After roaming relatively unscathed through some of the less-lovely parts of the world, I’ve come to see myself as independent and reasonably capable–that is, until a couple of weeks ago, when I bought a 25-year-old truck with a manual transmission, no gas gauge, and no RPM meter. Combine those “features” with a crippling lack of mechanical knowledge, and you’ve got a recipe for…well, if not disaster, then something equally uncomfortable. Stranded in a parking lot, on side of the road, or in the middle of nowhere, the skills that are so helpful when shouting down thieves in Ecuador or negotiating minibuses in Nicaragua are effectively useless. Can’t talk my way out of a flooded engine. 
My truck and I–and I still say that lovingly–have been through quite the week together. It’s an education and an adventure, all rolled into one frustrating and delightful package.
Monday: Drove the truck around Houghton and Calumet without stalling even once. False sense of confidence and security established.
Tuesday: Truck floods in a store parking lot. Usually when this happens, it’s a two-person job: one person takes off the air filter and holds open the choke (amazing how quickly I’ve lost my fear of sticking a finger in a running engine) while the other person starts the truck. I was alone, so I figured I’d just let the engine dry out while I did more shopping. A half hour later, the truck still wouldn’t start, and the resourceful Yooper in me kicked in (though belatedly). I bought a wrench-thing, clamped the choke open, started the truck, replaced the air filter on the running engine, and went on my way. It sounds like a small thing next to dealing with thieves and language barriers and foreign transportation systems…but those things, I know how to deal with. And in all of my travels, nothing has ever made me feel as triumphant and capable as starting the truck, all by myself.
Wednesday: Truck stalls on my way to dinner, and I roll off of the road into the middle of a parking lot. I hop out, confident in my ability to make it start (ah, false security), clamp on the wrench–wearing a dress this time, which makes the spectacle of me digging around in an engine even more ridiculous–and get…nothing. Now, I hate to depend on anyone and I hate needing to be rescued, but I call my uncle for help because I don’t want to be late for dinner and because I have reached the end of my knowledge. As I’m waiting, I call another brother, who tells me to try flooring the gas pedal while starting the truck. The truck roars to life–another triumphant moment, hope restored–just as my uncle and grandpa drive up.
Thursday: I have to do the wrench thing again, the truck starts, and I go on my way. Driving 55+ on the highway, my hood–which I didn’t latch fully–catches the wind and blows up against the windshield. I stomp on the brakes (remembering to keep the clutch in!), swerve across the center line as I try to peer through the crack, and finally come to a stop safely on the side of the road. Heart pounding, I get out to find that the force of the wind and speed have bent the hood so that it will not close. A very short, very slow drive to another parking lot and another call to my brother, who suggests I bungee-cord the hood shut. After some fiddling, I find that I can shut the hood only by putting my entire weight on it. Good enough. Success!
Friday: At 7:30 am, in the pouring rain, my darling truck stalls precisely two blocks from a gas station. I roll off of the road, try to clamp the choke, put the pedal to the floor, switch gas tanks–nothing. The familiar sinking feeling of helplessness returns, and the only possible remaining solution (that I know of) is that I am out of gas. Instead of calling for help, I stomp over to the gas station–to say I am not a morning person is putting it lightly, and stalling only compounded the rage–buy a gas can, spill gas all over my hands trying to get the cap on, and trudge back to the truck, which starts immediately. Lesson learned–don’t believe the seller when he tells you a 25-year-old truck gets 18 miles to the gallon. And don’t forget to fill up the second tank.
…what a week.
It’s a vicious cycle: confidence–> problem –> despair –> success. I’m so grateful for my brothers, who are always patient with my endless “Um, I’m stalled in a parking lot and [insert problem] is happening. What do I do?” calls.
We’re still on good terms, my truck and I, though I am cautious. It’s hard to anticipate problems that I’m not aware of, much less devise solutions for systems that I don’t understand. You don’t know until you know, I suppose.
And now, when I’m traveling in a developing country, I won’t be afraid to rent an old truck, because I’ll know how to deal with it.
