Adaptive Curmudgeon

Final Thoughts On Death Wobble:

“Death wobble” is bad enough and common enough that it merits a recall. Everyone who owns a new(ish) car gets occasional recall notices about dumb little crap. Maybe some doofus in New Jersey managed to start a fire after dousing the seat with Sterno and stuffing a grapefruit in a left handed electric door switch; subsequently they called a lawyer on speed dial and now Suzuki is putting a new little $5 wingding on twenty thousand puddle jumpers and cutting a big ass check to a class action lawyer. That’s stupid.

Sudden catastrophic violent shaking and loss of control of a big rig at highway speed with no warning is a whole different animal. It’s a known issue. It’s not safe. Everyone has heard of it. It happened on a well maintained truck with no warning. Shit like that is the whole point of a recall. Congress dry humped Toyota over bullshit while I was rolling around on four tons of iron that might lose control due to a common and known flaw?

I call foul! I had my reservations about owning anything associated with a government owned company and this is why.

Shocked by death wobble I also pondered my choice in hefty trucks. Probably due to politics as much as anything there are only the “big three” in America. I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no solution:

1. Chevys suck more than Fords.
2. Fords suck more than Dodges.
3. Dodges suck more than Chevys.
4. Enjoy the circular firing squad of suck.

After my little list I sense many hands poised over keyboards to emote over their favorite vehicle. “I bought a ’69 Ford and ran it a zillion miles with no maintenance… also I’m handsome and rich.” Yeah yeah yeah. Obviously every population of vehicles has a group of pure awesome shining brightly in the upper distribution two standard deviations past the mean. Maybe you won the lottery. So what? I’ll also admit modern trucks are better than previous models in terms of performance. Which is good news but doesn’t impress me when a solid modern truck suddenly fails at steering. Also, and this is the most damning of it all, my truck is hardly a lemon, it appears to require about average levels of maintenance for the work I put it to. I’m not unlucky, I’m just stuck buying from companies that are “too big to fail”.

One last gripe. There are trucks that clearly have the solution. Steering is not rocket science. There’s probably something which is not from the craptacular big three that’s an unpolished gem I’ve overlooked. But that’s the issue. I can’t go there. I’m talking trucks just under semi-tractor weight capacity, in America, that’s commonly available right now, and is neither customized, old, or fussy. If you love your Toyota just shut the hell up. If you built something out of a van and six tanks I don’t want to hear it. I wanted 4×4 too much to upgrade to a used class 8 and I carry stuff that’ll make an F-150 squat like a constipated turnip. This locked me into the big three one ton trucks.

Speaking of smaller trucks, I’m still bitter that the plucky little Mahindra was EPA’d into the ground. I needed big so I was still stuck with big three but I’d have bought a Mahindra the day I could get one. Dropping cash on a freakin’ front end “known issues” just rubs salt in my wounds.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to drive to Detroit, find the loser who perpetuated this mess, and set their mailbox on fire.

You probably heard that my flying carpet truck came down with a sudden case of “shitty construction”. I had a brief moment of terror, followed by a longer period of mental disarray, and finally a sinking feeling of money being drained from my life forces. (It’s like raising children.)

It was not a good day. Even so, things could have been worse. I’m happy to report that no humans or trucks were harmed in the filming of this movie.

I’m back on the road now. The truck, having scrambled my mind and spent my money, is quietly rumbling down the road. If it were a dog it would be hiding under the porch. As for me, I have trust issues. My formerly reliable equipment inexplicably went full apeshit. How does one forgive? While I was cooling my heels in a motel, my truck was probably out cavorting with Miatas and snorting ethanol. Our relationship will take time to heal.

However, it’s time to review the blessings of my little adventure (beyond the fact that I didn’t slam into a bridge abutment).

• I landed in a nameless town with much smarter mechanics than my home territory. At home I’d have better luck finding a Tahitian brain surgeon turned golf pro than a skilled mechanic. Local mechanics are often only barely competent; more like “parts changers” than “mechanics”. Parts changers can only fix obvious problems (like a deer antler stuck through the radiator) and their only solution is to unbolt something and replace it. If they’re lucky, the thing they unbolted and replaced was the cause of the problem. If not, they shrug, present you with the bill and ask if you want to try again. They don’t put a lot of thought in the diagnosis nor do they deeply ponder their solutions. Death wobble isn’t rocket science but it’s intermittent and not fully attributable to one component. I’m glad it wasn’t presented to my home labor pool. The guy I hired knew his shit and got to work pronto.
• Not only did I find a good mechanic I found a good mechanic with a good boss. When the mechanic dropped everything to get me back up and running the boss smiled and told him he was doing a good job. God bless em both!
• Just in time delivery worked flawlessly. My mechanic requested parts and his request was keyed in at the dealer which relayed the information to a warehouse which put the parts on a truck which delivered overnight to my location which was unloaded by the parts guys at the dealership who shoved the parts in my mechanic’s hand while the morning coffee was still brewing. Such a fragile system and yet so miraculous when it works. I don’t want to hear nostalgic whining about the “good old days” of local warehouses. That time is forever gone and I clearly remember parts for something unusual like a Volvo or a motorcycle easily became an insurmountable conundrum.
• In my youth, bad luck meant I was screwed. I’d look at a failed car like a cowboy in Death Valley might look at his dead horse. When you’re poor, situations get grim so very fast. Things have gotten better for me. I ran a Visa swipe that nearly made my skull implode but I had the “option” of doing it. I’ll survive. When fate punches you in the head but you come off the mat and get back into the fight pronto; that’s cool. It’s best to avoid the need for resilience but failing that I appreciate having it.
• The mystery (to me) of “southern hospitality” continues to inspire awe. Everyone was so damn sweet I wanted to hug them all. Never underestimate the value of human kindness. Every region’s culture is different. I live up north. There’s kindness here too, but it’s iced over and partially theoretical. There was nothing false in the gleaming example of pure undisguised kindness I just experienced. Everyone, and I mean every last one of the many people I met in the whole town, were super extra ultra nice. Where I live, folks are strong and hearty and they don’t exactly wish you harm, but they can be prickly to newcomers and… well actually they’re prickly to everyone including each other. (Note: It’s not just a north/south thing, I’ve met jerks in the south and saints in the north but “southern hospitality” is a real thing.) The town I left was just plain nice. Sniff… I love you guys!

A phone call from a roving Adaptive Curmudgeon to Mrs. Curmudgeon.

Ring ring…

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Hello?”

Me: “AAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHH!”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “I’ve told you to switch to decaf.”

Me: “I HAVE! I’m in Starbucks, surrounded by hipster dipshits, and I’m drinking decaf!”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Oh my God! Are you OK?”

Me: “I am now. It was dicey a few hours ago. My truck entered a different dimension of time and space while I was in it.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Yikes. Was anybody hurt?”

Me: “Nope.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “The truck is totaled?”

Me: “Nope.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Ummm… so it broke?”

Me: “It suddenly and violently went totally apeshit while I was at the wheel. I’ve dealt with ‘broke’ before and ‘broke’ is merely a ‘bad thing’. Apeshit is different. I do not condone ‘apeshit’ as an acceptable state of being for my equipment.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “It was scary?”

Me: “I’ve driven vehicles where the hood flew up and blocked the windscreen. I’ve driven vehicles that caught on fire. I’ve had the actual wheel itself fly off. Lost brakes, collisions, deer strikes, oil pan blowouts, doors that fly open….”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Um… You’re scaring me.”

Me: “…transmission dropped… I mean literally dropped out of the car, blown radiators, that one time the radio caught on fire and…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard all that. You lost your REO Speedwagon tape in the radio fire. So you had a breakdown. After years of driving shit you’ve seen it all. So what?”

Me: “This time it hit my good truck.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Your big blue security blanket?”

Me: “Suddenly. I had to come to a screeching halt at the edge of the highway. No warning…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “It can’t be that upsetting.”

Me: “When the mechanic named a price I didn’t even bitch about it.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Oh my God! I didn’t know that was possible!”

Me: “Me either. Also, I’ll be getting home late. Like a few days maybe.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “And you’re not pissed off.”

Me: “Not really. I’m going to rent a room. Watch cable. Eat Cheeto’s.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Wow. It must have been crazy. You take care.”

Me: “Yeah. I’m gonna’ pretend I’m in the free shit army for a day.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “How long can you stand that?”

Me: “Apparently until the mechanic’s bill arrives.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Reality blows.”

Me: “Yep. I”m gonna’ blog about this all day.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Now you’re in the spirit of being useless! Enjoy your nerd therapy.”

At the Starbucks. After a couple hours and some Internet based review of the word “death wobble”.

Ring ring…

Me: “Curmudgeon speaking. If you’re a telemarketer prepare to die.”

Mechanic: “I checked your truck. It’s ‘death wobble’. You need to replace some parts on the front end. It’s not that bad.”

Me: “Are you shitting me? I think the fillings on my teeth exploded.”

Mechanic: “Yeah, the vibration can be a little shocking.”

Me: “Uh huh, and World War II was ‘a little unpleasant’. Did the ball joints vaporize?”

Mechanic: “One side, they’re out of spec. That’s part of it. Some other stuff. Problem is the parts. Won’t have parts until tomorrow. You can try to limp home…”

Me: “I live in a different time zone. Did I mention that the vibration was so sudden and complete that it made me question my relationship to reality and the nature of matter?”

Mechanic: “I can get on it first thing tomorrow. It’ll cost xxxxxxxxx (redacted).”

Me: “Usually I’d flake. I’m a cheapskate… but after that…”

Mechanic: “I’ll order the parts?”

Me: “Yeah, and I see a hotel a couple blocks away. See ya’ tomorrow.”

Mechanic: “It’s safe to drive that far.”

Me: “Thanks but…”

Mechanic: “That wild eh?”

Me: “After this is fixed I’m going to find the engineer that designed my truck’s steering geometry and set fire to his mailbox. In the meantime… thanks.”

Standing at the service counter at a dealership:

Mechanic: “What happened.”

Me: “I was driving along, everything silky smooth. Then all hell broke loose. The damn truck shook like a meth addict dividing by zero.”

Mechanic: “It was a violent shake?”

Me: “I believe I shit myself.”

Mechanic: “Vibration from the drivetrain?”

Me: “I don’t think so. I’ve got years of experience driving pieces of shit with bad drive trains. This wasn’t anything like that. It was a whole new dimension of totally unbelievably fucked.”

Mechanic: “Sounds like a ‘death wobble’.”

Me: “The words are descriptive, you have my attention.”

Mechanic: “A violent oscillation of the front steering geometry…”

Me: “Yes!”

Mechanic: “Yeah, we see that a lot.”

Me: “You see that?  A lot?”

Mechanic: “Yeah, it happens.”

Me: “To whom? NASCAR drivers impacting the wall?”

Mechanic: “Ha ha ha… You want me to look at it?”

Me: “Yeah. Here’s the keys. Take your time.”

Mechanic: “It could take a bit.”

Me: “I’m going to walk over to the Starbucks across the street. I’m going to plant my ass and stay there as long as you need.”

Mechanic: “Shook that much eh?”

Me: “At Starbucks… I’ll be drinking decaf…”

Mechanic: “Well I…”

Me: “…forever.”

Mechanic: “I’ll call your cell when I know.”

Me: “I’m staying at Starbucks. I’m giving up blue collar activities. I’m going to buy a Prius… then I’ll pay someone to drive it and someone else to ride in it… while I do nothing but walk… walk slowly. …and write poems.”

Mechanic: “…”

Me: “Poems about tea…”

Captain’s Log, Monday:

10:30 am: I don’t get it. For no apparent reason, the truck went from a smooth running flawless example of modern refinement… to an uncontrollable terrifying vibrating paint mixer that shook my skull loose.

10:40 am: I still don’t get it. The brakes don’t feel hot. The transmission seems proper. The engine hasn’t skipped a beat (though my heart has). There was no collision. Nothing weird about the pavement surface. Crawling underneath the truck showed nothing amiss. The drivetrain looks fine. No road debris has wrapped itself around a driveshaft. The tires are sound. The hubs aren’t dented. There’s no damn reason why my truck should turn so suddenly… evil.

10:50 am: I still don’t get it. I’ve rolled forward and back. Everything smooth. Nothing out of balance. Engine is still idling smoothly and flawlessly.

10:51 am: Fuck it. I’m driving to the nearest town. Then I’m going to sell the truck and buy a mule.

Captain’s Log, Monday:

10:01 am: AAAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!

10:02 am: I have abruptly pulled over to the side of the highway. Something has gone suddenly and catastrophically wrong. I would have wet myself but I lacked the presence of mind to do so. Excuse me while I pry my hands from the steering wheel.

10:03 am: After careful consideration I have decided to calmly exit the vehicle instead of my initial impulse which is to leap out of the window while the truck was still moving.

10:04 am: I have safely exited the driver’s compartment of the now stationary truck. I have walked very slowly and carefully to a safer portion of the median, and then commenced to pondering the universe, my place in it, and the mind numbingly insanity of traveling faster than I can peddle a Huffy.

10:05 am: I have decided to verbally express my angst. AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!

10:06 am: Am I done?

10:07 am: Nope!  AAAAUUUUGGGGGHHHH!

10:08 am: OK. Things are looking better. Heart rate has dropped all the way to 250 beats per millisecond.

10:09 am: Nope… not rational yet. AAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!

10:10 am: OK. Now I’m ready to think. What do I think? I think “What the fuck just happened?” What do I conclude? “I have no idea.”

Captain’s Log, Monday:

10:00 am: I’m piloting my truck down an Interstate’s flawless pavement. My glorious steel steed of freedom is a marvel of precision and torque! It is humming smoothly, tracking like I’m on rails, and hauling a righteous load that’s well strapped and aerodynamically sound. Engineering; it rules! Here I am sipping coffee in stately comfort while 300+ horsepower does my bidding. If a motorcycle is a saddled dragon, a good truck is a mighty ship, and the Interstate is a north star by which to navigate. Yes, it’s a ship. I am the captain of my own ship! I’m the king of a vehicular universe. I’m far from home, yet I do not want for home. For the road is my home and I am one with it. My destiny is to reach the horizon. It is good to be alive.

10:01 am: AAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH!