Autobahn

If this post was a nineteenth century novel, which as often as not had not one but two titles, it would be The Squealing Belt; or, Everybody's An Expert. A few weeks ago, I had the Lumi's timing belt replaced, after signs of wear were detected during a motor oil change. Shortly thereafter, a high-pitched squeal was heard to emanate from the Lumi's engine bay, but only upon occasion. I waited & I listened, trying to discern a pattern to the squealing, but none ever emerged. The squealing was most often to be heard early in the morning, or anytime that the Lumi had sat dormant for a time, but more often than not she started up & sped off without the noise. It was most often to be heard during stops, such as at traffic signals or stop signs, but this too was erratic & unpredictable. One passenger, a C.R.H.P. brother in whose wedding I will serve as an groomsman, opined that my alternator was on the fritz; I mentioned my theory that the problem lay in the timing belt, but he dismissed this authoritatively & reasserted his alternator hypothesis. Another passenger, a brother Knight, suggested that the water pump was on the verge of failure. Despite spending interminable hours in my youth hunched over the engine bays of various Chevrolets as my father's apprentice, & despite being an avid latter-day reader of both Car and Driver & Road & Track magazines, there is yet much about motorcars that I find mysterious, even perplexing. So, while I was dubious of my well-meaning passengers' aural diagnostic skills, when at long last I piloted the Lumi to my default mechanics' shop, I put forward all three hypotheses: the alternator, the water pump, & the timing belt. I posited that it was too great a coincidence, the timing of the squeal's emergence, not to be connected to the replacement of the timing belt. The alternator checked out A-O.K. The water pump checked out A-O.K. The timing belt tensioner was found to be cracked; it remained functional, but complete failure was only a matter of time. If the belt was not always properly tensioned, that could well lead to the squeal that I had heard but which the greasemonkeys (a term I use affectionately) had been unable to induce. (Periodic malfunctions are the most difficult to diagnose.) Some years back, my supervisor at Delphi described me, on a performance evaluation, as possessing, good "mechanical attitude;" I've always presumed me meant "mechanical aptitude," an evaluation with which I disagree. I might accent to possessing an aptitude for logical reasoning (induction, not deduction as is commonly misunderstood). Why is it that my brothers were so outwardly confident in their hypotheses? Is it that they are men? Michigander men in particular, descended from generations of blue-collar auto workers? They meant well, of this I have no doubt, but they were still incontrovertibly in error.

A positive consequence of this episode is that I am resolved to change the Distaff Son of the Mousemobile's motor oil myself, as I used to do for the Mousemobile. I will likely burn myself at least once, & I shall have to sort out the proper means for disposing of the used oil, but having previously performed this maintenance procedure I know it to be within my abilities. I am capable of changing my motorcar's oil & have frequently inherently sketchy oil change shops only out of laziness; this must cease. The war against sloth is not won all at once, but day by day, choice by choice. I choose to change my automobile's motor oil myself.

Yesterday, I installed new wiper blades on the Lumi. My least favorite part about winter is not the snow, but the minute spray that comes off formerly snowy roads & reduces visibility through the windshield to virtually zero, especially when the Accursed Sun hits it at just the right angle. I must begin keeping a log of repairs & maintenance; I should replace the wiper blades at least every year.