I love to drive. Fixing them? Not so much.

I love to drive.

While I am equally happy driving a go kart, moped, motorcycle, quad runner, truck, forklift, or bob cat, what I really love to drive is cars.

Plop me in the seat of a muscle car and I will rev the engine at lights just to hear the rumble of the exhaust. When that light turns green, I will floor it just to feel the power push me back into he seat. The tach will redline before I shift gears just so I can hear the engine whine.

If I can get my rather large rear into a sports car, I will head for the twisties and toss the car through them with reckless abandon.

Drop the top on a convertible and I will drive it until my ears get so sunburned they will catch on fire.  I won’t put the top up until the rain has dowsed that fire, and I have to open the doors to let the water flow out of the interior.

Whenever I get into a big boat of a luxury car, I drive it as if I am a limo driver with a celebrity on board, or an old man out for a Sunday drive.

I love to drive. Heavy traffic is just an exciting challenge. Rain slows me down a bit, but not much. If there was no one else on the road, I will drive through snow at the posted speed limit, or more.

But what I hate about cars is working on them.
It’s not that I can’t do it, it’s just that I don’t like to. 

I understand the basics of the internal combustion engine; the spark that ignites to drive the piston down, the rod that transfers that force to the crankshaft that through a series of gears in the transmission, turns the drive shaft that powers the wheels. 

But when I open the hood and look at the tangled and compacted mass of metal, hoses and wires, all I see are doohickeys and thingamabobs.

And most of them are really dirty and smell funny. 

Even before I try to fix it, I already know that the whatchamacallit will be so rusted to the gizmo that it will take six overgrown gorillas with sledge hammers to break it free. When it does break, it’s usually the dojigger that breaks off inside the thingamajig.  This will require another trip to the gadget store to try to find a whatsit.  But to do that, I have to have another car!

That’s why I usually take my car to a professional mechanic  for repairs.  Of course, that method is fraught with it’s own problems. My typical trip to the repair center usually goes something like this:

I explain to the mechanic that the car has been making a high pitch screeching noise.
“What kind of screeching?” he asks.

“Like this; Eeeeeeee!” as I mimic the sound of a banshee on it’s second death bed. Of course, to make the sound, my face contorts to resemble said banshee. Although they try to hide them, I can see the amused smirks on the faces of the other mechanics. The other customers look away and pretend to read dog eared ancient magazines as they sip strong coffee from a greasy fingerprinted coffee maker. They have already been through this.

“Hey Joe!” He calls back to one of the other mechanics. “Come here. Can you do that again?” he asks me “ Joe is our screeching sound specialist.”

I do it again for Joe. As I do, I notice that the other mechanics, that a moment ago, I could see through the glass window to the shop, are no longer standing there with their noses and ears pressed to the window. I am sure they are rolling around the floor laughing.

“Well, pull it in and lets take a look.”
I pull the car into the bay. Of course, now that there is a mechanic nearby, the car hums like a professionally maintained Ferrari with a fresh fill of super slick oil. 

“I don’t hear nothing” he is more than happy to inform me. “Pop the hood.”
Pop goes the hood. 

I can barely see his dirty ball cap as he pokes around under there.
“Do you own a cat?” he asks.
“A cat?” I repeat. 

Ahhh, he is the conversationalist type. “No. No cats, I’m more of a dog lover.“
 
“Do your neighbors own a cat?”
“Yes they do. I think his name is Kenny” See? I can be a conversationalist too.

“Well, they don’t own one anymore” he says as he pulls a furry mess out from under the hood.

“Ohmygod!” I exclaim “I killed Kenny!”


Dammit. I guess I should have pulled the doodad to open the whosits and tried to fix this one myself!

My most EmBARE ASSing moment

I remember precisely the moment of inspiration that led up to my most embarrassing moment.

I had just received a bonus for a six month long job that had left me fairly stressed out. I was in the process of practicing my couch potato form when and ad came on the boob tube.

google image

It showed some guys on surfboards zipping across the ocean. What caught my eye was that they had sails strapped to their boards and they were literally flying across the waves. 

google image

If I remember correctly it was an ad for Orange Crush.

goggle image

I always thought surfing looked like fun...

google image

Especially if appropriate safety measures were initiated:

google image

  But I lived in Ohio...

google image

...and it's not exactly known for its great surf spots.

google image

But this windsurfing idea seemed like just the kind of fun thing I needed to spend that bonus on. After a little research, I learned that my bonus would only cover used sailboards. I soon found a place that sold used windsurfing equipment. It was in Columbus, an hours drive away, but to what extent will man go in pursuit of fun? 

Well, at least to Columbus.

I won't go into all of the details about how big of a board a 6'-3" heavy weight dude needs, but let's just say it's big:

google image

So I bought the board and signed up for four hours of lessons. The first one started the next day.

I load my little Kahuna in the back of my Pickup truck, about three feet of it hanging out the back of the bed, and headed back to the shores of Columbus, Ohio for my first wind surfing lesson.

I arrived to find about 15 people of various ages and gender ready to take the same class. We spent the first hour or so on dry land getting the basics of how to steer it and practicing standing on a demonstration unit for balance. 

I just knew I was ready.

After another 20 minutes learning how to assemble my new toy, we hit the water.

Literally. 

The first lesson on windsurfing is that you spend a lot of time getting back on the board after falling in. 

Repeatedly. 

Just balancing on the board in wavy water is difficult, then you have to try to drag a large sail, covered with 40 gallons of water, to an upright position.

After about a hundred climbs back onto the board I suddenly realized my family jewels were no longer in the safe of my shorts and where prominently on display in the open air. 

My bathing suit had ripped clean across the crotch and had become a skirt. Of course this was a cheap swim suit and didn't have the little fish net thingee that normally holds the little oysters in place.

In addition to the skirt look, it had also split the seam halfway up one outside leg. I was wearing Tarzan's breach cloth. 

google image

Fortunately, I had decided to buy a swim suit that was a little longer than what I normally buy. Between that and the cold water, things were hanging down a bit, but not too low.

I pushed the board back to shore, where another group of men and women were already gathering for the next lesson.

I dismantled the board, standing in waist deep water…which felt quite nice, although some concerns of catching a fish with my worm did cross my mind. 

I very carefully carried the board past the throngs of spectators that had shown up to watch the windsurfers, praying none of them would want to ask me questions, or want to look at my, uh, equipment. This wasn't just one trip, but required one for the board and one for the sail, bending over each time to pick them up off the ground.

I finally got everything loaded up and hanging out the back...of the truck.

The only thing I had to do now was one last beaver shot as I climbed into my truck. I waited until I thought no one was looking and swung my legs in. Only one little old lady fainted that day, but the carnage could have been much worse.

What was your most embarrassing moment?