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It was past dark thirty. We were still 20 miles from home, driving and passing the time by doing what we all ultimately do sometime in life — talking about aches, pains and doctor’s appointments.
We were reassuring each other that age has nothing to do with any of it.
“What’s this?” I said. Amber warning lights interrupted the peaceful glow of dim green dash lights.
“I don’t know,” my friend said. It was her car, but I was driving.
Processing the situation, I tried offering assurance.
“It’s an amber check-engine light, not red. That just means have your car checked at your first opportunity. We’re OK.”
It sounded good. But it’s funny how issues that seem minor in the light of day command a higher level of concern at night when there’s some miles left to home.
We stopped at a convenience store, which afforded us time to convince each other the odds were good for making it back without further incidents.
As I drove, I thought of keeping my first car running. That involved getting me to classes, my after-school job and cruising the Mount Pleasant main drag between the Dairy Queen and Bobby Joe’s.
The sign on top of what we called Bobby Joe’s read Dairy Mart or something similar. Nobody remembers that name. Keeping your car running to get there was important.
Auto maintenance was easy then. Keep gas, oil and tire pressure levels in range and listen for weird noises. Those noises, not computers, usually provided a good clue regarding the nature of the problem.
Being young and fearless also added a notch to one’s confidence level. A 60-mile road trip to the drag races in a worn-out ’55 Chevy with a warmed-over Corvette motor that I had owned all of two weeks? No worries.
Never mind that I knew nothing about the $250 car, other than it was wicked fast. I filled the tank with 29-cents-a-gallon high test, and we headed for Interstate 20 Raceway.
The daylight trip down was uneventful. Then on the way home, neighbor and friend Ronald Rust asked, “How fast are we going?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see the speedometer.”
He leaned down, nose close to the dash. The only light glowing was the red high-beam indicator.
“What’s the top number on the speedometer?” Ronald said.
“I think 110.” “Must be doin’ 115 then. I can’t see the needle.”
“Naw,” I scoffed. The car sounded good, but darkness began creating noises in my mind and I backed off the accelerator.
Noises and a little common sense made car care relatively easy in those days. Now, mechanical contrivances controlled by computers and electronics complicate common sense.
YouTube videos the next day offered head-scratching remedies to my friend’s problem. The warning light indicated a problem in how the computer distributes power to the wheels. The warning could be caused by improper pressure in the tires, potholes in the road or a faulty gas cap.
The warning lights had gone away as quickly as they had appeared and are still gone as I conclude this column. A trip to the dealership is planned, however, for a professional second opinion with computer codes to suggest repairs or replacements.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could be like cars?” my friend mused. “Just show up at the doctor’s office. Let them check your computer codes, make a technical repair or replace a faulty part and you’re good for another 10,000 miles.”
I think she may be on to something.
Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@ gmail.com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com
