Sometimes the simplest lessons are the toughest. Or vice versa.
One of the great--albeit superficial--joys in my life is spending every sunny summer moment I can driving my beloved 1960 Corvette (that's me inside it at left, and above as well, obviously).
Given its age, it's not as reliable as, let's say, my everyday car (a lil' Lexus 250), so what I decided to in October 2010 is swap out the old engine over the winter with a new one to ensure that I don't have to hold my breath every time I turn the ignition key (especially if it's late and I'm some godforsaken place far from home).
I was referred to a mechanic, a specialist in classic cars, and we agreed on a fee and a delivery date--this April 15th, when I usually bring the car out in wishful thinking of an early summer.
And thus began an adventure--misadventure, actually--that only ended last Monday.
Let's see how I can make this interminable story as brief and painless as possible...
Well, throughout the winter, I received a whole bunch of photos of my car, hoodless, engine-area wrapped in towels as the block was removed. It looked like my car was undergoing open-heart surgery. At times, I misted up.
In February, after making my second payment, the mechanic started to question whether we buy or re-build, deciding on the latter. Fine, I said, as long as it's more reliable. I just wanna drive the damn thing.
Well, a multitude of false turns, false hopes and miscues later, it's May 15th, and I'll I've got is this new picture of my car:
Well, I lost it.
"FORGET IT!," I roared. "Back to square one! Just change the goddamn engine!
Not as easy as I would've liked, but a few weeks--WEEKS!--later, we find one, and schedule putting it in. It's now June. I've been paying for a phantom parking space for this phantom car since April. Luckily, the summer weather thus far kinda sucks, which is the only saving grace of me not going completely postal.
I don't get it; what could be so difficult? This is an engine circa 1960. Even Fred Flinstone's car, with it's Pterodactyl-driven motor, was more advanced.
Anyway, finally!, we get the new engine in. The car's ready! It's the end of June.
Well, not so fast. There's a carburetor problem. Need to find one that fits and doesn't overpower the engine. But there's a holiday, and it won't be here until next week so...
The second finally! Wednesday, June 29th, the car is delivered to the garage of my gym. I pick it up and drive it home. Ten minutes of heaven!
The next day, I drive it to work. ten minutes of heaven again! And that night, after a late-night dinner with my family, on the eve of the Canada Day/July 4th long weekend, I drive my son Aidan home in it.
He remembers the car as it was back in 2010--a little of a rough ride, heavy idling. We both marvel at how smooth the engine is as we drive it home...
...just before it shudders and conks out dead one block from the garage in my building!
Dead. Lifeless. It's throaty roar silenced.
No amount of coaxing, key-turning, battery-boosting or praying could start it up again.
"Do you have gas?" Aidan asks.
"Don't be stupid, of course I have gas, damn it!" I snap back. "Almost a third of a tank!"
Slightly more than 24 hours after getting it back, after the sum total of 25 minutes of driving it, my car is rendered invalid. Worse yet, despite being a mere 100 metres from my house, Aidan and I couldn't push the car uphill to my garage. Too steep. And given the three-day weekend, no way I'm leaving it crippled on the side of a downtown street.
So...1:30 a.m., I call an emergency tow truck.
At first, the driver doesn't want to touch my car; something about classic cars being too fragile and insurance and what have you. But after enough begging and pleading, he finally loads it onto a massive flatbed, drives a distance that was about three lengths of the truck itself, and tucks it away in my spot. (There's a whole other story about how we actually got it into the tightest spot in my building's garage, but that's another nightmare I'd like to forget.) I finally get to bed, frustrated, seething and exhausted, after 3:00 a.m.
Anyway, I wait until Monday to call the mechanic, and I guess I did a good job of corking my volcanic rage, because he agreed to hike over to my place while I was at work and take a look at the patient.
About two hours later, he calls.
"Are you sitting?" he asks.
Not a good sign.
"You won't believe what's wrong with your car..."
Not a good way to start a conversation with me at any point...but especially that Monday. I told him, simply, to hit me.
"You had no gas."
Seems like there was a problem with the gas gauge. In retrospect, Aidan was right.
Which brings us to what I learned after all this:
Never dismiss the obvious... no matter how ridiculously obvious it might seem.
Just imagine how much easier my life would've been had I just hiked over to the gas station down the street and picked up a gallon-in-a-can. Yes, it may not have been the solution...but in this case, it was indeed.
Reminds me of a Just For Laughs story of 2009, when the legendary John Cleese hosted one of our galas.
We were doing three om-stage numbers, each one more complicated than the other. The show closer involved an on-stage wedding, the middle act was a telethon, but the opener was a simple, little piece we called a "slide show." In essence, the slide show is a monologue where the jokes pay off via images projected on a giant screen centre-stage. A technical and logistical no-brainer.
So, cut to the show, and it starts majestically. Cleese walks out to a raging standing ovation, greets the crowd and launches into the opening number.
It works like a charm. The first four "slides" pay off with huge laughs...
And then the screen goes dark.
Panic ensues backstage. Yelling, running, screaming, finger-pointing. Cleese, abandoned without a life-raft, tries to kill time by dancing a silly jig and speaking in pseudo-intellectual German-esque gibberish.
But to no avail. This bit is dead. It has ceased to be. He introduces the show's first act, and walks off stage into a sea of red faces and mea culpa apologies.
Nobody could figure it out. Engineers, heads of tech, lighting directors all scratching their heads until intermission time, when Thierry Francis, responsible for projection, climbed his way into the balcony, followed the wire coming from the projector all the way to the theatre's far wall...where he noticed that the plug had inadvertently been pulled from its socket by some clumsy shlub walking by (we think...).
The lesson is an important one, despite these two tales. Often, when things go wrong, we think the worst and search way too far for the answer. Equally as often, the answer is something simple, stupid and an easy fix.
Basic medicine works in that manner; doctors go down a checklist, from simple to complex, knocking off possibilities along the way until they make their diagnosis.
We frequently do the same...but problem is, we reverse the order of checklist.
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(P.S. Thanks to long-time buddy and pop-up photog Matthew Cope for both pix in this post.)