drivers. I’m not willing to bet that the odds are in my favor that there isn’t some bozo flying around that blind corner the very second that I make a move to leave the giant pile of metal in my wake. I also know that following two inches from the rear end of this lumbering behemoth is not going to make it go any faster. It will only lead to the possibility of being irrevocably crushed by falling sheep if those rusty metal bars give way. There’s nothing to do but slow down and enjoy the ride. The sheep finally turned off into a field, only to be replaced by a tractor, dragging what looked to be a medieval torture device behind it. Unlike a lot of people who try to push other vehicles off the road and out of the way once they realize that they are going to be late, I practice Zen patience. Feeling a bit peckish, I decided to take advantage of the slow speed to search for berries growing along the side of the road. I found a few sprouting brambles, stopped, and picked myself a snack, which caused me to lose track of the rack. But never fear, there’s now a delivery van in front of me, obviously lost and a slow reader, as it almost stopped at every cross road to closely monitor, photograph and record the names on the street signs. Finally the van either found the correct address, or gave up and just picked one. After it turned off, I resumed a speed just slightly above the speed limit, and carried on unimpeded for a bit, without even the usual hurry-up-or-I’ll-kill you driver trying to park in my trunk. This is one thing I just don’t understand: How is it that the same person who drives 62 mph on a small, secondary road filled with school bus stops and slow moving Amish carriages hidden around each bend, can stand in the yard screaming at people who travel in the same manner through his or her own neighborhood? I have a lot of fun when drivers like this are up my butt because I know that even if I’m late, driving like I’m in the Indy 500 is not going to improve my chances of being on time. When I have one of these impatient imbeciles trying to drive over my car, I slow down. And continue slowing down, until I come to a complete stop in the middle of the road. Usually this confuses people so much that they just sit there for a second, before roaring around me with a screech and a gesture. I resume traveling at my sedate pace, catching up to them at the next traffic light.
Today’s trip was so far blessedly free of driving fiends. But wait, what on earth is that very fuzzy thing up ahead? I suspect that this was the moment when I missed one of my turns, being unable to see anything past that enormous ball of hay crawling along in front of me. By the time I noticed that I was no longer on the correct road, I had to make a long circle back on course. I ended up arriving at the car dealership at the time that I was supposed to be pulling up in front of my family's house, still forty minutes further down the road.
Unless it’s in a marine store full of used boat bits, I generally despise shopping. But I do like car hunting. I am the daughter of a mechanic. That means that I know enough about cars to be dangerous to used car sellers. I keep this knowledge to myself and pretend that I don’t have a clue. I also have a highly developed BS meter. When something untrue flows out of a person’s mouth, I am usually aware of it. I like to play along to see just how much rubbish I can get from one single individual.
When I screeched up in the truck, I parked it between the car I wanted to look at, and the front windows of the car dealership. I leapt out of the truck, and immediately threw myself down on the pavement to have a look under my prospective future ride. All was good except for a fairly substantial oil leak from the pan. I noticed salesman-shod feet coming at me, so quickly picked myself up off the ground and pretended I was looking at the pretty upholstery. Before the guy even had a chance to fire his BS launcher, my first question was "how long has this car been sitting in this particular spot?" That caught him off guard, and he responded with “about four days”, before he even realized that he was telling the truth. Yes, a hefty oil leak indeed. Normally I prefer to drive the car down the road, stop, and do all this checking of systems out of sight of the dealer. That way I know what the car’s obvious problems are, before making the decision whether or not to enter into the dickering stage of the game. But there was no time for a test drive; I was already too late. All I had time to do was to start the car and check its vital signs. By now the salesman had recovered his composure and was telling me that the car had been owned by an older couple. “Aren’t they all?” was my response. Only once have I ever met a used car salesman who hasn’t said “this fine vehicle was owned by a little old man/woman who only drove it to the supermarket and to church on Sunday.” And into telephone poles and onto curbs and over animals large and small and under ladders and can't even remember the home address, let alone that cars ever needed servicing. Spare me.
I bought my last car from the one salesman who said, “I dunno who mighta had it before. We brought it back from the auction two days ago and parked it there. Haven’t had time to service it yet, so I can’t tell you if it’s any good or not. You maybe can try carfax.” I drove that cheap heap for five trouble-free years, covering over 140,000 miles. When I left to go sailing, I gave the vehicle to a friend, who still drives it today. No, I can’t have it back. And yes, I plan to visit that used car dealer tomorrow, in the hopes that history can repeat itself.
In the case of the leaky car I looked at yesterday, my cover has been blown. But when I resume my jalopy hunt tomorrow, I will have nothing else scheduled except to have fun with more car salespeople, and this time I will not let on that I know which end of the car is the front.
