Brooks Peterson

Monday, Feb. 15, 1999

Never take your Carma for granted

   Our friends in the environmental movement have done a great service to mankind - and, for that matter, mammalkind, birdkind, amphibiankind, reptilekind - by making us aware of the fact that there is a very delicate, even precarious, balance among the ecosystems on this Big Blue Marble of ours.
   Oh, sure, we can still wreak all manner of havoc with our surroundings - but, thanks to the environmentalists, we now know that such reckless deeds will inevitably come back to bite us on the . . . uh, nose. If we pour industrial filth into our waterways, we must find some way to make the water pure again for our use. If we let smokestacks belch contaminants into the atmosphere, we pay in the form of respiratory maladies, and on, and on.
   Interestingly (to me, at any rate), I am beginning to suspect this phenomenon applies not only to the organic, but to the mechanical realm as well. Just ask anyone who lives with a, shall we say, mature vehicle. Or, in my case, a couple of 'em.
   Just as in an ecosystem, there is an excruciatingly delicate balance within your motor vehicle: Perhaps we could call it a "mechosystem?"
   On second thought, no.
   At any rate, after a certain number of years, and miles, your car (or truck, or minivan, or sport ute) works its way through whatever teething problems it may endure after it rolls off the dealer's lot. (Unless, of course, it's something like a Chevy Vega, an Austin Marina or a Renault Dauphine, in which case the teething problems never end.)
   With that out of the way, and assuming there are no major design flaws in the hardware (see: Engineereal Disease), your vehicle settles down into a certain rhythm; and, assuming you pay at least a little attention to routine service, you can rock along down life's highway without a care, until . . .
   Until something - it could be the most innocent sort of thing - comes along to upset the balance.
    At that point, you're in a heap of trouble. Where once you were At Peace, you suddenly find yourself fresh out of Carma.
   Take our 14-year-old BMW. (A certain member of my family would really like for you to do so. But that's another story.) We've had the odd mechanical adventure here and there with the old Bimmer, but it's been a rewarding experience on the whole: The odometer registers something like 297,000 miles, and I was looking forward to some sort of gala to celebrate passing the 300,000-mile mark.
   I still have hopes, you understand, but at some point I seem to have committed a misstep. ("Luke! I sense a disturbance in The Force!") Can't quite get it sorted out, but I'm convinced it had something to do with my decision the other day to check the oil.
   Strictly routine, you say? That's what I thought - until the hood release came off in my hand.
   Well, hi-de-ho, says me: Here's a little challenge. Not a problem. What's the logical thing to do? Ah: Take it to my mechanic/sensei for corrective action!
   And so it was done. He ordered the appropriate piece, and I toddled back to the BMW to run a few other errands. Except . . .
   Did I mention the car has developed this tendency not to start when warm? When cold, she fires up like a champ. When warm, nada.
   So back I stroll to the garage: I explain my warm-starting problem, and my guru cheerily responds: "Don't worry: I'll just pop . . . the . . . hood . . ."
   At which point we look at one another, sharing a piercing insight: Bad Carma.
    In due course, the hood-latch perplexity was sorted out, and we were back in business again. Still, this is the sort of thing that can make for a certain amount of uncertainty in the vehicle-driver interface.
   Thank goodness, at any rate, for the old MG. Having completed a lengthy convalescence from damage it suffered during last October's torrential rains, it's once again singing a happy song through those chrome exhaust pipes (and setting off car alarms wherever it goes).
   There's, uh, just this little matter of the MG trunk latch: hors de combat. (BMW hood. MG trunk. Am I alone in seeing a certain ominous symmetry here? Is there a sinister intelligence at work?)
   Ah, but that's another story, children, for another day. Just bring your old dad a nice hot toddy, will you?
    (Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com)