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One beautifully warm winter day I decided to take my car in to it’s long awaited alignment check. The history I have with cars is it’s own story, but to understand my visit to the alignment shop you must understand my car.
The main adult response to my car is usually, why. My body, colored luscious ebony, is custom and lowered for handling and looks. The engine is modified for performance and the stereo is always loud and takes up the space you call a trunk. In the night my illegal blue lights soar hurriedly past the remnants of my beast’s shadow. I was born to drive.
right pict :>>>
The black beauty at Import Fest Skydome. If you look beside the logo on the back window you can see the CN tower. I love this pict.
So my adventure to the alignment shop is needed because only special shops with the right equipment can fix the alignment on my car. The service is top notch and the mechanics are wonderfully intelligent, except for one. The one who rotated my tires. I pay the good man my due and leave reassured that everything is fine. I am free from my anxious normality but I know something is not right. I back out of the garage and continue down the curiously crowed industrial street. As soon as I turn my music on, I live the nightmare car enthusiasts have on a regular dark and stormy night. Intellectual pun intended. The back of my car slams powerfully down on the rough concrete followed by my leg dramatically punching the brake! As I watch a single toothed worker gazing in absolute awe on the side of the street, I realize now that I’m skidding to a full stop. Dumbfounded by the recent complication I subconsciously look to my left to further understand the direction of the screeching noise, only to be eye to eye with my back left wheel. I watch the tire gain speed like a basketball spun oppositely on the ground. The wound up tire angrily discharges like a bullet from a 45. It’s pure death, 400 horsepower of maximum performance gripping the road. It bounces carelessly over an oncoming car, which now has spun out in utter terror. Dodging a few fleeing pedestrians, the tire rips through a hedge and explodes into its target, a mammoth tree. Catching myself staring in a silent movie, I look back at the toothless wonder, but now he is half way out of is car with the same silly expression plastered on his face. As the dust clears, this simple, hard working neighbourhood, was turned into bedlam.
Next time they should remember to tighten the wheel nuts on my tire.
Even though I’ve had nothing but trouble with it, my car is my materialistic freedom. It grounds me to the sociological reality we all conform too. It is my baby, who I am now thinking of putting up for adoption.
Anyother good stories of technical or mechanical faliure?
G_
