Monday, December 31, 2012

The rock that killed the can

I'll admit it.
I'm a bit of a fraidy cat.
I had to quit skiing because I became sure I was going to either kill myself or break bones that I really needed.
I grip the door handle as we fly down the freeway thinking I can somehow keep from dying at high speed if I do that.
I swim with my head up out of the water so I can be sure of breathing.
So when we bought our first SUV and Marc wanted to show me how it could go over hill and dale without a problem, I put a stop to the nonsense.
I wouldn't let him drive off small cliffs for fun.
I insisted we avoid roads that required four-wheel drive just for entry.
I'm a killjoy and I freely admit it.
So when the car stopped going down the road the other day and the repair shop decided somewhere we had hit a rock that tilted the gas can, Marc was my chief suspect in the crime.
We had no hard proof but I could remember driving up a washboard road in Castle Valley trying to find where the early townspeople had held the first annual pageants.
I could recall hitting something with a "whomp!" and complaining about it.
I remember Marc telling me the car was designed for just such roads and dismissing my concerns.
Now, several months and $1300 later, it looks like I was right and he was wrong.
The rock or high ground apparently dented and pushed the gas can over to where if the gas ran low enough, the car couldn't get fuel.
That became clear when Marc headed to work last week and the car simply stopped.
We put in a bit of gas but it still just sat there.
However, once it got to the shop (one $70 tow later), it ran just fine as the gas had sloshed around into the fuel line.
We had a couple of days of stress and invited our insurance company along for the ride and paid for $800 worth of work on our way to discovering the real problem.
But we're fine now and we're back on the road.
I'm feeling vindicated.
Marc not so much.

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