OT: Cruizin in the POS

[roccit_53 at hotmail.com (C Boyko)]

Well, I was supposed to have a nice weekend doing an A1 suspension swap ( 
Cabbies being the victims) but another VW moment cropped up and changed the 
plans. No biggie, (well, not for me at least) so on to plan B, which was 
still a road trip, so it was all good.

The plan: drive a few hours in the truck, meet the kid, and trade him for 
the POS Jetta ( if you aren't familiar with this acronym, well, you should 
be. Just download some Adam Sandler, and you'll get the idea)

So it's an uneventful trip up in the truck, and meet up with the kid no 
problem, at Hooter's in Barrie. Not my favorite place to eat, but anyways, 
we decided to gas up at a station we'd both seen, and somehow got separated. 
I was well into the Ford fill up when the familiar belt squeal of the Jetta 
approached. From there, back to the motel the kid's staying the night in.

Pre-flight training on the Jetta is extensive, so after securing the battery 
(with some string I had)and tensioning the offending belt, the "options and 
modifications" are explained. But not until he has called me over to look at 
something, it's the camshaft. SO, why can I SEE it? No oil cap. Luckily the 
German engineers, in their wisdom, when they were making it impossible to 
get #1 glowplug out, were really thinking about where a loose oilcap would 
bounce to, and it was waiting for its' liberation from the space between the 
injection pump and the block.

Now this car is, without a word of a lie, way worse than anything any of you 
own. This is a '90, naturally aspirated diesel with air and power steering, 
but neither work. And high mileage. And a yellow sticker that proclaims 
"This sticker adds 20 hp". That would mean a total of 20hp. The sticker 
accounting for all of it. Likely NOT all to the wheels.

So the walk around begins:
Well, that turn signal isn't from this year, so it doesn't fit. There is 
some black tape on it to hold it in, but it may still fall out and short 
things out when it breaks. (Luckily there are only two electrical things on 
the whole car, lights being one of them) My kid's in Avionics. Don't fly 
anywhere, okay?

Oh, the driver's door handle, you have to hold it down with one hand and 
squeeze it with the other to undo the latch, but don't pull on it. (Lucky 
for me it is the only door latch on the car, the rest are the "stick your 
finger in the hole " type we all know and love.)
Oh, the trunk latch, here, let me put a cable tie on there so you can find 
the lever to open it (the need for a key is getting less and less)

Well, 5 pm, time to get rolling. There is a 400 lb Gray tool chest resting 
comfortably on the rear seat, waiting to crush me when I successfully brake 
to avoid an accident. I weigh the risk, and figure I'm gonna die in this car 
one way or the other anyways, and head out. Power  steering without the 
power assist is a real treat, so I put the boots to her, and off we go. Note 
the word "acceleration" did not come into play here. Nope, there is none of 
that to worry about. None. nada. Snails are faster off the line. Heck, a 
maple tree is faster off the line.

At the first stoplight, I'm rolling, and it's green, I signal and turn left, 
a nice Ryder truck is pulling up to the red side of the light, and 
signalling a left turn, for which he appears to be slowing down. And should 
be stopping...no, he's gonna turn...no, he's going STRAIGHT THROUGH the red 
light...shit! Foot to floor, all that power pulls me out of trouble...well, 
luckily I swerved to avoid him, and Mr  Gray in the rear seat stayed put.. 
Reminded me of that George Carlin routine about rental trucks 'When was the 
last time he drove a truck you may ask?" "That would be NEVER..."

Now the next stress, the big four lane highway. The blistering speed I 
attained on the ramp! Well, let's say it was fairly non-16V like. Merge, and 
more of the son's words ring in my ears- " Oh, I have to get that shift 
linkage adjusted, just put it in neutral and ram in into fifth, but it may 
go into third." Five miles later, yep, in fifth. The drone of the mighty 
diesel mill sings in my ears, life is good. How fast am I going? The custom 
white face speedo tells me 140, so that means 100. Confirm with the tach, it 
says 5 pm. I wonder how much fuel is in it? Well, he told me the fuel guage 
doesn't work, actually , it has no needle. How far have I gone on the trip 
odometer? 0 kms. No matter, it's full anyways. SO I turn on the stereo. I 
think he got the speakers from our old 386, and "King of the Road"  gets me 
singing along . Not that good speakers would have helped. Checking the side 
rearview proves to be an adventure too, the duct tape that once held the 
mirror housing on has been replaced by electrical tape, and the mirror 
itself wobbles to its own rhythm. It stays aimed well, but reallly vibrates. 
Made me think the rear fender was falling off a few times.

Many hours later, I pull to a stop. The belt's squealing. Great, but I don't 
care, I'm going home, dammit. Two miles from home...red battery light. Well, 
I won't have to tighten that belt, it's gone. Lights off, it's still five 
o'clock on the tach, and I roll into the Wind Tunnel, alive to tell the 
tale.
What a piece of shit.

Cathy, never EVER complaining about my cars again. (Oh that'll last)

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