News | Trucks stuck in 4 wheel low
Last Winter: Trucks Stuck in 4 wheel low:
For you that don’t know, I live in the north, close to Canada, and this past year we seemed to get a lot more snow and cold than usual. I went out one day to get the truck ready for a run into town. Normally
not a big deal, but I had not started it in a while, a big mistake,
yes, and I had not driven it in the snow. My ten minute (My estimate)
warm up the truck and get-it-ready-to-go trip turned into a few hours
of jumping it, letting it warm up (It was like 2000 degrees below
zero) and then getting in the thing to go. Since I don’t drive at
all, except around the yard, you know, getting things ready to go,
that meant my long suffering Mother had to drive the truck into town.
And, she hates the truck.
I don’t mean to imply she doesn’t like the truck, I mean to imply she
hates the truck. HATES the truck. So getting her in it to drive it is
a big deal. But, I did all I could. Jumped it, warmed it up, opened
the door so she wouldn’t have to, after I pulled it right up to the
door. The only thing I could’ve done better is park it on the porch.
Mom is slightly over four feet tall, and the truck is four wheel drive, not
huge, but is is a step up into the cab. Her last truck was a two
wheel drive and didn’t sit much farther of the ground than a car.
That, that sitting-off-the-ground-further thing , is strike one
against the truck as far as Mom is concerned. She wanted to take the
tires off her old truck and put them on the new one so it would sit
lower. When I explained she couldn’t do that she began to hate the
new truck even more. Strike two. The truck was almost out before she
ever drove it. And since I steered her towards the new truck I will
probably never hear the end of it.
But, I pulled the truck up, all warmed up, opened the door for her and
offered to help her in. Bad move. Mom does not acknowledge age or
shortness. Nevertheless age and shortness do acknowledge her. She
doesn’t give in, just ignores it. So she climbed up into the cab, on
her own, and off we went… Off we went not too far.
I forgot to mention that while I was moving the truck to bring it up to
the door I decided, “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun to test out the Four
Wheel Drive?” … and … “Maybe we will need the Four Wheel
Drive on the way into town so I should make sure it works!” I’m
pretty sure I used an exclamation mark just like that too. I was that
enthusiastic about it. So, I turned the little knob on the dash from
Two Wheel to Four Wheel Low. Nothing seemed to change. A little light
did come on on the dash informing me that Yes, I was now in
Four Wheel Low. So I dropped the truck in first and plowed through
the two inches of loose powder on the driveway and fought my way out
into the wilds of the out back (End of the driveway). I will say
this, I never spun a wheel. That Four Wheel Low is phenomenal. So,
after my off-road adventure, I turned the little knob back to Two
Wheel drive.
So, off we went… In Four Wheel Low. Which meant that the transmission
was whining. The Motor racing, and we were doing all of twenty miles
an hour. Creeping down the road. So, idiot that I am, I said to Mom,
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” Mom says. “It’s your stupid
truck!” To illustrate this more clearly, in case I had missed
something, she goosed the gas to try to make it go faster.
The other thing I forgot to mention is that I like to take a cup of
coffee with me. I have a travel cup of course but I don’t like it. If
you close the top on the travel cup the coffee is too hot when it
hits your lip. At least it is for me. So, I don’t use it. No. I like
a regular ceramic coffee cup filled right to the brim with hot, black
coffee. This time was no exception, but, thank God, since it was
about 2000 degrees below zero outside it had cooled off pretty quick.
Mom goosed the gas, the truck jumped forward, I ended up wearing the
coffee. All over me and the floorboards, a little on the dashboard
too if I’m honest. That is when I realized, One: It’s not good to be
a Wise Guy with your Mom. Two: Hot coffee will go right through
waterproof jackets. I guess waterproof does not mean hot coffee
proof. And Jeans? Ouch.
“Mom,” I said. “Better take it home. Something’s wrong with it.”
“Well,” Mom says. “The gas station is just down here. I’ll stop there.
Maybe we can fix it.”
Let me explain a little more. Mom grew up on a farm. The phrase ‘Right
down there’ could mean ten miles down the road, or, the next
county over. I was calculating walk back distance to get the car
should I have to. But, the other thing about Mom is that she raised
us alone. She’s pretty used to making command decisions, and she
doesn’t require a whole lot of input from her idiot son who picked
the truck that she hates and is now screwing up her day. I think
that’s a fair description, or assessment of the situation.
“Mom,” I said, while I tried to figure out where to put the now empty coffee
cup, “I think we should go back.” Down the road she went.
When she reached the gas station she pulled in and right up to the pumps.
“May as well get gas while we’re here,” she proclaimed. She shut
of the truck, jumped down to the ground (Nearly) and called back,
“Twenty” as she went inside.
I got my coffee soaked self out of the cab, pumped in the gas, I’m pretty
sure that Twenty Bucks, which got me around Five Gallons, is what my
first Muscle car (A 72 Plymouth Duster) I owned growing up used to
burn to start it. She came out, apparently having considered my
request to turn around, and said, “I guess we should probably take
the truck home… Something seems to be wrong with it.”
Rather than say anything else dumb, I just nodded and got back in the truck.
She climbed in, turned the switch and all it did was click twice and
then nothing. The guy behind me tapped the horn on his truck.
‘#@$%^#,’ I thought. I climbed out of the truck and walked back to
the guy.
“Truck’s dead,” I said. “Sorry.”
“@#$#@$,”
The guy said.
“Uh huh,” I agreed. “But at least you’re not the one who has to walk
three miles to get the car.”
“@@##$%,” the guy said
“You have a nice day too,” I told him.
So, after the three mile walk back to the house to get the car, I arrived
back at the gas station with my Aunt as a driver now, jumped the
truck and got it back home.
“I hate this truck,” Mom said as she climbed out of the truck once it
was home.
“I missed General Hospital,” My aunt told me.
‘@#$!.’ I thought.
I write this today because I went to my Tuesday night group meeting
last week, after that happened, and asked a few of the guys there who
are mechanically inclined what I did wrong. And, lo and behold, it’s
Tuesday again. So, it was on my mind.
Group…
“Oh, it’s the @#$#@@ sensor,” one guy said. “Those #@$%$%$# sensors
always do that.”
“Thank you,” I said. I told myself to call a mechanic I knew and have him
fix the sensor.
“No, no, no,” another guy said. “Those $#@#$@! sensors are a pain in the
##@@#, but it was probably a fuse. Those #@@#$$@# fuses are almost as
bad as those %$#@#$ sensors.”
“Uh huh,” I said. “The #@$$@ Fuses or the @##$$@# Sensors. Okay.” I
made another mental note. ‘Note To Self: Check #$$#@ Fuses too.’
“Maybe,” another guy said, “But the last time that happened to me it turned
out to be the #$$#@ motor on the (I have no idea what he called it).”
“Oh yeah,” The first guy said. “I forgot all about the #$@#@#$ motor
on the (Apparently he knew what the thing was called and how to
pronounce it).”
“Oh yeah… Forgot all about that,” The second guy said.
“What,” I asked, “No @#%$@#@?”
“Oh, sorry,” He said apparently taking me seriously. “The @#$%$@ motor
on the (He knew the word too).”
About this time I realized a few things. First: I could ask all I wanted,
it wasn’t going to fix the truck. Everybody had a different idea of
what it was. Two: At least I could check those things they suggested
or mention them to the mechanic. Three: Guys like to swear.. a
lot.
I went home and worried about the truck most of the week. Once it rose to a
balmy 12 below zero I went out and spent about four hours messing
with the truck. The indicator on the dash said ‘Four Wheel Low’ in
tiny red letters. ‘No #@#@#,” I thought. I found the sensor, seemed
to be working. I found the fuse, not blown. Hmm, I thought, It just
might be the Motor on the (Whatever the word was they used). Then I
looked at the switch on the dashboard. Just in passing mind you. I
was on the way out of the truck. I had conceded defeat. I flicked it
back and forth and noticed it didn’t rest completely at Two Wheel
Drive when I flicked it back. Meanwhile I’m running the truck,
letting the battery charge, cleaning the coffee off the dashboard
too, so I decided what the heck, I’ll look at the owners manual.
(That probably gave you pause to laugh. I will only say I am not
alone. Most men refuse directions or manuals. We’re too smart for
that sort of help). I opened the index, found my problem, turned to
the page, and read this,
“YOU MUST DEPRESS THE CLUTCH BEFORE SWITCHING OUT OF OR INTO FOUR WHEEL
DRIVE.”
Hmm I thought. I did that… Didn’t I? Maybe… Yes… No… I was
conflicted, and, since the truck was running I pushed in the clutch,
flipped the switch back and forth from Four Wheel Low to Two Wheel
drive and … The light blinked out and Two wheel lit up.
“!@@#$%@,” I said aloud. “Sorry, God.” I added. “!#@$!,” I said again. I
waited a few minuets to see if the truck would blow up or quit or
something. It didn’t. I shifted into first and ran it up the
driveway. No whining transmission. No Revving motor, it really was
out of Four Wheel Low. I put everything together and went back into
the house.
“Well,”
Mom asked?
“All fixed,” I said cheerfully.
“Really?”
She arched her eyebrows. “I hate that truck.”
“I know, Mom. I know,” I said.
“So what was it,” She asked?”
“Oh… Uh, well it was the @#$#@ Flux Capacitor,” I told her as I hunted
around in the fridge for a bottle of juice.
“Really,” She asked? “I saw ‘Back to the Future’. I like Michael J.
Fox. He probably never made his mother drive a truck she hates. What
was it really?”
“Um…
I had to press the clutch down to disengage it,” I admitted.
“I knew it!” Mom said.
“Hmm,”
I said.
So, tonight is group again. And the guys are gonna ask about the truck. I
guess I’ll just admit I didn’t do it right. Or I could blame it on
the @@##$$# Motor on the thing I can’t pronounce. I’ll play it by ear
I guess. Hey! Have a good week…
A new novel from author W. G. Sweet: My Own Apocalypse
Ethan lives in Harlem with his wife Janelle. The city gets out of control fast as an apocalypse hits the world. Harlem is burning; what is not burning is gang controlled. What is not gang controlled is abandoned. The people are on their own. The cops disappeared, same with fire fighters. The Fires are unchecked. Across the river parts of New Jersey are also burning. Ethen and his wife pick up bits and pieces of newscasts but none of it seems to make sense to them.
Things become clearer over the next few nights. Something, or somethings are prowling the streets at night, preying even on the gangs. At first, there is no clear answer and Ethan is convinced it is gang on gang violence, but little by little, it becomes clear that the dead are the problem.
The living die, and then rise again to prowl the streets and dark alleys preying on those that remain. Then Ethan awakens one morning, and Janelle is gone. She left in the night, distraught, setting out on her own to relieve Ethan of having to care for her. Ethan sets out into the lawlessness that is Manhattan to find her…
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