Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Campaign update: Decision 2016

What the fuck, America?

Is this group of trope-blathering, empty-headed, power-grabbing, mini-despot wannabes the best you'll let filter through your diverse and lengthy presidential vetting process?

Let's review:
  • Hilary, the front runner, should be rotting in jail awaiting trial.  And she never will.  Class privilege and all that.
  • Bernie is a self-proclaimed socialist.*  
  • Kasich is what a democrat should be. All for the people, all for compromise, all for working together.  He's certainly not a republican.
  • Which leads us on to Trump, the blow-hard populist bully.  America, being frustrated with what Obama has done to destroy the country doesn't mean we elect him again.  And that's all Trump is, an Obama in sheep's clothing who thinks he can throw his weigh around.
  • And bringing up second place, first loser, is Mr. Cruz.  At least he is a republican running for the republican nomination.  He was about 4th in my list of a strong field of conservative, free-market oriented, liberty-loving, no-nonsense leaders.  Now he'd be lucky to win the consolation match against Bernie.
  • Is Rubio still playing?  I turned off political media about three months ago and have felt the better for it.
Better luck next time, America.  You owe yourselves a pat on the back.  But watch out for the hands in your wallet.

*A socialist! Four years ago the eldest Toadroller mentioned a political discussion held in the back of a team bus headed back from a high school baseball away game.  One of the players had claimed to be a socialist.  I gasped.  As recent as then, it was anathema anti-American to be a socialist.  Now?  Trendy.  Fashion forward.

Sunday, February 28, 2016


2015's February never broke 20 degrees.

2016's has been all over the map, but largely over 20.

The snow is gone.  The ice is smooth, cleared of snow by warm rains, but thin, leaving fishing huts marooned on the lakes, unlikely to be rescued.    It's mud-season to walk through the woods.

The courses are open for the year and we played golf today. Simple joy echoed through the leafless woods as men laughed, played, teased each other, and simply took advantage of a warm day as rare as a leap year.

Given this early chance, Mainers are ready to Spring.  And we take it.

It may snow again; the weather may turn cold.  But it's doubtful.  Snow-mobilers had only a few weekends.  The machines are parked in their sheds or on the lawn where they'll await another season.  Those who plow driveways had a poor year.  The snow-blower used only a gallon of gas.  The price of no. 2 fuel oil was at a decade's low, but the temperatures didn't even call for much of it.  If having wood in the spring is money in the bank, what is not using inexpensive oil?  A sign.  A sign.

What did Punxsutawney Phil do with a his shadow a few weeks back?  Ah, who cares?  We're not looking back.  March will gasp and sputter, lion to lamb, and suddenly there will be warm days, ants, and a lawn-mower to start.

If the years pass more quickly as we age, then the winters must me subjected to the same laws.  Goodbye winter.  We hardly knew you.  Which is fine for this year.  Do your best come December, for today we laugh.  It is Spring.  It is time to make merry!

Thursday, February 25, 2016

Only one more Season

"Harvest is when I need you the most. Only one more season. This year we'll make enough on the harvest so I'll be able to hire some more hands."
 ―Owen Lars, to Luke Skywalker
Monday evening, as I pulled off of I93 onto the surface streets heading into the Marriott Cambridge-side in Boston, the somewhat embarrassingly loud hole in my exhaust decided to become a really embarrassingly loud hole in my exhaust.  
Oh, the echo of the A8's venerable V8 rumbled and ricocheted about the brick streets and buildings of Kendall Square, sounding at moments like a dilapidated old taxi and at others like a 17 year old's dream muscle car, drawing the bemused attention of pedestrians who sneered or laughed, depending on their personal demeanor.*  I grinned and bore it but was relieved to park her, silent at last, in a dark corner of the posh hotel's parking garage for the next few days.

When I had time to obsess about it, I weighed my numerous options, calculating obscene sets of linear equations factored across potential repair costs, expected life span time lines, cash on hand and savings rates, replacement cars, and when, exactly, I'd have to do something.  Was it time?  While I derive perverse pleasure from the dreaming and scheming that leads to the optimal solution, it's having to ultimately commit to a course of action at the cost of all the other great alternatives that leaves me stuck.  Analysis paralysis.  But in the end, you can only go one way.  Shit or get off the pot.

Temptations haunted me.  Go big and newer and expensive?  Go old and fun? Buy a one-year car and trade up after saving? 

And so this morning I took her down to A&J Motors, Manchester's own version of Click and Clack, to see if she would pass inspection and what the financial damage would be to quiet her down.  Anything in the realm of $500 could trigger the above thought processes into action.

"Only one more season. This year I'll save enough from driving and I'll be able to buy your replacement."
― Me, to the car

Ah, but as is usually the case, I need not have worried.  Click and Clack pointed to the brackets that connected the header pipes to the exhaust pipes.  The pipes were solid and rust free, but the brackets holding them had given out after 18 years of duty.  They found a pair of replacements after a brief parts store search, the only two in stock for miles around.  $37.79 each.  They must have been sitting on that dusty back shelf for years just waiting for me. 

An hour or so later they called me at home with a friendly "come pick her up, she's ready."  $130 total, including the inspection sticker.  She's not brand-new quiet, but good enough.  Which means one more year on the farm unless some strong-willed droids stop buy, getting me all mixed up with the Empire, causing me to follow old Obi-Wan on some damn fool idealistic crusade.

By then I might be able to get a replacement with a working hyper-drive:**

* Probably a good test of whether they're from Boston originally or from somewhere else where tolerance, understanding and a sense of humor are admired in the social order of things.  
** Car of the week:  2012 Audi TT RS with a turbo in-line 5 cylinder pumping 330 horsies at the brake and pulling 330 lb feet in this relatively light beast.  Why five? Because Audi makes 'em weird (and I like them) like that.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016


I borrowed the term "Winterlude" from a section of Neil Peart's "Ghost Rider," his personal journey of motorcycles and healing from the loss of both his daughter and wife in the same year.  Perhaps more on that some other day.

Suffice it to say Neil spent winters at his lake house in the woods somewhere outside Montreal and came to appreciate the cold and the snow.  Much as I have here in Maine.  Some winters are interminable and intolerable; others can offer bounty.

Saturday found me, not for the first time this year, in 20 degree weather, gliding on my cross country skis through soft snowshoe paths in the woods, climbing, exploring, descending, learning, balancing, and falling.  With technology come the benefits of GPS tracking, and I can even see where I've been and how long it took me to get there.  But the journey is the important part.  Does it really matter that I covered 4.96 miles at an average moving speed of 3.94 mph?  I knew I'd made progress by the way my legs responded joyfully to the request to climb the hill.  Progress!

Sunday was bitter cold, single digits and below zero over night.  What a difference a day makes.

Monday was back to the high teens and another exploration up and away across the hill.  Glorious! You could hear me shouting for joy as I completed sharp, fast turns on the narrow trails.  Turning on cross country skis is not at all like downhill.  It's a strange form of balance and technique, and like learning to ride a bicycle, the faster you go, the better you'll be.  I'm still learning.  I'm sure the felling trees (yes, they're doing some clearing this winter) could hear my whoops of joy.   For those who are curious: if you're in the woods, you can hear them too.

Tuesday I awoke to a fresh three inches of snow, but by 1:00 pm it was 50 degrees and it rained hard all afternoon.  In the evening I plugged in the pump and fought back the tide rising into the garage.  What a difference a day makes, indeed.

I've seen winter break and give up its stranglehold on Maine as late as the end of March, and more specifically during a walk on a March 30th, (the year I can't remember, maybe 2008) at 1:30 in the afternoon on a bright day and the temperature pushing a balmy 30 degrees.  One moment it was still the bright cold of winter, and the next it simply snapped and coiled away.  Gone.  This year, winter's hardly made an appearance, with just a handful of nights below zero, a couple of rainy thaws, and snow here and again.  Bummer of a year to own a snowmobile; kind of a let down if you're starting to get the vibe of cross country skiing.

But it will return next year.  And I'm pretty sure it's not done yet.  That said, the golf clubs need dusting and I've got some scoring to do come spring.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015


So much of life's stress and strife comes from unmet expectations.

When one thing is expected and another happens; when a promise is assumed and not met, there's a jarring shift in your reality from a reasonable presumption to a clear and present disappointment. The bigger the event, the larger and longer the build up, the greater the risk (and anxiety) of a let down.

There are ways to deal with this.  Be more clear about the expectations.  Communicate them early and with specificity as to time, order, leading events, and pre-conditions.  Mark each step accomplished along the way with check-gates and go / no-go decisions and reviews with the other parties.

You can also learn to deal with disappointment.  Life has its ups and down.  Look up from the present situation toward the distant horizon and realize that things will work out in the long run.  Or simply handle it through emotions, be they depression or anger, those great common methods of dealing with the human condition.  Bottle them up or let them out.  Who is at fault?  Should we play the blame game?

Sometimes, though your expectations are just and reasonable, the other party simply lets you down by having wholly different and altogether valid goals of their own.  This happens more often than any of us would like.  That's life, but still, it's not fun to learn these lessons the hard way.

What I'm trying to say is I'm taking the kids to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens this afternoon, and you'd better not screw it up, J.J. Abrams.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Thousand Dollar Car

It's not unwise to replace your ignition coils* more often than once every 248,965 miles.

It is a joy to fix something.  She's back, as smooth and powerful and assured as ever.

It is serene to feel a machine operate properly after almost  year of stumbles and stutters.  It's good for one's obsessive-compulsive balance to adjust everything back to plumb.  The third string on a guitar is difficult to keep right, but it has to be in tune.   The same with an Audi.  I do believe Germans engineer the way they do because they suffer some national form of OCD.  "Surely," they say, "there's a more clever way to make this more precise?"

I'm inspired to replace a few gaskets around the engine to see if that stops the oil which accumulates in my drip pan before making its slow, sludge-hampered migration south to ultimately slip onto my driveway and the highways and byways and parking garages of commuter airports throughout northern New England.  I'm tired of my buring-oil odor-cloud catching up to me like Pigpen's dust cloud as I slow for a traffic light.  There are two cam-end covers that are $5 each and apparently an hour to fix, and the oil pan itself, also an afternoon job.  What are Christmas breaks for?

I'm now willing to pay the state's outrageous $350 annual registration fee and keep pushing the survival envelope until I have the cash I need to buy the replacement I want. I might even fix the power head-rests. 

Car of the week is currently a 2008-2010 A8L, although an S8 with the 500 hp Lamborghini-sourced V10 would be cool:

*or at least half of them.  I'm not dumb, I'm just cheap.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Is it dawn?

It's night-time again in America.

It is the deep of a long, dark, and moonless night. We the people are in bed, wandering in that anxious zone between sleeping and waking, shoulders tensed and covers pulled high against the cold, still, steady drizzle that seems to have had no beginning and will have no end. Strange dreams prod our restlessness, filling us with dread, a loss of control, and futility.

A night creature's howl drones in the distance, constant, a fog-enveloped reminder and enforcer of the worries of this wet, endless night.  A toss, a turn; it is tuned out.  We do our best to ignore it in our distressed slumber.

But then a retaliatory shriek rends the silent fog.  It is defensive, but strong, repelling the nocturnal attack and calling for aide.  Replies echo through the mossy woods from all directions.  At first one, then two, then five.  Clearly a battle has begun.  They are on the move, closing the circle, fighting as one.

The night creature's threatening howl changes; it wails once in empty defiant insistence, then again in confusion, then is drowned by the growing defenders. It wails again in harrowed, comprehending fear and seeks its own shelter.

In America, there is a change in the sky.  The rain stops.  The fog dissipates. Dawn's deep blue diffuses and spreads to replace the black of the dark night.

Is it dawn?

In our beds we awaken.  Our heads are clear.  The darkness and the howling were simply that, nothing more.  Our walls and our roofs, built to protect, have stood against the night and kept us safe.  The darkness threatened, but it could never really reach us.

And so we dress, head downstairs for coffee, unlock our doors, and step into the light of the rising sun for a deep breath of cool fall air tasting of leaves and frost and clarity.

We go to work as never before in our country's history.  May we, in four years, be able to recognize and repeat this prayer to liberty:

Thank you, Senator Cruz, for shocking the press by standing up to them.  Thank you for waking up our candidates and our country.

Thank you, Senator Rubio, for reminding us that Americans can fight, even fail sometimes, and can still succeed. 

Thank you, Dr. Ben Carson, for civilly challenging the intolerant scourge of political correctness  masquerading as sensitivity yet wielded as a hammer.

Thank you, Carly Fiorina, for calling for accountability in the public sector matching the scrutiny of the private, and for explaining what cony capitalism is and how big government fosters it.  May Hillary's nightmares come true.

Thank you, Donald Trump, for negotiating a merciful end to the false premises of this clown-show the media calls a debate.

Thank you, Governor Christie, for bringing issues of import to the table and explaining that ideas can be both good and different.

Thank you, Dr. Rand Paul, for seeking a government so small you can't see it, and for simply articulating that the one thing on which you shouldn't have price controls is money itself.

Thank you John Harwood, Carl Quintanilla, and Becky Quick, for being so rude that you've even offended people in New Jersey.  You've woken up the sleeping power that is America.

Huck, Jeb, John, your tee-time is in fifteen minutes.  Please report to the starter.I'm pretty sure we'll be able to get you a fourth.

Friday, October 9, 2015

Quarter 'Til

Quarter 'Til

When I was young our house was filled with clocks
Pendulums, banjos, grandfathers and mothers, the works
In that time we tracked our time
With ticks and tocks and a hammer-struck chimes
Top of the hour, half past too, quarter past, and quarter 'til
Ticked away by strike and rolling ring

But now we sit in front of screens
Flashing pop ups remind us of things
Our cell phones buzz, our tablets sing
Interrupted, snoozed; reminded, dismissed
Trains of thought have left the station
Forever derailed, our conentration

We need real clocks: ticks with tocks
We need mechanical works to guide our work
We're not calibrated for minute by minute
Though time is eternal, let's work within it
Give us simple markers of the times we've filled
...Like quarter past and quarter 'til

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Eighty One

Yesterday, 23 odd years into seriously pursuing golf as a hobby, and 2 years into seriously pursuing lessons on the swing from a knowledgeable teacher,* everything came together and I shot an 81.

81 is not a spectacular round of golf.  81 is just two strokes away from the generally accepted milestone of breaking 80, which generally makes an 81 heart-breaking.  81 means at least 9 over depending on the par for the course, and implies a healthy number of bogies, double-bogies, or worse.

81 is a spectacular round of golf when, for the previous decade, your scores have hovered around 93, dipped to the occasional 90 (not quite breaking 90 is similar torture to not quite breaking 80), and have ballooned above 100 more often than not.  Shooting a solid 12 strokes better than any round so far this year, and 15 strokes better than a week ago... well, that's a breakthrough.

Natanis Tomahawk Course, October 7, 2015

Golf is mentally exhausting.  Every** shot requires focus, faith, and execution.  Successes have to be instantly recalled for that focus; failures have to be quickly acknowledged and then forgotten.  Because now it's time for the next shot.

Golf hurts your feet.  It's not just walking 4-6 miles during a round, it's the role the feet and legs play as the foundation of the swing, from putt to chip to driver. You use your feet, be it 60 balls at the range or 18 holes on a course.

Golf is German-engineered.  Way too many factors and components, physical and mental, are involved in a swing.  When they are all tuned and firing correctly, a golf shot has an unbelievably smooth, schnik-schnik feeling.  When something is off, just a bit, that steering wheel vibrates in your hand as you go down the road.

Golf rewards.  It is a series of plateaus rising into the distance, with tough climbs and the occasional slide into a valley.  My 81, 15 strokes better than a week ago, is a reward.  It's confirmation that it can be done, and that the plateau has been reached.  You can't shoot 81 and fail to repeat that feat.  Golf knowledge accumulates.

There will be more 93s, but there will also be 84s, 80s, 77s, and, ultimately, a 72.

Par for the course.

* Rawn Torrington, T's golf in Manchester, Maine.  An hour lesson a week with serious range time afterward

** Every, every, every stroke is a massive mental-construction project.  Tap-ins can be missed.  Chips can be flubbed.  Don't rush for any reason. 

Thursday, September 17, 2015

This is reality, not a reality show


Lend me your ears.

We the people will be choosing a president.  You want to be the nominee from your party.  You claim ideologies, beliefs, experience, wisdom, and the personal fortitude to realize them.  Your fellow candidates have their own variations on those themes. I want to hear you articulate them and differentiate yourself, so that each party may determine their nominee. 

You can't do that in thirty-second responses to poorly-premised questions when you also have to get in an elevator pitch and a sound bite setting Twitter all a-titter.  The nomination process should be reality, not a reality show.

So here's what I want for your party debating process Republicans and Democrats and others:
  • I want two hours
  • I want a round table
  • I want at most four of you around that table at a time*  
  • I want decorum befitting a candidate seeking the nomination of their party.  There shall be no need for a moderator
  • I want a topic card to be drawn from the hat and half an hour of open discussion.  If you beat the horse dead, pull the next topic
  • I want you to repeat this four times before your party's convention
Here are suggested topics, neither complete nor in any particular order:**
  • Liberty
  • The role of and responsibilities of government 
  • Economics.  Not the economy, but economics
  • Foreign policy, Foreign events
  • Our form of government... civics 101.  Local, state, federal, branches, parliamentary procedures, dirty pool.  We the people need to hear it, and we need to hear that you understand these things.
  • Race
  • Entitlement
  • Budgets, deficits, debt
  • Tax policy
  • Religion
  • The Environment
  • Environmentalism (file under religion, other)
This format would:
  • Provide you with the opportunity to shine
  • Make it difficult for you to hide
  • Provide you with the opportunity to learn
  • Provide you with the opportunity to expand upon and explore a topic in depth
  • Provide the audience with the opportunity to absorb and reason, compare and contrast
  • Cause alliances to be formed
  • Expose rogues and villains
  • Educate (remember, education is the most important thing ever!)
  • Amaze the world

Leadership can be recognized by initiative, by service, and even by going against the norm.  We the people are starving for substance and quality.  We are starving for quantity as well. We can't discern a shyster in a soundbite, but if you give us eight hours of you, you'll get two solid hours of your voice making your points.

You aren't beholden to the networks for reach.  Through today's technology you can broadcast a message of any length and of any topic you wish.  An event of significance will draw an audience. You and your message are significant, right?

You aren't beholden to the media.  They are merely a channel.  If you don't feed that channel, the best they can do is talk about you and, in the mean time, starve.  Word-of-mouth bypasses that channel.  It's called social media.   

You are beholden to the processes and caucuses and delegates and deliberations and the  back-room smoking-room strong arm politics of your party.  So be it.  Politics are ugly. 

You are beholden to the voters.

You want to serve the greatest country in the world?  You'd better lay yourself bare. As a candidate, you know that you must capture the attention of American voters.  If you and your peers can't collectively agree with the party and negotiate with the media for this format, then three or four of you should go out on your own.  When Americans don't like something, they are free to go out and do it better on their own.  It's what we do.  It's what we want leaders to do.

You're not going to lose the nomination and bow out of a race because you couldn't game the reality show that is a modern "debate," are you?

*If you're worried about fairness, which group goes first, and other concerns to which any adult would remind you "life isn't fair," then it's one-potato, two-potato, three-potato, four, and off you go into your separate rooms.  Put them up on Netflix and let people watch them in their own order and on their big screen in 5.1 Dolby Surround.
**Note that these topics are high level; I don't want to discuss what who said about who and what they did last week.  I want you to articulate and defend what you believe

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

It wasn't another $30

When last we tried, we thought a $30 Ignition Control Module (ICM) might do the trick in correcting the stumble in the A8.


My current line of thought is to look for vacuum leaks in the steam-punk engine ventilation hoses or to replace the air-flow sensor that helps the computer govern the mixture of fuel and spark.

On the one hand, much of the vacuum tubing has, to its credit, lasted for almost two decades and shouldn't be blamed for a minor leak. I've replaced one or two, but there are a few other pieces of original equipment.

On the other hand, the air flow sensor is triggering engine codes for "low readings."

Then again, detecting vacuum tube leaks can be done with a smoke-box (or, if I had Michael Phelps' lungs, a cigar), a propane bottle or, in a risky manner, with snap start.  Either push smoke into the hoses and watch where it leaks out, or hover some un-lit propane or snap-start around various points of a running engine and see if it gets sucked in and revs up the engine.  What woudl I do with a smoke box after this one use?  Is it worth another $40?

Of course, a replacement air flow sensor is $150, and may not be the issue.  I could go cheap, but is this the kind of senor you buy used from a scrap yard?


She runs.  She needs to go another year.  I'm trying to save up for her replacement.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Another $30 won't hurt

Especially after the $400 I sunk into the fuel pump assembly last month.

Here's that long story short:

I replaced the fuel pump, with the expensive gasket set, got it all back together and... it runs the same.  Smooth, stumble. Smooth, stumble. Dang.

A little more:

  1. When you have to fix something automotive, remember that someone else has fixed the same exact thing before and documented it.
  2. You could search the internet for the forums and the discussions but, you're better off if you simply...
  3. Start your search on YouTube.  You're going to end up there anyway.  Save some time.
  4. My thanks to George in Texas, whoever you may be, for your humor, sound shade-tree mechanic's methods, excellent use of old comforters, some good classic rock, and some well placed expletives.  I owe you a beer.

I spent the weekend sitting cross-legged in my trunk doing the chinese puzzle that is sliding and twising the fuel-pump assembly back into place.  I even bought a $20 usb, led-lit, powered camera "boroscope,"** and watched myself slide the male and female bits in the tank into position and then... mate.  I felt kinda dirty.

Along the way I built a tool, helping finish the job and separating me from the monkeys.  There's nothing like fashioning your own tool.  In this case, it was a 1x6 ripped into a 1x2, with two bolts drilled through it to grasp and turn a large lid on the fuel pump assembly.

All put back together, I still couldn't start the damned car or manually prime the pump.  It was a very strange experience, largely due to a very strange design.  It turns out that the fuel pump assembly gets primed by adding fuel in from the filler cap.  Once I dumped in a a couple of gallons of fuel, I was able to get it moving from the pump to the filter in line.  From there it was a set of stages; through the filter, and up the line to the engine high-pressure line.

Once I had that going for me, I had a leaking line-in to the filter issue to deal with, but was able to sand the original crush washers which bookend the fuel filter and snug it up.

Varoooooom, quiet, steady idle.  I cleaned up shop, put tools away, and took her for a quick test drive.

It is a joy to fix something.

The engine still misses, so the fuel filter and pump was a $400 excursion to nowhere.  Except that I'll probably never need to do that again.  And if I do, I have the spare, original pump handy.

And so,

On our way to church this afternoon, another of our fine vehicles, the steadfast 2000 Chevy Venture, developed a stumble.  Very much a misfire.  Could it be the original plugs or wires that I've never changed in its fifteen-year life?*  Might it be an electronics box? 

Best to hook up an OBD2 cable and pull some codes.  Or go to Autozone and have them do it.  But I'm both cheap and curious, and I have an OBD2 usb cable somewhere around here and the internet's gotta have free software...

Which led to internet searches and a couple of freeware obd2 downloads.  Neither could connect to the Chevy's computer, but both hooked right up on the A8.  Go figure.  One even had real-time readouts of engine RPM, coolant temperature, and vehicle speed.  This in the freeware version!  The other was the same software I've been saving my old PC for all these years.  I guess I can wipe its drive like C3PO and give it away now.  I've gained a cubic foot in the basement!  It told me that I had an intermittent misfire in cylinder 5.


Sounds like the problem I had back in February, when I had a very non-intermittent misfire in cylinder 4.  The fix for that was a $40 Ignition Control Module from Amazon.  This time around, they're down to $30.

Another $30 into the A8 won't hurt.  Maybe it'll fix it. 

Which would give me time to save up for something newer.  This is striking my fancy this week:

Because I like weird cars.  And this is a beautiful weird car.

I'd better get that Venture fixed, though.  I'll probably buy myself a hand-held OBD2 tool on the way home and verify that it is the plugs and wires, and start the process of rotating my engine forward.  That car only has to last... oh, a few years more.  I just bought new tires for it.  And waxed it.

* What?  It's a transverse mounted V6.  You change 'em!  Getting to those rear plugs involves removing engine mounts and rotating (I prefer the term tilting) the engine forward with a ratchet strap.  Looking up the procedure (on YouTube. See item 3 above), I had to laugh at the first commentator's quip, "I've come to the conclusion that my mechanic lied when he said he changed all the spark plugs."
** For looking into piston bores and such.  The kids laughed when I stuck it in my mouth, nose, ears.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Tyranny of the Fuel Pump

I had a financial epiphany a few months ago.

Perusing the local craigslist with a martini in hand, I came across an 04 Audi S4 for sale locally.  Red. Single owner, professional, female, all maintained.  New tires.  Reasonable price.  Pull-me-over-red. I mentioned it to Mrs. Toadroller and she was game.  Excited, even. It's red. We had the cash, so...

A week later it was ours and it is what a 350 hp, 6 speed manual, all wheel drive sport sedan should be.  Wicked-pissah fast and fun.  The financial epiphany was recognizing it for what it is: a toy.  The kind that gets taken out on Sundays, is maintained well, and is just a neat thing to have.  It's not core transportation.  It's nice to have a toy car, and it's a financial luxury to be able to look on it that way.

Nature, however, doesn't like a man to own five road-going vehicles* and therefore punishes him by making sure something is wrong with at least one of them at all times.  I call it carma.

Cue the  A8, she of oil cooler and ignition control module fame, to have a sporadic stumble in her engine.  It's been there since January, letting me know that something-will-be-wrong and I'll-reveal-myself-when-the-time-is-right.  In the mean time, I've continued my long drives around northern New England for business and pleasure.  In last week's heat and heavy traffic,** she got a little more insistent that bad-news-is-coming and I turned my thoughts to what it could be.

Friday night into Saturday morning, I woke up at 4:00 AM and it was clear that my brain wanted me to work on things.  I wasn't going to get back to sleep.  Ah, well, the British Open was on, so I went downstairs to watch.  Howling winds meant no golfing coverage, so I researched fuel delivery problems on the various Audi fan clubs on the interwebs and saw a few posts referring to replacing the fuel filter every 30k miles or so.  Shit, I've had this car for 170k of its 245k and I know I've never replaced the fuel filter.  Worth a shot.  Youtube videos of the procedure? Check!  Available to buy on line, pick up in store from Autozone in the morning? Check!  Half an hour job? Check!

Four days later...

The fuel filter was simple.  Simply remove a protective cover near the rear passenger wheel, unbolt supply and egress lines, slip in new filter, re-bolt supply and egress lines with new crush washers and... nuthin.  Crankety-crank-crank-crank, no start.  This car has had its problems, but starting has always been crankety-crank, vroooOOOOOoooommmmmm.  No fuel at engine.  Diagnose the fuel line as good to the engine (yum, the taste of gasoline; won't be the last time for me).  Direct wire the fuel pump, which is located in the gas tank and accessed from the trunk to discover that it spins and gurgles, but doesn't spit.  It might be sucking some air in the tank instead of fuel given the angle I had the car jacked to, but I jacked it back up on the other side to "drain the sinuses" back to the pump and still no go-juice flowing through the fuel lines.

So a fuel pump problem?

I had the fuel pump on this car replaced by a local garage about two years ago.  Expensive Audis have expensive parts, and the whole fuel pump assembly can be had new for just over a thousand dollars.  Being frugal at the time,*** I found a used fuel pump assembly from a scrapper for something like $600 and paid the local garage labor to put it in... $1000 job.  It's a weird, unique assembly, and apparently it's tricky to do.

Guess who gets to do it again?

Fortunately, it turns out that it's a fuel pump assembly, which means parts are assembled together, which means it can be disassembled and these parts can be individually replaced.  $171 for the fuel pump motor, which is the source of all this trouble, and *gasp* $184 for the gasket kit comprised of two o-rings, a few crush washers, and one uniquely shaped gasket.  Ouch, but not $1000-for-the-assembly ouch.

Well, if you put a thousand dollars into a thousand dollar car and all you have when you're done is a thousand dollar car, you might be stupid.  Or you might have a new hobby.  If you put $400 at a time into a $1000 car, you're probably just trying to get the most out of a pretty decent set of tires with a lot of tread left.  I'm all three. I also happen to love the car.

Stay tuned as I document the R&R. Half of the parts have arrived already, and I've been spending an hour or two at a time in the garage during the evening, methodically extracting the assembly from the trunk.  No rush.  We have a toy car to get around in.

*The S4, an A4 that the eldest Toadroller kind of took over as his primary transportation, an aging Chevy Venture for hauling all the Toadrollers to church on Sundays, my Suzuki 2-wheeled fun, and of course, my thousand dollar car, the A8, who has been documented in these pages before.  And will be again.
** I495 north around Boston, 95 degrees, 1:30pm, an hour and a half to go twenty miles. I don't know how people live in urban, populous ares.  I really don't.

*** Mrs. Toadroller insists that the proper term is cheap

Friday, July 17, 2015

A Long Goodbye

It was probably summer 1998, but it was specifically in Colorado Springs, coming down Vindicator to turn left onto Rockrimmon in my aging 88 Audi 90, when the first first-generation Audi A8 I ever saw, an Emerald Pearl,* crossed my path.


I knew of them, and had even seen pictures on the then new-fangled word-wide-web thingy, thanks to Nestcape Navigator; but in the flesh?  Stunning.  Top of the line. Expensive.  I desired one and entertained the thought that some day, who knows how far into the future, this would be the car that I would have.

It was likely summer of 1999, but it was specifically in Mahwah, NJ, outside the Macaroni Grille on Route 17 North, that I had occasion to walk around a Brilliant Black** one, peering in the driver's window and admiring everything on that gorgeous instrument panel, even the fonts on the speedometer that read up to 160 mph.

It was late December, 2002, when my relatively-recently purchased 94 Audi 100 CS was turned into by, well, an idiot.  My insurance company inexplicably found me at fault and I found myself, recently off of a decent commission check, at a dealership looking at a five year old Ming Blue*** with some 73k some odd miles on it for $18,900.

This had been a $65,000 car five years earlier.  It was my dream. Smoothly accelerating to 60 in mere moments out of a traffic light in Golden, CO, the decision was made.

She was mine.

Leather, summer and winter packages, heated seats all around, all the modern conveniences of what is, ironically, a modern pre-turn-of-the-millenium executive sedan.

We commuted. We went skiing. Months of nights were spent in airport parking garages awaiting my return. Highway cruises. Canyon runs. Winter drives over snow-pack.  Quattro, quattro, quattro.  The occasional drag race with the unsuspecting (and shocked!) Mustang or similar. Many a long drive home, late at night, after a long week of business.  Idling in rest areas for quick naps. Negative 17 fahrenheit in the deep cold of winter. Pulled over a time or three. And ever the joy of her 300 horses and 300 torque, pulling, pulling, pulling.  "Scotty, I need more power!" "She's giving you all she can, captain!"

Wash, clay-bar, rub, glaze, wax, buff, amaze.

It will probably be fall of 2015, but it will specifically be a love affair of 175,000 miles, twelve and a half (and more) years, across the country and around the northeast, through transmissions, drive-shafts, fuels pumps, tires innumerable, brake-pads and rotors, and a lot of oil, brought crushingly to an end when she dies.

The symptoms are shudders and gasps, hesitations and asthmatic idles; windshield squirters that don't, turn signals that no longer cancel when the turn is done, arm-rests gone missing, and a radio whose antennae was decapitated in the automatic car wash more than a decade past.

She's old.  She's tired. Her niece and nephew, an A4 and an S4, have taken over her home in the garage but are still chided for their brashness and lack of refinement by comparison with this regal grand dame of German engineering.

Merc, Beemer, you know she caused you to up your game. She is a D2 A8; her vanity plate says QUA8RO; she is my car.

Her time grows short.  When, how will we say goodbye?

* Paint code LZ6U M6, Emerald pearl effect, it turns out.
** Paint codeY9B A2, Brilliant Black.  I was in Mahwah, doing consulting work for Becton Dickinson on a prototype insulin injection pen, where one of the people I worked with there mentioned his father had purchased one.
*** Paint code LZ5L Q5 Ming blue pearl effect.  It's black, but really it's blue, but really it's metal-flak purple-hued blue when all gussied up.