wideeyedfunk

Category: Cars

Things with motors and wheels are exciting.

  • Boat anchor tour

    We acquired motorcycle licenses, the WideEyedSpouse and I. Our 49cc Keeway scoot now proves insufficiently amusing. Yes, I can feel the wind and catch a thrill while waaaaaaahhing over to the co op for some organic, fair-trade, shade-grown coffee. Yes, cruising the park roads helps me to think long thoughts while dodging joggers, dogs, kids, and beefy rugby teams. But…

    We need more now. Expectations are higher. Bigger joy seems attainable.

    Some of us are hoarding ducats for a spring purchase of a shiny joy that is reliable AND fun.

    Others (hint, the WideEyedSpouse) want instant and corroded joy, with uncertainty, tinkering, troubling oil leaks, electrical problems, snapped choke cables, wonky carbs (heh?). The Spouse will roll a steel horse on up that drive right now, and to that end we are touring the boat anchors of Western New York. Every weekend. The Mighty Pathfinder towing a clattering U-Haul motorcycle trailer. Just in case. Because nobody pretends he’ll ride one of these clunkers home.

    anchor 1

    It goes like this…

    – We’re here to see the motorcycle, we set up the meet with you. Oh, right. [Startled face.] I don’t keep it here.

    [Longish drive down a different but equally remote rural side road.]

    [Imagining my new motorcycle license picture on the news. WideEyedFunk, last seen…]

    *

    – Does it start? Oh, she’ll start. Bulletproof engine on her.

    – Can I start it? Well. [Surprised.] You can try.

    *

    – Is it rideable? Oh, yeah, sure. ­Daily rider.

    – May I take it on a short ride to test the clutch and brakes? Oh. [Toothy inhale.] I wouldn’t.

    *

    – Do you have the title? Yes.

    – Is the title in your name. Oh. No, but it is in the name of the guy I got it from. [Reassuring smile.]

    *

    – Has it passed inspection recently. Yes. (*This is a question of relativity. What is recent, really, considering the duration of humanity’s use of created objects, the age of the planet, the birth of this universe?)

    *

    – Ok, it doesn’t run, hasn’t been inspected recently, the title isn’t in your name, is that right? Yes. But you are willing to take one third of your asking price to get it off your hands because you are leaving town tomorrow? Yes.

    *

    – You are asking $750. Will you take $600? Oh. [Head shake. Lips pursed.] I could part it out for over two grand. That seat alone, no rips, worth two fifty.  [Long pause.]

    *

    – [Phone call.] You should know if I come out to see it and it is as you described, I’m not going to offer more than seven hundred for it. Yeah. That’d be ok. But I was laid off last week [mom is sick, want to make my money back, having a baby, owe a bookie…] and could really use the money. [Expectant pause.]

    *

    And then, rising from the muck, one that might not be an anchor, one that isn’t holding back the joy, mired in frustration. One that starts, and stops, and does all of the stuff in between. Mostly.

    anchor 2

  • Rain Delay

    We lost the Mini to car fever yesterday. The WideEyedSpouse struggled heroically for months. Yesterday he succumbed. Yesterday, a bright sunny day perfect for painting a century home, we spent in the air-conditioned comfort of a car dealer’s showroom. The Mini stayed there. We left to rearrange the snow shovels in the garage to fit the new WideEyedMobile. “Tomorrow we’ll work on the house all day,” the Spouse said, staring dreamily in at his new ride.

    But. Rain. Guilt-less, feck-less, fancy-free we fled the Homestead with our Niagara Wine Trail Passports (thanks WideEyedMLB!) in hand and turned left and right for an hour or more, heading east and north into rural western New York. We crossed and crisscrossed the Erie Canal. We skirted Lake Ontario. We saw old houses tumbling down, fixing up, and hovering undecided in a state of quasi-repair. Trucks and Chevys from oldy-time hid half under tarps – rusty butt ends sticking out. Kids played in puddles, trailers huddled in clusters on abandoned farm fields. We breathed deeply of non-city air and wallowed in the joy of the moment.

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  • What happens when one of your top five take-out places gets a liquor license and installs a bar?

    Nothing good and everything wonderful.

    Last weekend I was starving, STARVING after cleaning the house, doing the laundry, walking dogs, and visiting the car show. Sliding gracefully in and out of dreamy luxury sedans (I recommend the Audi A7 for sheer comfort and interior silence) and climbing into wee-electric cars (the Chevy Spark doesn’t feel real) works up an appetite. We stopped at a newer restaurant that’s supposed to be good  – a two hour wait and hairblowingly loud music in the bar. The WideEyedSpouse looked down his nose. “No. Much No.” We tried a BBQ joint. One hour and 15 minutes. Good food but not that good. Drove past our number one sandwich take-out joint. Closed.

    Friends, we were now out of our milieu. We were in downtown Buffalo after dark. Unusual. We were looking for food without a plan. Rare. We weren’t calling for pizza. Shocking. In fact, we had given up on the very notion of take-out. The universe shook and I was cast adrift, hungry, helpless, sad.

    The Mini motored us up Elmwood Avenue past trendy food joints. Nothing looked right. A kale salad at home was, I feared, inevitable. Then we saw it. Joe’s Deli, our number two sandwich take-out option and a top five regular. They’re in my phone. But this was a new location, with neon beer signs and open past 8pm. The Spouse cranked the emergency brake for a mid-traffic bootleg turn and slid into a snowy parking spot less than 20 feet from the door. At least that’s what it felt like. That’s how it should have been.

    It was wonderful. A long list of crafty tap beers for the Spouse, a Dark and Stormy cocktail for me. A short list of bar snacks  – not enough to baffle and just enough to provide multiple tastes. We ordered one of each. Who needs a sandwich when there are Bar Snacks? I smiled over the table at the Spouse. Reasonably decibeled music played. Kids ate with their parents. Everyone looked happy, no one was especially hip. It could not have been better.

    Which is no good. Because now, instead of take out in sweatpants, glasses, and end of the day poor attitude I’ll have to decide – do I want a quick and easy sandwich or do I want to be out in the world, smiling at the Spouse over a table full of snacks…

  • Ten reasons not to buy a used car.

    The plan was simple. Hop in the car. Scoot over the Canadian border to hit the closest Costco and back home for lunch. What? Why Costco specifically? Because friends, they sell Kirkland Signature peanut butter filled pretzel nuggets. And our laboriously imported supply from an Alaskan Costco ran out. Needs must. No other peanut butter stuffed pretzel nugget will do.

    As the mighty Pathfinder heaved itself up and over the arc of the Peace Bridge, the WideEyedSpouse and I witnessed our doom. Cars. Cars as far as the eye could see gleaming in the summer sun, filled with hopeless dead-eyed passengers, lined up in two endless highway lanes out of Canada. On our side the border lines were short, but leaving…leaving was going to be bad. Once you are on the Bridge there is no turning back, no way home that doesn’t include two border crossings. I looked at the Spouse. “Well,” I said, “I guess we can take our time putzing in Costco.”

    What we didn’t know? Saturday marked the start of a major Canadian holiday weekend. I haven’t seen the stats but Ontario was evacuating on Saturday. And after the Costco run we would be evacuating with them, We’d be ok though because after Costco, we would have The Stuffed Nuggets. That’s what we figured anyway.

    What else we didn’t know? The St. Catharine, Ontario Costco does not carry the Kirkland Signature peanut butter stuffed pretzel nuggets.

    Depressed. Hungry. And surrounded by angry and frustrated Canadians, the Spouse and I joined the egress. The Niagara Falls Rainbow Bridge was supposed to be quicker. The line for the Peace Bridge extended for miles on the Canada side. We saw people walking along the traffic for something to do. Car doors were open. “Oh man,” I head the Spouse mutter as I piloted the Pathfinder off of that apocalyptic highway and headed for the Rainbow Bridge, “this is going to be bad.”

    Then we traveled 1.5 miles in 117 minutes of helplessly close people watching before we made it back into the U.S.

    We saw things.  Awful things. Wretched things. The Top 10 reasons to NOT buy a used car, ever again:

    10. shirtless hairy backs

    The summer sun sizzled on the asphalt. Superheated car exhaust blew from thousands of idling engines. It was hot. Some gained comfort by sitting shirtless and sweaty, cradled by their absorbent car seats.

    9. blood soaked gauze

    I watched an ancient man carefully pluck a wad of drooled-up, blood matted gauze from inside his lower lip. He inspected it closely and then it disappeared into the car depths. I watched for a long time and edged closer. I couldn’t see where he put it.

    8. hair follicles

    Wafts of hairs blew from car windows as we sat on the Rainbow Bridge, looking out at the Falls.

    1. sneezes

    So many splashy sneezes.

    6. farted up seats

    And oh, the aromas. Hot asphalt. Exhaust. Digestive gases oozing from nearby cars. “No, you go ahead,” I gestured to a car who wanted the space between me and the fart-mobile ahead in line.

    5. kid residues

    Snot. Drool. Cheerios. Vomit. So many toddlers in the vacation evacuation line, so many kinds of kid residues.

    1. skin scurf

    Dandruff. Eczema. Big heavy flakes like warm greasy snow.

    3. butt sweat

    Please.

    2. scabs

    Pick. Pick. Pick. Brush off.

    1. boogers

    Pick. Flick. Wipe.

    No more used cars. No more summer Saturday trips to Canada.

  • Thanks Mini, for getting sick before the dead of winter.

    Team WideEyedFunk spent 5 hours in the garage Saturday, transplanting the Mini Cooper S’s failing electronic thermostat housing. It wasn’t quite freezing outside and I could feel my toes for most of the afternoon. Sure, some nice folks at the Mini dealership could have done it for us, and I could have stayed all warm and toasty on the sofa. But, the WideEyedHousehold is cheap.

    Start
    The sick Mini.
    SupportStaff
    Team WideEyedFunk support staff.

    We suited up in chilly weather gear, prepared the surgery table, and started the multi-hour Mini evisceration. First the air box came out. Good thing we had a new air filter ready, the old one was caked with Buffalo street filth. Poor Mini was feeling asthmatic.

    SurgeryTable
    Surgery table.
    DirtyFilter
    The Mini’s sinuses were crusted with urban decay.

    We unplugged a couple of vacuum hoses, a bunch of electronic stuff, and yanked out the wiring harness box. We drained most of the antifreeze out of the engine. Messy, like pumping a stomach. Then, the WideEyedSpouse leaned deep into the engine and unhitched six hoses from the thermostat housing. Some went to the turbo cooling system, some feed the heating system somehow, and a really big one shot back into the water pump. That one vomited some nasty when it came undone. The old thermostat housing had caked up leaky holes marks all over it. I was driving a Mini that was ready to puke out its guts all over some busy, probably rainy, highway. Poor Mini. Poor me.

    EmptyGuts
    Evisceration.

    In less than an hour (listening to iTunes radio playing hipster songs) we plonked the new housing on, shoved the hoses on, plugged in the vacuum hoses, reattached a bunch of electronic things, put the air box back, and zip tied the crap out of anything loose. The WideEyedKitchen sacrificed the iced tea jug for mixing the Mini soup, er, antifreeze and we fed the little guy some juice.

    Finish
    Transplant complete.

    In an act of great bravery, we zipped down a dark and rainy Main Street to pick up our large pepperoni. The Mini held strong. Go Mini. Go Team WideEyedFunk. Wish us all luck when the water pump goes – and please, think warm thoughts in that wish. None of us feel like cranking apart the passenger side of the car to transplant that in January. But we’ll do it. Because we’re cheap. And because we want the Mini to feel ok.

  • This situation is intolerable.

    I could fix it in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Or at least improve on it. Make it less distressing.

    A classic, careworn Mercedes 380SL convertible moved onto my street last month. The rear driver’s window panel is out on the driver’s side and has been during the whole of my acquaintance with the car. The owner’s cleverly expedient fix, a pink and orange beach towel shoved in the gap, pains me. This morning there were three beach towels shoved in the hole and draped over the entire area. RaingaugeEvidently one towel was insufficient to combat the near inch of rain we had in the night.

    As the lightening crackled and the downpour thundered on the roof of my house, I worried about the Mercedes. I fretted for it as it crouched under a tree in the street.

    Every time it rains, even a little, that Mercedes ages faster. Yes, it is already over the hill and running on fumes as any good old Mercedes will do for decades. But I am overcome with wonderment that a person who has the wherewithal and bravery to operate such a car as a daily driver is callous enough to speed its dying. Poor Mercedes. Poor me for having to witness this slow death.

    Mercedes1

    I can’t watch this play out over the coming days, weeks,  – or if the Mercedes is remarkably resilient –  months. I have hatched a plan. I have scissors, some good quality black duct tape, and a small sheet of high ml plastic sheeting ready. In the wee hours of the night, by the dim glow of the antique street light, I am going to fix it. Or at least improve on this intolerable situation a little bit.

  • Car Fever Part 3: New Cars Come with New Tires.

    “Spouse,” I say, coming in the house after driving home in the rain, “we need to research new tires for the Mini.”

    The WideEyedSpouse perks up. New tires means hours of research on TireRack, DiscountTireDirect, and Mini Cooper S forums. Productive research, not idle research. The Spouse opens his laptop.

    Do we get tires that perform best in snow and rain but are less ideal in summer asphalt conditions? Would we prefer a better warm weather adventure driving experience and have tires that are merely adequate during the times of year when it is best to go slow and careful anyway?

    Do we replace the run-flats that give a buckboard ride to the Mini with conventional performance tires and toss a donut spare in the boot? “How spirited is your driving?” the Spouse asks me. This isn’t a subject I care to discuss. I pretend I didn’t hear the question.

    As we watch evening TV (Episode 107 of Star Trek Next Gen), I listen to the Spouse clickety click around the internet. I see that he has several windows open simultaneously and he isn’t really paying attention to the TV because Captain Picard makes a funny face and the Spouse doesn’t laugh.

    “Ok,” he finally turns the laptop toward me, “I figured it out.”

    Pictured on the laptop screen is a BMW 3 series station wagon. A vehicle widely acknowledged as providing one of the best driving experiences in North America. I look at the image and then look over at the Spouse. “Heh?” I ask.

    “It comes with new tires,” he says.

    And that friends, is how the WideEyedHousehold handles every day vehicular wear and tear. So far I am resisting the car fever. It is kept low-grade by the winter temperatures this week. It is too frigid to make any decisions about anything. And way too cold to have a really enjoyable test drive.

  • Hamish Rides Console

    He’d ride shotgun but he is too small to see out the window. So he rides Console.

    Riding Console in the trucks we’ve had over the years is easy. The space between the driver and passenger seats is huge. The console is a big padded platform that looks like it was designed to provide mattressy respite for beefy man arms. There’s enough space that a passenger beefy man arm would not accidently touch a driver beefy man arm already using the console. Hamish the Corgi fits on truck consoles with room to spare. His panoramic view of traffic, countryside, and snacks being eaten by the passenger is unparalleled from the console.

    However.

    When Hamish cruises the urban scene with me and the Mini Cooper S, he struggles to maintain the attitude of superior contentment. You can see that he is smiling, but maybe his back teeth are clenched. Smile and clench your teeth – then say “this is great”. That’s exactly how Hamish looks riding the Mini console.The Mini console is low and he mainly has a view of the giant Mini speedometer. The console is narrow. He wedges his barrel chest between the seats and perches one front paw on the console in front of him. The other he rests on a human or waves in the air to counter balance g-forces on spirited turns. The console is short. About two thirds of Hamish hangs off the back, dangling in space over the rear seat floor boards.

    None of this deters Hamish. He will shove Sweet Miss Tibbit out of the way to ride console. He calls Console before we’ve even left the house. Before my shoes are on, or keys are in my hand. As I lift the dogs into the back of the Mini, Sweet Tibbit watches Hamish hustle his fuzzy person into the console position and sighs. She sits behind the passenger seat and leans against it to watch the world pass. Sometimes she peers over Hamish’s ears, asking what’s going on up there?

    Nothing much Sweet Tibbit. Nothing much.

    Miss Tibbit wants a turn on the Console. Never going to happen.

  • A goldfish escaped in the car.

    It isn’t what it sounds like. I didn’t actually lose a Carassius auratus auratus in the car. It isn’t like the time the lobsters got free and headed for liberty under the seats. We could hear them shuffling around under there while we sped for the house. I held my feet up, sure one was going to get me. The Spouse had to keep his foot on the gas, his Achilles tendon vulnerable to lobster attack.

    Today I lost a tasty, cheddar cheese flavored multigrain Goldfish™. I like to buy them in the 30 ounce milk carton. Probably there are about a million in there. 75,000 servings of crunchy saltliness. And as we were driving along in the new all-black nearly perfect Pathfinder, one of them flopped its way out of the carton and disappeared in the crack between the seat and the console.

    The Spouse didn’t turn his head but I could feel his awareness of the escape.

    I casually reached two fingers down into the crevice where I could see the fish stranded on a small ledge. Nothing. I peered down into the crevice. Gone. Disappeared into the underseat ether.

    Uh oh, I said. The spouse laughed. Not like a hah-hah laugh, but an oh-great kind of laugh. He claims not to care too much but I sort of doubt him.

    I doubt him so much that I debated whether or not to tell him about the other two escapees who hid under my leg for a few hours. Maybe he won’t notice the Goldfish shaped oil smootzes on my seat.

  • Car Fever Part 2: Rapid Onset

    The Spouse heard an ad on the radio for Mike Barney Nissan at approximately 7:35am last Thursday. We were in a period of remission with the Car Fever, having administered the aggressive treatment of switching cars so we both felt like we had New Cars. It seemed to be working. But then that ad came on the radio and in the 15 seconds it ran, the Spouse’s fever raged anew. His hands quivered, his heart palpitated, his eyes glazed – no I wasn’t there but I’ve seen the Fever strike.

    I received his email at approximately 10am. Nissan is offloading the 2012 Pathfinders, it said. Emails from the Spouse often include Cars For Sale topics: the 1971  Lincoln Continental, the 1974 Mercedes Benz 280, the 2002 BMW 740iL, the 1969 Triumph GT6+, the 1978 Mercedes Benz 450SEL and that is just in one month – all advertised on Craig’s list, Hemming’s classifieds, a taped up handwritten sign at work. There’s always a car out there.

    The Spouse’s email also pointed out that we would have less trouble hauling the gear and pets on vacation if we had a Pathfinder. He casually mentioned that probably Buffalo would actually have snow this winter, and the Pathfinder is a 4×4. These are Justification No. 3 for getting a new car (Car Fever Part 1) -well established new car irrationalizations.

    I sighed, saved my grant proposal draft and headed online to read Pathfinder reviews.

    I learned that this model Pathfinder will be the last of the truck-based Pathfinders. The 2013s will be crossovers, based on a car platform. Eww, I thought. I read reviews critiquing the Pathfinder for lacking entertainment: no little movie screens, no on-board GPS, no useless stuff I don’t care much about. I learned that the Pathfinder drives like a truck, not a car. That a person can pop this giant, beautiful vehicle into 4×4 low and head off road. After all, it’s called a Pathfinder, a Path Finder, paths are off-road…trucks go offroad. I was not offended by any of the reviews which seemed to miss the trucky point of the Path Finder.

    My reply email to the Spouse simply asked, do you want to test drive one? His answer came before my finger lifted from depressing the mouse button on SEND. Okay, he said – I could feel the raging inferno of his Car Fever through the email connection. It coursed through the ten miles separating us. Its virulence infected me, and all I could think about was getting my Mini Cooper S back (the Spouse took it in our Car Trade) because we would surely sell the Rabbit.

    We headed over to the dealer armed with an insurance estimate and the happy knowledge that Nissan was probably desperate to get rid of the old, trucky Pathfinders before the new sleek, car-like versions came out.

    There were several dozen Pathfinders on the lot. We met Charlie the salesman. We drove an S. Boring. I felt nothing. The Spouse felt disappointed. We got in an SV, which has a good bit of kit as the Fifth Gear guy says. Even has a backup camera that gives an insect like eyes-in-the-back-of-your-head view. Yes, we said, we want this. But we don’t Need it. Charlie, the Spouse and I spoke plainly, even abruptly, moved through hours of negotiating in about 15 minutes. Yes, no, yes, no, lower, it’s already at cost, lower, will you commit to a buy? If it’s lower.

    At approximately 7:35pm, we had a 2012 Nissan Pathfinder. Car Fever was broken. The Spouse claims that he can enjoy life again. He claims that he can stop searching the internet for cool cars. He claims that he is done with the Car Fever. This time, he says, he got a vehicle that he can keep for good.

    I mean really, he’s only said that 13 times before. You know what they say, 14th time’s the charm.

    The Spouse in Pathfinder: Self Portrait. Doodle in Pen on Acid Free Laser Printer Paper (8/30/2012).