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Honolulu Lite
Charles Memminger
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Listen to what your vehicle has to say
IT IS WITH a heavy heart (23 ounces/644 grams) that I have to report the passing of a dear, old buddy, my Ford F-150 pickup truck, whose many trips to the dump brought me untold joy and more storage room around the house and whose substantial bulk gave me the ability to happily bully smaller vehicles off the road.
It wasn't so much a "passing" as euthanasia or whatever the motor vehicle equivalent of that might be. The old fella had to be put out to pasture (the pasture with the car-crushing machine, that is) after exhibiting a number of fatal symptoms and tics, including a chugga-chugga-chugga method of propulsion that caused me several miles of continuous whiplash whenever we left the house.
ITS MUFFLER wouldn't muffle. Its radiator wouldn't radiate. The windshield wiper fluid reservoir was devoid of fluid, and it had a nail stuck in its right-rear paw that I feared had become infected. Had I been more sensitive to its pleas, had I spoken Truckese, I might have nipped a few of these afflictions in the bud before it was too late. Unfortunately, I took all the clanking, wheezing and grinding as sounds made by a normal, happy truck.
Having worked at an old folks' home in college, I did notice incontestable proof that the end was near, the rapid, labored breathing known as Cheyne-Stoking, and I figured I better hustle my loyal friend down to the car dealership while I could still trade him in on a newer model and claim, "Yeah, he runs pretty good for an old boy his age." (He was 13 years old, which is 423 in Renault years.)
I PICKED UP a precious new little Toyota pickup that likes to be tickled under the front bumper and have its dashboard tussled. It's as frisky as a newborn springbok, but its wheels look kind of small so I don't think it will grow up to be as large as the F-150. Among the packet of information I received on the care and feeding of our newest family member came a list of warning signs that the young lad might be coming down with something.
"Sometimes a noise can be a clue to what needs attention," one pamphlet said. "Our Service Technicians know what sounds are associated with certain concerns. Please choose the sound that best describes what you hear."
WELL, AUTOMOBILE care certainly has come a long way in 423 Renault years. Back when I got my F-150, no such list of warning sounds existed. You just took the vehicle home and hoped for the best. My guilt about perhaps not being as sensitive to my F-150's needs was heightened as I went through the list of warning sounds that came with the Toyota. It included:
» Booming: Rhythmic sound like a drum roll or distant thunder.
» Chattering: Metallic noise that repeats rapidly.
» Chirping: High-pitched noise similar to a bird.
» Growling: Low, throaty voice like an animal.
» Hissing: Continuous sound like air escaping.
» Squealing: Constant shrill noise.
» Tapping: Light hammering noise, rhythmic or intermittent.
NOW YOU tell me. The list is longer than those I mentioned, but, trust me, my old friend produced just about every one of the sounds at one time or another. Near the end there was tapping, rhythmic tapping, which I now recognize was Morse code for "Take me to a certified mechanic, you idiot."
The tapping became fainter and fainter until it became, as I recall, dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot. That was probably important.
Yes, my F-150 chirped, buzzed, clicked, clanked, growled, hissed, hummed and rattled, but it did it with so much charm that I thought it was just trying to be amusing. It also made other sounds that aren't on the official Toyota list of symptoms. They included:
» Whistling: Usually "The Ride of the Valkyries" as we charged through the H-3 tunnels.
» Harrumphing: Whenever we were passed by a Hummer.
» Giggling: When it saw a Volkswagen "Thing."
» Gasping: When it saw a shapely Ferrari.
» Sputtering: When the Ferrari winked at it.
» Burping: After I filled up on 87-rated gas.
» Snickering: After we bullied a smaller vehicle out of our lane.
» Groaning: When I climbed into the cab.
» Sighing with relief: When I got out of the cab.
So, yeah, I might have missed a few signs that my old F-150 was having problems. But we had a lot of good times together, and with his little whimpers and whispers, he was trying to let me know that. So long, partner. I'm gonna miss you even though we didn't speak the same language all the time.
Charles Memminger, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists' 2004 First Place Award winner for humor writing, appears Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. E-mail
cmemminger@starbulletin.com