Transplant
It probably seems as though I only write about my car these days, but you, o hapless reader, will have to suffer through at least this one more post because this news is the best yet.
The repair guy at the dealer called me at work today to tell me that this morning he finally had all the parts he needed and got my engine taken apart, only to find that the rogue replacement glow plug had banged around in the cylinder for a while before settling down in a nice snug relationship with the exhaust valve. In short, the cylinder walls, the cylinder head, and the piston are all chewed up…so he has to replace the whole engine.
At that point in the conversation, I could have been a lot more upset, but I was mostly thinking, New car purchase: good choice; warranty equals double plus good. And that on one hand, I’ll have an engine with sixteen thousand fewer miles on it, but on the other hand, it would have been a much bigger windfall for this to happen at, say, fifty-seven-or-so thousand miles—in other words, just before the warranty will expire.
I was told that I should be able to get my car back on Friday, although at the rate things are going, I’m not counting on having it until next week. Either way, it can’t come soon enough; the loaner I have makes me an unsafe driver. In the year I’ve had my car, I’ve come close—close enough to be memorable—to causing an accident maybe twice. In the week I’ve had this car, I’ve come close to causing an accident as many times. I ran a red light last week, and I don’t mean I snuck through; it was red and probably had been for some time. And on Saturday, but for Tess wanting to go scanner-shopping with me and shouting, “Stop, stop!” I would have rear-ended—at fifty miles per hour—someone who had decided to stop rather than merge at the end of an onramp. This is not like me, and I don’t want to die.
I just want to ride my motorcy…
…cle.
