CAR ISSUES

Whew! It’s good to put the car in park. I just spent four days driving 2,700 kilometres from Vancouver to Denver, managing to fit in three morning bike rides and a couple of National Parks. 

 

A couple of decades ago, those would have been easy travel days. I once pulled three 17-hour days in the car to make it to the family cottage. Wouldn’t consider that kind of road trip schedule ever again. My back just can’t handle that long in a car seat. 

 

Instead of worrying about the possibility of hitting moose, elk or deer while driving at night, my primary concern now is about having car trouble in some remote area in Idaho or Utah. (Signs that say “No Services Next 42 Miles” are not comforting.) I drive a 2015 Mini Cooper which runs really well but, as I can personally attest, aging has its drawbacks. I sprang for an oil change the day before I left but said no to the other suggested work the mechanic pitched. (They always pitch other work, right?)

 

Everything was good until I pulled over to take yet another photo of yet another red rock formation in Arches National Park. An SUV pulled up beside me, rolled down the window and the driver said, “Hey…you’ve got something hanging low under the front end of your car.” I thanked him and he drove on toward a different pullout. 

 

I got down on my hands and knees, hoping to see maybe a plastic bag or a desert plant—I had a tumbleweed in my engine once—but, dang, it looked to be a dangling car part. Instead of hitting the road after the park to make my way to Denver I drove back into the town of Moab, Utah where I’d stayed the night before and pulled into the only autobody shop I could find. 

 

This was not going to go well. I imagined parts being ordered from Salt Lake City, taking several days to arrive, maybe having to fly out of Moab to Denver since Evan and I were due to fly to New York City two days later. I braced for being told I needed a new transmission or, hell, a whole new engine. I wondered how many thousands of dollars the repairs would cost. 

 

As soon as the prior customer paid his bill—good to see he wasn’t crying—I walked up to the counter and explained what I knew. Hanging part. The service guy then asked me a question. It might have been about a car part I’d never heard of. It could just as well have been something in Korean or Portuguese. 

 

This happens every single time I take my car in for a repair. The first question always feels like a test: How much does this driver know about cars? As always, I failed the test. The obvious implication is that the auto shop can run up the bill because who am I to argue? I know absolutely nothing.

 

On his computer screen, the guy started to create my customer profile. He went straight from name to zip code. Oh, no. Another big reveal. Canadian postal codes are a wonky mix of numbers and letters. I had to say, “It’s Canadian.” 

 

His next question: “So the plates are Canadian, too?”

 

My stomach sank and it had only twenty percent to do with the fact that earlier that morning I’d sipped one-fifth of the worst oat milk latte I’d ever had in my life before pouring the rest out. (WTF, Starbucks?) 

 

I leaned into that Canadians-are-so-nice schtick and hoped he would brush aside thoughts that a stranded foreigner was a cash cow for business.

 

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be able to take a look at your car in about thirty minutes.” Before surrendering my key, I unlocked the car to take out a bag of Trader Joe’s chocolate-peanut butter pretzels which I stress-ate while the TV screen in the reception area blasted news about Formula 1 races. I was totally in foreign territory. I had no wi-fi on my phone so I edited my photos from Arches and Canyonlands National Parks, the whole time chanting in my head, Please don’t take advantage of me. 

 

Right on schedule, I was summoned back to the counter. The man smiled broadly. To my left, a rock. To my right, a hard place. How many days? How many dollars?

 

Apparently, the problems was the skid plate. Oh, yes. That was the Korean/Portuguese term he’d mentioned at the outset. “We just gave it a trim,” he said. “The dealer can get you a new one.”

 

Um, okay…

 

He printed out my invoice. Apparently, I was good to go. The damage to my credit card: $72.

 

I swear, I don’t recall the last time I paid so little for an auto repair. My oil change from days earlier cost two and a half times that amount.

 

Hello, early Thanksgiving. I was not taken advantage of. I did not have to book an extra night in Moab. I did not have to look into propeller airplane flights out of Canyonlands Airport. I was treated with the kind of respect I’m not used to when it comes to car issues. 

 

If you ever need a mechanic in Moah, Utah, give me a shout.