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Harold is dead. Long live Harold.
My plans to post about Arisia have been preempted by a Real Life Crisis: Harold, my poor beleaguered Olds Intrigue, has finally coughed up its last smoke-clogged lung.
The portents of automotive doom have been accumulating for a while. Some of Harold's issues started years ago, such as the very gradual oil and coolant leaks, the windows that wouldn't stay up until I had them fused shut, the engine that sounded like snarling diesel hate, and the persistent "check engine" light that the mechanics said would cost me to fix but wouldn't kill me to ignore. In the last week or so, however, things started getting scarier. New noises emerged, and not good ones. The vibration turned into a shimmy. That "check engine" light would occasionally start blinking. The power steering took a powder. Starting the thing up turned into a crap shoot. And yes, repairs would have been a good idea, but I was short on funds and disinclined to start pouring cash down the gullet of a beast that would be better served by not-so-early retirement. It was only a matter of time.
Naturally, the Fates being the snarky bastards they are, Harold chose the drive home from work on the coldest day of the winter to finally roll over and hack up figurative blood. The poor thing stalled out on a hill, restarted, stalled again upon being put into drive, lather, rinse, repeat until it was clear that no amount of ignition-key-and-gas-pedal-based CPR would be to any avail. Unfortunately, the spot in question was on a stretch of NH Route 9 that had marginal shoulder at best, and even though I had pulled over when it started clunking out I was still about a quarter of the way into the right lane. My only option other than leave it there was to wrench it into neutral and drift backward into a snowdrift, where it still sits. Luckily I caught![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
figmentj on the phone before her meeting with her clients (although one nice man in an emergency vehicle did stop to check on me and ask if I felt safe), and she was able to come scoop me up and cart me back to Keene, where I hung out at Starbucks over WiFi and cocoa while she worked.
The thing is, and this is the part I can't get over, is that instead of freaking out as I usually do over such things, standing in the sub-freezing cold while awaiting my ride left me feeling grateful for such things as warmth and food and human contact, and realizing just how lucky I am in the meandering life of mine. And as I lie here in bed in a sweater and fleece pants, mentally raising a glass to the pain-in-the-arse car that served me for nearly a hundred thousand miles' worth of living, the one thought that lingers is that life is, indeed, good.
Tomorrow I start car hunting and poking about for an auto loan, and joining Jenna in figuring out how we're going to get through the coming weeks. But that's tomorrow. For now there's warmth and a full belly and a lovely woman lying next to me. Life is good.
The portents of automotive doom have been accumulating for a while. Some of Harold's issues started years ago, such as the very gradual oil and coolant leaks, the windows that wouldn't stay up until I had them fused shut, the engine that sounded like snarling diesel hate, and the persistent "check engine" light that the mechanics said would cost me to fix but wouldn't kill me to ignore. In the last week or so, however, things started getting scarier. New noises emerged, and not good ones. The vibration turned into a shimmy. That "check engine" light would occasionally start blinking. The power steering took a powder. Starting the thing up turned into a crap shoot. And yes, repairs would have been a good idea, but I was short on funds and disinclined to start pouring cash down the gullet of a beast that would be better served by not-so-early retirement. It was only a matter of time.
Naturally, the Fates being the snarky bastards they are, Harold chose the drive home from work on the coldest day of the winter to finally roll over and hack up figurative blood. The poor thing stalled out on a hill, restarted, stalled again upon being put into drive, lather, rinse, repeat until it was clear that no amount of ignition-key-and-gas-pedal-based CPR would be to any avail. Unfortunately, the spot in question was on a stretch of NH Route 9 that had marginal shoulder at best, and even though I had pulled over when it started clunking out I was still about a quarter of the way into the right lane. My only option other than leave it there was to wrench it into neutral and drift backward into a snowdrift, where it still sits. Luckily I caught
figmentj on the phone before her meeting with her clients (although one nice man in an emergency vehicle did stop to check on me and ask if I felt safe), and she was able to come scoop me up and cart me back to Keene, where I hung out at Starbucks over WiFi and cocoa while she worked.The thing is, and this is the part I can't get over, is that instead of freaking out as I usually do over such things, standing in the sub-freezing cold while awaiting my ride left me feeling grateful for such things as warmth and food and human contact, and realizing just how lucky I am in the meandering life of mine. And as I lie here in bed in a sweater and fleece pants, mentally raising a glass to the pain-in-the-arse car that served me for nearly a hundred thousand miles' worth of living, the one thought that lingers is that life is, indeed, good.
Tomorrow I start car hunting and poking about for an auto loan, and joining Jenna in figuring out how we're going to get through the coming weeks. But that's tomorrow. For now there's warmth and a full belly and a lovely woman lying next to me. Life is good.
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Mama always said, "You don't know what poor is until you have to pay for your own car repairs." She was never more right...
Got any salvage places around up there?
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Very nice to see you at Arisia this weekend, and best of luck finding eager new wheels.
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