I’ve developed a real bitterness toward working on cars in recent years.
It often feels like my vehicles fight me every step of the way. I wonder how much of that is my own damn fault? You know, self-fulfilling prophecy and whatnot.
Wednesday night, after P went to bed, I had to go back out to the driveway and replace filthy, 19-year old heater hoses on Fezzik. It’s not a hard job, but because these are always wedged between the back of the engine and the firewall, it’s almost always a pain in the ass.
Instead of bitching and moaning about it, I told myself to just slow down, breathe, and get it done.
I removed the hood and cruise control box for maximum headroom and comfort. (It was still 107°F/42°C out at 9PM.) I refused to get mad when I dropped that damned hose clamp bolt four times during reassembly.
Whattayaknow. Everything came apart and went back together without a hitch.
I’m gonna try this approach more often. With cars. With life in general.
Bonus: That feeling.
That feeling. When you’re retracing your steps to see if you sprung a leak after replacing those heater hoses and you find a trail of fresh fluid in the road and you know you didn’t see any other cars in the neighborhood on your test drive—and the trail goes to someone else’s driveway.