Thursday, May 22, 2014

A Short (very) Story

Lately, I have been having a spot of trouble with the starter in my Land Cruiser.  It has been rather hit and miss whether the motor spins.  Now those of you who have been following along know that some years ago I swapped out the original Toyota power plant with a lighter, more powerful and easier to maintain Chevy 350 V-8.  When I say “I”, what I mean is I wrote the checks to the highly qualified professional who actually did the work.  I don’t know if he had any kids that went to college, but I certainly contributed generously to their education funds.

If you are a gear head, you know that changing out a Chevy starter motor is a relatively easy task.  I won’t bore you with the details, but easy as it is, it still requires getting on ones knees, slithering under the vehicle on ones back, and getting ones hands dirty.  I am old enough and wealthy enough that I have people for that.  But being of an economic mind set I was trying to milk it until I hit the next service milestone so I could kill multiple avian raptors with one geological missile.  All of this is inconsequential to you but has regenerated a humorous memory from my youth.

From my earliest memories, I have been enamored of motor vehicles and the operation thereof.  As soon as I was able to sit up, I began play driving.  You’ve done it.  You sit in the driver’s position and operate the controls in a manner that replicates what you have seen your parents do.  What with locking steering wheels, electronic controls and societal wrath aimed at those who leave children unattended in a parked vehicle, it’s no wonder children are addicted to video games.  But back in the days of my youth, parents would (perhaps somewhat naively) leave their children sitting in the car while they attended some brief errand.  Whenever I found myself the beneficiary of such circumstances, as soon as my parents were out of sight, I would climb into the front seat and begin my stationary road trip across the country.  Timing when exactly to return to the rear of the cabin was dicey stuff and on one or two occasions my powers of estimation were lacking.  This prompted the lecture regarding the dangers of manipulating the controls of a parked car, which I somehow failed to internalize.

In a previous story, I shared the experience of my paternal Grandmother’s regular visits (see “Size Matters” – posted 7/18/13).  On such occasions, she would drive her Dodge (I was too young to recognize model or year minutia at that age), leaving it parked in front of our house on the street.  Now Grandma loved her only grandchild very much which I interpolated into, “I can get away with anything.”

One day, relying quite heavily on the aforementioned supposition, I climbed into her parked (nobody locked their cars in a residential neighborhood in those days) vehicle and began an imaginary spin around the local streets.  My pseudo driving experience was deep enough to recognize the difference between my Dad’s Buick with an automatic transmission (two pedals) and his beater GMC truck with a manual transmission (three pedals).  But Grandma’s Dodge had a fourth, purpose unidentified, pedal.  “Well,’ I thought, “it must make the car that much faster!”

So taking the only reasonable course of action, I stomped on it.  I immediately regretted my action as the car began to shake and shimmy, seeming to want to lurch forward.  When I removed my foot from the pedal, the universe returned to its tranquil state.  I double checked the ignition switch to assure myself no keys were present.  Nothing.  Cowardice being the very foundation of survival, I opted to end my motoring activity for the day, sneak cravenly back into the house and cast a minimal shadow.

The more aged and sage readers of this missive have already solved the mystery.  But it took me quite a few years of experience before I exorcised the demon of the self-actuating Dodge.

Today, we don’t even use keys to start a car.  The vehicle knows its owner by the proximity of an electronic RF fob.  The door locks click to great us and we activate the vehicle’s power plant with the push of a button.  For those of us who have been driving a bit longer, we actually had to use the key to start the car.  We would insert the key into the ignition lock, turn the key past “on” to “start” to engage the starter motor, then let the key rotate back to “on” once the engine was running.

In Grandma’s Dodge’s day however, automobiles were not equipped with automatic starter switches.  To start the car, one would insert the key into the ignition switch; turn the switch to “on”, then depress the starter pedal on the floor to engage the starter motor.  Once the engine began to run, the operator would release the pedal and the starter motor would return to sleep until once again called upon to perform its most important duty.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, the starter motor was always live, meaning the car’s electrical system did not have to be on to power the starter motor.  Upon depression, the starter would spin.  If activated while the car was in gear, as my Grandma’s Dodge was, the starter motor generated enough horsepower to actually move the car forward.  If the hand brake (that’s what they called the parking brake back in the olden days, kiddies) was applied, the car would lurch and bound as the opposing forces of torque and friction fought it out.

Figuring all of this out as I gained insight and wisdom chased away the notion that the Dodge Brothers’ evil spirits haunted my Grandma’s car.  But to this day, I have never desired to own a Dodge.

Oh, the Land Cruiser?  Well, I don’t know if the starter solenoid has one remaining crank left, but then that’s why I’m a proud member of the Auto Club.


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