While cruising the strip on Friday night, my buddy Frank waved and pulled me over by a 1970s-era Chevy with the hood up. I got out and Frank asks if I know anything about distributors or spark. The car owner and his lady are there and I learn he shut it off, went for dinner and it wouldn’t start.
I am not a mechanic but few men are going to say, “Gee, I know very little about the internal combustion engine,” especially if there is a lady there. For centuries, we are the ones who are supposed to know how to snap the reins to make the chariot go.
Looking under the hood, it was nice to actually see the engine. There were the plugs, the carb, the coil and the distributor, which had been taken apart. They are unlike today’s cars, where everything is covered with black rigid plastic as if the manufacturer has designed some sort of stealth technology that we are not supposed to touch.
Years ago, we pulled up to a shop and a guy in greasy stained coveralls, wiping his hands on an oily rag, smiled and said, “Pull her in here and we’ll pop the hood.” For the new cars today, a scientist in a clean white shop coat with a serious look says, “We’ll hook it up to the computer and run a diagnostic.” There are not many heavy duty wrenches in a 21st century toolbox.
“Maybe it’s the points,” I offer.
“We tried them,” says Frank, “they’re not sticking.”
I try them anyway. I fiddle with the rotor and they have both done that too. It is getting dark so I get my flashlight and shine it on the distributor, and we all wiggle a few more things. A neighbour has been called and more parts are on the way from the owner’s shop.
I make a suggestion. “Three different guys have touched this, we shone a flashlight on it, let’s put it back together and give a try.”
With the aid of the flashlight, it goes back together. I have flashbacks of holding the flashlight while my Dad worked on the car. Somehow if a wrench or a bolt dropped to the ground, it was because I wasn’t holding the light properly so I know this is an awesome responsibility.
The owner gets back in, turns the key and the Chevy starts up and purrs like a kitten, just as the neighbour arrives with the box of extra parts. Turns out that the neighbour, Dale, and I went to high school together. He has more mechanical knowledge than the three of us combined, but as far as we are concerned, we got the car going again, even if we’re not sure how, but we won’t admit that.
In days gone by, we never passed a stranded motorist. Maybe we had a tool box or a set of jumper cables or just took him to get a can of gas. Today, we make a call on the cellphone and we don’t even have to stop. Not much personal touch in a 21st century tool box either.
In the end, I surmise that women are a lot like car engines. We are happy when they are purring smoothly, even if we don’t know which switches we flicked, what adjustments we made or what we wiggled at the right time. At least that’s what McGregor says.
