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not the confidence-building exercise i expected
My car has to stay at the auto shop while the auto shop and the insurance company duke it out. But hey, Rich has a car, right???
After my car got stolen, I encouraged Rich the Sweetie to get his car fixed up to the point where I would want to drive it. It was hesitating some, and the brakes where, perhaps, a bit reluctant. I hadn't noticed a problem with the brakes during my one or two tiny excursions driving that car, but Rich grumbled about them a bit, which made be nervous about driving the car. Being nervous had to be brought under control. Driving a stick-shift makes me tense, driving on the J'Way makes me tense, and rumors of brake trouble pushed it over the top.
So Rich (unwisely perhaps) brought the car to the Citgo down the street. Poured $1200 into getting the works done, of which I contributed a bit. Brakes, tune-up, whatever. This car is going to be so perfect now we thought.
He got it back, just before we were going to drive to the NY/NJ area, visit my mom in the hospital, and he and amb and tb were going to gallivant in NYC, visit BoardMom, eat pastrami, etc. We were all set to drive down the day after he got the car.
The night before our scheduled departure, Sweetie drove off to party with his baseball team in Newton, and marmota and I went to one of those geeky parties that I much prefer. Right after we arrive, I get a call from Rich-- he's unhappy-- because the car won't go, and there's smoke billowing out of the wheel wells. Uh-oh. So I took the train to NJ, everyone else did not get to go to NY, and the car went back to Ali, the bungle-headed mechanic at the Citgo, who agreed to just charge for parts, not labor, this time.
Rich got his car back, again. Drove to Somerville, then to Brockton, then to Somerville again. No problem. Car seems to work.
Yesterday I wanted to get to Cambridge, and eat at Punjabi Dhabi, and go to OPN. Called Rich, who was returning from a business excursion to Springfield. He suggested that I drive to Porter Square and pick him up from the commuter rail, and then we would immediately do all those fun things. I thought, why not? Car works now, right? It's not spiffy, but I shouldn't be picky. Didn't I learn to drive on a stick shift?
Decided to make this a confidence building exercise in driving stick. I know how to drive stick-shift (mostly-- sometimes finding the clutch point is tricky on a hill). I just need to practice, to get the process more automatic in my brain, and to start feeling like I know how to drive stick.
Along the J'Way, I thought about why I'm so tense about driving a manual, even now that I don't have The Jerk sitting in the passenger seat being hyper-critical. Theorized that my perfectionism leads me to be overly worried about being in exactly the right gear at all times. I'm always fretting-- Is this the right gear? Should I upshift now? But I'm stopping soon; is it worth the trouble to upshift when I have to downshift soon? But will the car hate me if I leave it in this gear? On and on. I decided, I should not fret so much about this. First gear to get it rolling, fifth gear on the highway, but everything in between probably has some slack. Just Don't Worry and Be Happy.
So there I was, not worrying and being happy, driving through Cambridge, and the traffic got pretty heavy and sticky. Jaywalkers and obviously lost cars from Rhode Island on Prospect street. Stopping, back into first, up to second, and then stopping again, over and over. The car started to feel kind of... strange. Like it wasn't happy with what I was doing. It seemed to start to resent second gear. It seemed to not spring into action in second gear, but to just get sort of depressive. Well, shit, car, what gear do you want to be in? Hmm, I need some coaching on the stick shift after all, I thought, because I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I noticed a bit of a rubbery burning smell, thought maybe I had overdone it a bit on the clutch or on the brakes, was glad that I had already paid Rich in advance for any damage I might do to the clutch.
Left on to Hampshire, through Inman Square, tried to shift up to... third? The car stalled. There was a big black SUV behind me, and a bus behind it, and traffic all stuffed up coming the other way so they couldn't pass me. I was all flustered, thinking that I had broke the car, and couldn't get it started again. I look down and see the Check Engine light. Uh-oh, time to call Rich.
Rich's train must have been underground, because I got his voice mail. Called C&A, who were hosting OPN, and A promised to dispatch C to rescue us. I got out of the car, thought briefly about trying to push the car to the side of the road myself, and rejected that idea; some guys came along to push, and it took three of them pushing. In my panic, I had forgotten to turn on the four-way flashers, which was politely pointed out to me. Some other guy who wandered into the street to offer help nearly got run over by a bicycle.
Rich called from Porter, talked to me about what the car was doing, and we realized that it wasn't starting because in my state of panic, I had forgotten to step on the clutch while trying to start the car. Doh! See, I retain motor memory of the most common actions involved in driving stick. Motor memory, bless it, tends to stick (thus the phase "like riding a bicycle"). Semantic knowledge-- little factoids like "you must step on the clutch for the starter to start"-- fade, and are all gone. Under normal circumstances, I had been stepping on the clutch at the appropriate time without even realizing what I was doing or why, because the compiled, automated, basal ganglia routine for starting the car was just running automatically. But when the situation was different-- i.e. I'm in the middle of Hampshire Street with a bus behind me and I think the car is busted-- the automated program doesn't get accessed, and I don't know enough to figure out how to start the car cognitively.
So I step on the clutch, start the car, and drive hesitantly until I meet Rich walking back from Porter. He diagnoses the problem immediately: once again, the calipers are stuck, so it's like driving while pushing on the brake pedal. Ah-hah! No wonder the car seemed depressive. No wonder it seemed so un-thrilled about shifting up into second. No wonder the funny burnt smell.
Rich is truly, royally, rip-shit at the mechanic. Indeed, he was in quite a humor. I was glad that it wasn't my bad driving, after all, and that he wasn't mad at me (although even if it had been my fault, he wouldn't be that mad at me-- he knew my level of driving skill going into this). OTOH, if it were my fault, I could pay for the repairs and make it all better, but his being ripped off my an incompetent mechanic is just suckage that I can't make better.
We went to OPN and let Rich's brakes cool off and let Rich cool off to the point where we could get the car to limp home. Spent much of the evening draped over the sofa, recovering from the surge of stress hormones, waiting for the lovely homemade pizza.
DO NOT GET YOUR CAR FIXED AT THE CITCO ON CENTRE STREET!!!
After my car got stolen, I encouraged Rich the Sweetie to get his car fixed up to the point where I would want to drive it. It was hesitating some, and the brakes where, perhaps, a bit reluctant. I hadn't noticed a problem with the brakes during my one or two tiny excursions driving that car, but Rich grumbled about them a bit, which made be nervous about driving the car. Being nervous had to be brought under control. Driving a stick-shift makes me tense, driving on the J'Way makes me tense, and rumors of brake trouble pushed it over the top.
So Rich (unwisely perhaps) brought the car to the Citgo down the street. Poured $1200 into getting the works done, of which I contributed a bit. Brakes, tune-up, whatever. This car is going to be so perfect now we thought.
He got it back, just before we were going to drive to the NY/NJ area, visit my mom in the hospital, and he and amb and tb were going to gallivant in NYC, visit BoardMom, eat pastrami, etc. We were all set to drive down the day after he got the car.
The night before our scheduled departure, Sweetie drove off to party with his baseball team in Newton, and marmota and I went to one of those geeky parties that I much prefer. Right after we arrive, I get a call from Rich-- he's unhappy-- because the car won't go, and there's smoke billowing out of the wheel wells. Uh-oh. So I took the train to NJ, everyone else did not get to go to NY, and the car went back to Ali, the bungle-headed mechanic at the Citgo, who agreed to just charge for parts, not labor, this time.
Rich got his car back, again. Drove to Somerville, then to Brockton, then to Somerville again. No problem. Car seems to work.
Yesterday I wanted to get to Cambridge, and eat at Punjabi Dhabi, and go to OPN. Called Rich, who was returning from a business excursion to Springfield. He suggested that I drive to Porter Square and pick him up from the commuter rail, and then we would immediately do all those fun things. I thought, why not? Car works now, right? It's not spiffy, but I shouldn't be picky. Didn't I learn to drive on a stick shift?
Decided to make this a confidence building exercise in driving stick. I know how to drive stick-shift (mostly-- sometimes finding the clutch point is tricky on a hill). I just need to practice, to get the process more automatic in my brain, and to start feeling like I know how to drive stick.
Along the J'Way, I thought about why I'm so tense about driving a manual, even now that I don't have The Jerk sitting in the passenger seat being hyper-critical. Theorized that my perfectionism leads me to be overly worried about being in exactly the right gear at all times. I'm always fretting-- Is this the right gear? Should I upshift now? But I'm stopping soon; is it worth the trouble to upshift when I have to downshift soon? But will the car hate me if I leave it in this gear? On and on. I decided, I should not fret so much about this. First gear to get it rolling, fifth gear on the highway, but everything in between probably has some slack. Just Don't Worry and Be Happy.
So there I was, not worrying and being happy, driving through Cambridge, and the traffic got pretty heavy and sticky. Jaywalkers and obviously lost cars from Rhode Island on Prospect street. Stopping, back into first, up to second, and then stopping again, over and over. The car started to feel kind of... strange. Like it wasn't happy with what I was doing. It seemed to start to resent second gear. It seemed to not spring into action in second gear, but to just get sort of depressive. Well, shit, car, what gear do you want to be in? Hmm, I need some coaching on the stick shift after all, I thought, because I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I noticed a bit of a rubbery burning smell, thought maybe I had overdone it a bit on the clutch or on the brakes, was glad that I had already paid Rich in advance for any damage I might do to the clutch.
Left on to Hampshire, through Inman Square, tried to shift up to... third? The car stalled. There was a big black SUV behind me, and a bus behind it, and traffic all stuffed up coming the other way so they couldn't pass me. I was all flustered, thinking that I had broke the car, and couldn't get it started again. I look down and see the Check Engine light. Uh-oh, time to call Rich.
Rich's train must have been underground, because I got his voice mail. Called C&A, who were hosting OPN, and A promised to dispatch C to rescue us. I got out of the car, thought briefly about trying to push the car to the side of the road myself, and rejected that idea; some guys came along to push, and it took three of them pushing. In my panic, I had forgotten to turn on the four-way flashers, which was politely pointed out to me. Some other guy who wandered into the street to offer help nearly got run over by a bicycle.
Rich called from Porter, talked to me about what the car was doing, and we realized that it wasn't starting because in my state of panic, I had forgotten to step on the clutch while trying to start the car. Doh! See, I retain motor memory of the most common actions involved in driving stick. Motor memory, bless it, tends to stick (thus the phase "like riding a bicycle"). Semantic knowledge-- little factoids like "you must step on the clutch for the starter to start"-- fade, and are all gone. Under normal circumstances, I had been stepping on the clutch at the appropriate time without even realizing what I was doing or why, because the compiled, automated, basal ganglia routine for starting the car was just running automatically. But when the situation was different-- i.e. I'm in the middle of Hampshire Street with a bus behind me and I think the car is busted-- the automated program doesn't get accessed, and I don't know enough to figure out how to start the car cognitively.
So I step on the clutch, start the car, and drive hesitantly until I meet Rich walking back from Porter. He diagnoses the problem immediately: once again, the calipers are stuck, so it's like driving while pushing on the brake pedal. Ah-hah! No wonder the car seemed depressive. No wonder it seemed so un-thrilled about shifting up into second. No wonder the funny burnt smell.
Rich is truly, royally, rip-shit at the mechanic. Indeed, he was in quite a humor. I was glad that it wasn't my bad driving, after all, and that he wasn't mad at me (although even if it had been my fault, he wouldn't be that mad at me-- he knew my level of driving skill going into this). OTOH, if it were my fault, I could pay for the repairs and make it all better, but his being ripped off my an incompetent mechanic is just suckage that I can't make better.
We went to OPN and let Rich's brakes cool off and let Rich cool off to the point where we could get the car to limp home. Spent much of the evening draped over the sofa, recovering from the surge of stress hormones, waiting for the lovely homemade pizza.
DO NOT GET YOUR CAR FIXED AT THE CITCO ON CENTRE STREET!!!