“Walking isn't a lost art - one must, by some means, get to the garage.”�

- Evan Esar

I was driving through the city this week when two things happened. First, my “check engine light” came on so I pulled over and popped the hood, and, sure enough, my engine was still there, so at least I can say that I checked it. I got back in and glanced at my windshield. Without me having realized it my inspection sticker had expired last month. So now I have to bite the bullet and take the ol' girl into the shop.

It might just be me but I sort of dread this state mandated nightmare. Maybe I would look forward to this if it wasn't for the fact that the same situation happens each year. I drive to the garage and the engine is purring like a kitten, but after spending 10 minutes hooking the Escort up to the diagnostic machine the mechanic always gives me that look, and I find I am driving a death trap that will end up costing me more money than what I originally paid for the car.

Like the sucker that I am, I think, well, if you can't chuck it, duck it. And give my consent to have it repaired. And then I wait.

Sitting in the waiting room at an auto shop is sort of like being in the waiting room of a hospital. There are old magazines to read, stale coffee to drink and a lot of pacing back and forth. And just like in the hospital you get very nervous when the mechanic walks through the door wiping his hands, sighs, and says he's doing all he can.

Apparently the problem is severe and will take some time to correct. And then, just like a doctor, he proceeds to tell me, in technical detail, just what is wrong. He says words that mean nothing to me, but, as a guy, I am obliged to nod in agreement. Crack in the manifold, hole in the head gasket and there is a situation with the exhaust and oxygen sensor.

It isn't until he mentions a loose flipper valve that I begin to wonder if he has my car confused with an injured dolphin.

As he walks back to the service bay I slump down and wonder if perhaps I should start taking up bicycle riding as a main mode of transportation. Or, even better, I could just pay my neighbor to carry me piggyback to work every day. After all, he is about as useful as a hole in the head, and when it comes to exhaust problems, well let me just say, that when his manifold goes there isn't much oxygen left in the room, if you get my drift.

There would even be a bright side to becoming a human backpack, because, unlike my car, my neighbor comes with a full size spare tire.

My mechanic becomes just like a doctor once again when he goes to hand me the bill and says, “This is going to hurt.”

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here,

each Sunday, in The Citizen.

He can be reached at

lovonain@hotmail.com