After weeks of trying to pinpoint and fix a problem with my car (called "Old Black," even though it's blue - named for Neil Young's guitar, but enough digression...), I finally had to cave in and have an expert deal with it.
Fuel pressure regulator. Couldn't've'd fixed it had I wanted to as much as I wanted to type those apostrophes (fo'c's'le and bo's'n's: the nautical ones with three).
When I got her back, she wasn't the same. The seat was positioned strangely. She had a paper floor mat tossed in her. The traction control idiot light wouldn't go off (mechanic apologized and fixed that in 5 minutes). Worse, that sickening chortle and whine when she started was gone, the throaty cough wasn't there, the tach didn't spin wildly when shifting gears.
What'd they do to you, baby?
Wow. Guess I've become one of those guys who get attached to their car. Maybe I'm breathing in exhaust fumes - I do seem to be even more random than usual here.
Sunday Night Musings
6 days ago