I theoretically know a lot about cars.
I know, in theory, how an internal combustion engine works. I know in essence how a cooling system transfers heat from such an engine to the atmosphere. I know that there are a lot of things that can go wrong with this system, and that the little needle creeping up toward the top of the temperature gauge is a pretty good indication that one of these things has happened. I also know that the first thing to do when that happens is to turn off the A/C, open the windows, and crank up the heat – because the more you can disperse that heat, the better. None of that theoretical knowledge helps you much, however, when you are halfway up the Sunol Grade in the blistering California sun, and the ventilation system stubbornly refuses to output any hot air.
It’s bad news when you are driving up a grade that has a name. Nobody ever named a grade because they were just so thrilled to be driving up it that they wanted to make sure to send a postcard to all their friends from the top. People name grades so that they can say, “Man, I didn’t think I was going to make it up Godforsaken Grade,” or “Hello, Triple A? I’m halfway up Gehenna Grade and my car has exploded.”So there I was, the unwilling spectator in a race between my 300ZX’s journey to the top of the hill and my temperature needle’s trip to the top of the gauge. It was neck and neck, and I weighed my chances of making it to the downslope before my engine caught fire against the prospect of sitting for half an hour on the shoulder of 680 in ninety degree heat with no air conditioning – not to mention missing my meeting regarding a lucrative potential programming job in Fremont (yes, I’m retired, but there’s retired and then there’s retired, and I’m about five lucrative programming jobs away from being the italic kind of retired. With the italic variety, you get to vacation in Italy). All these thoughts bounced around in my head as the needle flirted with the top of the gauge. I could see the crest of the hill just ahead. I decided to go for it.
The race was a tie. Just as the Z crested the hill, beginning its descent, it stalled. The Z sailed down the slope, the 6% grade more than enough to keep it at sixty-five. There’s an odd feeling of satisfaction that comes with piloting a completely unpowered vehicle three miles down a steep slope. Rather like running the luge, I imagine. Eventually the grade ended and I coasted through an exit to a stop light. Several cars were stopped ahead of me; I had no choice but to slow to a stop. Fortunately the trip down the hill had dropped the needle just barely back into the safe range. The light turned green and I cranked the ignition. It started. Thank God.
I pulled into a gas station, looking for a water hose. In California, gas stations are required to proved air and water to their customers, so I knew there would be one, but I couldn’t find it. I found a shady spot to park, and popped the hood. There was no steam: I had already vaporized every ounce of coolant in the vehicle. Not good.
I called the woman I was meeting and told her I’d be a little late. She’s a former co-worker of mine, so I knew she’d understand. I went inside and asked where I could get some water for my radiator. The cashier pointed across the parking lot and then said, in a slightly hushed tone, “You’ll need a code.”
A code. For water. Of course. God forbid they give away a few gallons of water for free. I stood there dumbly, wondering if she was going to give me the code. I mean, of course she was, she had as much admitted she was going to give it to me. But she wanted me to work for it. I was supposed to ask for the code, so it would be clear that she was doing me a favor, since technically using the restroom didn’t qualify me as a customer. I refused to ask, and after three seconds of uncomfortable silence, she whispered “Two six five.”
Got that? 2-6-5. That’s all you need to get all the free air and water you want at the 76 station on Auto Mall Parkway in Fremont. You’re welcome.
I got back in my car, started it up, and drove to the water hose. I filled it up, waited a few more minutes, then turned the key. Nothing happened. Dead battery? I thought dimly. Maybe I had boiled all the liquid in the battery as well. Still, it was strange that it had started twice since stalling, and now it wouldn’t even turn over. For all I knew, I had burned out the starter, the alternator and the flux capacitor.
Fortunately, I was just down the road from my meeting, so my ex-coworker picked me up and brought me there. The meeting went fine, and afterwards we tried to jump start the car. Click-click-click went the ignition. I was pretty sure that at the very least I had fried my battery, so it wouldn’t hurt to run across the street and get a new battery. After that I would have exhausted my mechanical know-how, and would have to figure out (1) where to get my car towed and (2) how to get back home to the Central Valley, about 70 miles away.
I fiddled with the battery terminals for ten minutes or so using the cute little baby crescent wrench I had purchased from Wal-Mart, and managed to get the new battery installed. Amazingly, the Z started right up. I topped off the radiator with magical 2-6-5 water and was on my way home.
I was about halfway up Satan’s Grade when I saw that the needle was pointing to ten o’clock again. Shit. I had figured the Z was just a little low on coolant, but now it appeared something more serious was going on. This time I pulled over, steam hissing from the radiator. When it had subsided, I grabbed the single one liter bottle of water I had in the car and took off my shoes and socks. No, really. Stay with me.
I wrapped one of my socks around the radiator cap and twisted it off. I poured the water in, and there was more bubbling and hissing. I put the cap back on and sat and waited for the needle to slowly drop. When it was level with the horizon, I started up again. As I picked up speed, the needle began its rapid climb, and I barely made it to the top. I coasted to the bottom and drove for another mile or so. It was Friday at rush hour, so the traffic was stop-and-go. Every time I hit the brake I was wasting valuable momentum. The needle went higher and higher, and when I saw a sign for highway 84 east, I got off the interstate.
I drove for a few miles on a windy, two lane road through the foothills before pulling over again in a cloud of steam. After a while, a guy in a Porsche stopped and asked if I needed help. “Do you have any water?” I asked. Of course he did. Everybody in California carries bottled water. He gave me a couple of bottles and I poured it in. By this time I had noticed that the traffic on highway 84 was pretty light for a Friday evening. “Is this 84?” I asked.
“Uh, no. This is Calaveras Road. 84 is back that way,” he said, pointing the direction I had come. Fantastic. It had just spent half an hour going five miles in the wrong direction.
The Z limped back to 680, boiling off what little water was in its radiator. I pulled over a few yards from the onramp. I could get on the highway, but I wasn’t going to make it far without any water. There were few cars around, and probably no houses or businesses for miles. It would be dark soon. Now what?Read the exciting conclusion on Wednesday. And make sure to submit your captions for the caption contest by tonight, and come back tomorrow to vote!
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