This can’t be good.
(Preface: I distrust my car. Please, don’t EVER buy a VW Passat. It’s an over-engineered German hot dog stand. You have to practically pull the engine out to change the oil.)
My VW Passat has decided to do an interesting trick. I discovered last night that my clutch pedal is ultimately decorative. I can move from gear to gear without pushing my clutch pedal. On normal, non-posessed-by-the-demon-of- expensive-and-ultimately- fruitless-car-repair cars, shifting from one gear to the next with nary a pedal push would result in grinding, squealing, staggering, wheezing, and the gnashing of teeth. In short: it’s not healthy, and the car should let you know that.
My car, on the other hand, will pretend to be helpful by wrenching the car from a relatively pleasant 4th gear cruise to a garotte-ingly high pitched neutral by a mere flick of the wrist. It's almost like someone sent me running, but then yanks me back with a bit of piano wire around my neck. I can move out of one gear and into the next with nary a clutch pedal or a grinding of gear fingers.
This can’t be good.
My car already needs more repairs on it than the car is worth. I have no anti-lock brakes, and since the snapped timing belt affair, my VW has chosen to perform less and less like her younger incarnations.
My VW takes the path of least resistance whenever possible. Really, she says, why bother accelerating quickly to merge onto a freeway? Why rock the boat? Why turn over the engine when you ask me to on a summer day? Wouldn’t you rather bake in 111 degree heat a while longer? Why roll down the windows when you ask me to? I, for one, would rather think about your request for five seconds before succumbing to your incessant demands of me.
My car is paid for, and all possible shreds of warranty have long expired on the girl. She’s the equivalent of a 60-year old stripper: serviceable, but sagging. Part of me wants to leave a fifty on her nightstand and sneak out before she wakes up. The other part of me laments that it will cost far more than another fifty to get another car.
I don't think that driving her puts me in mortal peril yet, but I think the end is near.
Posted by Jen at July 7, 2005 4:58 PM