Car Wars: Revenge of the Jeep
My windshield wipers are on the blink. They still work, sure, but as if possessed by demons. When started, they go at whatever speed they deem appropriate. Which I can handle, because I can appreciate things that move at their own speed (for evidence, see: my boyfriend). However, the wipers stop as soon as you switch them off. Sounds okay, right? Sounds like the Jeep is simply being accommodating, stopping at the precise moment of my request. But that’s just part of its cleverness, maintaining the appearance of an obedient vehicle, above reproach. Do not be fooled by its seeming complacency. This is revenge, however small.
For when I say they stop immediately, I mean exactly that. They do not complete their full cycle, coming to rest neatly at the bottom of the windshield. No. They stop. If I flick them off in the middle of the cycle, they remain hovering in the air in front of me, halfway through their descent. And it’s always fun, during rain or snow conditions (because this only happens when you need wipers – o Jeep, I hail the cleverness of thy vengeance!) to try to time it so that you turn the wipers off at the precise moment they reach the bottom of their arc. Do you know how difficult this is? It seems like the wipers go slow enough - there should be plenty of time. But don’t be deceived. This is a tricky game – like that ball-and-cup game that children display astonishing skill at but quickly drives adults to violence. Sometimes I find myself swept up in the windshield wiper game until headlights sweep across my vision and I’m reminded, oh yeah, I’m driving. The first time that happened, I knew. The Jeep is trying to kill me.
Let’s get this out of the way right off: I love my Jeep. It has proven itself, over the past 2 years and 50,000 plus miles, to be unfailingly reliable. It has braved everything I could throw at it, from Minnesota winters to New Mexico summers. It’s a trooper, no doubt about it. No matter what, it goes forward, and that is all that I ask of a vehicle.
Those of you who know me know that though I love my car it is, you might say, tough love. I do not pamper my car. Cars are to get from one place to another. You will not find me out in the driveway, washing my car in the summertime – that’s what rain is for. Nor will you find me at the car wash; because, well, see above, and on top of that, why would you pay for it? I have a difficult time remembering to get the oil changed.
Maybe if I had my druthers, a sporty Audi with some serious power, I would vacuum out the insides and get it waxed, get a clever license plate holder. But I don’t. I have a 1996 Jeep Cherokee, sold to me for a very reasonable price by my cousin, and sporting a certain amount of wear from that previous relationship. It is a stick shift, which I love. I have always owned stick cars, and this fact has gotten me out of many a tricky situation with snow, ice, mud and mountains. On top of which, if the battery is dead, you can always push start it. In college when my battery died I push started my car every time I drove it for a whole semester; then there was my beloved VW bus, which Jason and I push started in every gas station we stopped in during our move from Colorado to Minnesota.
The rest of the Jeep fits this rough-and-ready sort of mold as well. The windows and locks are manual, the shocks are stiff (but a bouncy car is fun!), and so is the steering wheel. I’ve always thought that the reason the Jeep and I get along so well is that it expects very little from me, and rightfully so. It is made for my careless usage, fairly indestructible, like a Tonka truck. And I, in turn, expect from it not the convenience and luxury of a sedan, but a conveyance from one point to another with the basic comforts of heat and safety features like headlights and windshield wipers. I had thought that this tacit agreement between us was working out well. The Jeep wouldn’t expect much attention from me, and I wouldn’t expect the locks to work properly, the doors to seal completely, or the air-conditioning to work.
But the Jeep has outmaneuvered me. It is a subtle yet effective revenge, and now I realize that all the abuse I’ve handed out to it has not gone unnoticed. It has been keeping track, and has discovered my Achilles heel - the electrical. The manual stuff I can handle (in my experience there are few things which cannot be fixed with duct tape, bungee cords and/or WD-40), but the electrical involves taking it somewhere to get it fixed. But take my car to the shop, to fix the windshield wipers for chrissakes? Ah, the Jeep clearly has not sized me up properly as a foe. I will not be so easily cowed. In the words of Jeff Lebowski, this will not stand, man.
For when I say they stop immediately, I mean exactly that. They do not complete their full cycle, coming to rest neatly at the bottom of the windshield. No. They stop. If I flick them off in the middle of the cycle, they remain hovering in the air in front of me, halfway through their descent. And it’s always fun, during rain or snow conditions (because this only happens when you need wipers – o Jeep, I hail the cleverness of thy vengeance!) to try to time it so that you turn the wipers off at the precise moment they reach the bottom of their arc. Do you know how difficult this is? It seems like the wipers go slow enough - there should be plenty of time. But don’t be deceived. This is a tricky game – like that ball-and-cup game that children display astonishing skill at but quickly drives adults to violence. Sometimes I find myself swept up in the windshield wiper game until headlights sweep across my vision and I’m reminded, oh yeah, I’m driving. The first time that happened, I knew. The Jeep is trying to kill me.
Let’s get this out of the way right off: I love my Jeep. It has proven itself, over the past 2 years and 50,000 plus miles, to be unfailingly reliable. It has braved everything I could throw at it, from Minnesota winters to New Mexico summers. It’s a trooper, no doubt about it. No matter what, it goes forward, and that is all that I ask of a vehicle.
Those of you who know me know that though I love my car it is, you might say, tough love. I do not pamper my car. Cars are to get from one place to another. You will not find me out in the driveway, washing my car in the summertime – that’s what rain is for. Nor will you find me at the car wash; because, well, see above, and on top of that, why would you pay for it? I have a difficult time remembering to get the oil changed.
Maybe if I had my druthers, a sporty Audi with some serious power, I would vacuum out the insides and get it waxed, get a clever license plate holder. But I don’t. I have a 1996 Jeep Cherokee, sold to me for a very reasonable price by my cousin, and sporting a certain amount of wear from that previous relationship. It is a stick shift, which I love. I have always owned stick cars, and this fact has gotten me out of many a tricky situation with snow, ice, mud and mountains. On top of which, if the battery is dead, you can always push start it. In college when my battery died I push started my car every time I drove it for a whole semester; then there was my beloved VW bus, which Jason and I push started in every gas station we stopped in during our move from Colorado to Minnesota.
The rest of the Jeep fits this rough-and-ready sort of mold as well. The windows and locks are manual, the shocks are stiff (but a bouncy car is fun!), and so is the steering wheel. I’ve always thought that the reason the Jeep and I get along so well is that it expects very little from me, and rightfully so. It is made for my careless usage, fairly indestructible, like a Tonka truck. And I, in turn, expect from it not the convenience and luxury of a sedan, but a conveyance from one point to another with the basic comforts of heat and safety features like headlights and windshield wipers. I had thought that this tacit agreement between us was working out well. The Jeep wouldn’t expect much attention from me, and I wouldn’t expect the locks to work properly, the doors to seal completely, or the air-conditioning to work.
But the Jeep has outmaneuvered me. It is a subtle yet effective revenge, and now I realize that all the abuse I’ve handed out to it has not gone unnoticed. It has been keeping track, and has discovered my Achilles heel - the electrical. The manual stuff I can handle (in my experience there are few things which cannot be fixed with duct tape, bungee cords and/or WD-40), but the electrical involves taking it somewhere to get it fixed. But take my car to the shop, to fix the windshield wipers for chrissakes? Ah, the Jeep clearly has not sized me up properly as a foe. I will not be so easily cowed. In the words of Jeff Lebowski, this will not stand, man.
posted by erin | 2:50 PM
|
3 comments
