02.11.2013 Driver Licensing Made Pleasant: Morton, WA

02.11.2013
A rave to Laurie at the Driver Licensing agency in Morton! I opted for a
smaller venue to update my license last week, and she answered all my
questions on the phone in clear terms, chatted with me at the office on
changes in the industry, and finished with my first-ever smiling drivers 
license photo.

Besides the gorgeous drive from Toledo on a fine day and lunch locally,
Laurie made this otherwise odious task a great excuse for an afternoon
away from the daily routine. The entire State Department of Driver 
Licensing could take lessons from her and vastly improve their image.

Two thumbs up!

02.10.2013 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: O-Rings versus Washers - Mt Vernon WA

02.10.2013

"I could never own a truck," said one woman, shaking her head. "I don't know enough about the mechanical side." Which, coincidentally, was how I learned about the mechanics of big rigs. I bought a truck.

Performing my own repairs and signing off on the mechanics line wasn't popular at the scalehouse in Vacaville and other California coops, but ultimately they had to set me free. I collected shop manuals for various engines, read them like novels, and scrutinized any diagnosis proffered by unscrupulous garages. I had, while still driving for my first truck boss, replaced a shift tower, front axle bearings, trailer brakes, run the bottom end and generally got acquainted with the rig I bought by combing it for loose or missing screws, nuts and bolts. I had been encouraged to explore and ferret out any squeak, rattle or whine, chasing the culprit to ground. I felt competent.

I had a set of second-hand coveralls which I would don over my ripped jeans and haltertop, and crawl around under the truck. Occasionally some courageous soul would venture to ask if I needed assistance, his eyes glazing over as I cited the specifics of what went wrong and how I intended to remedy the situation, then watched him saunter off, head down.

When the number one head started pushing antifreeze, the shop manual said "cap screws," or head bolts. These were sometimes re-used by shops looking to charge for new by pocketing the difference, and would often be adequate for awhile. But the daily strain they undergo stretches them, like the links of chains used for binding or lifting, and ultimately they fail. By purchasing the parts at the local big name truck dealer in town, I saved myself from that fate.

But since I didn't look like a truck driver, the parts counter guy presumed I was the runner. And he tattled on himself.

Running around the country I collected lots of horror stories about shady shop owners and incompetent wrenchers. I had even heard a story or two about how someone's cabover toppled, once past the tipping point when the cab jack failed. So I related these stories to a less-than-enthusiastic independent shop owner who replied “I've only ever seen two of 'em jump the bumper.” Which, in my opinion, seemed two too many.

Coerced into hooking a chain to the cab frame and fastening it to a forklift in the shop, he jacked the cab to the half-way point...where it lunged. The chain held, my knees buckled.

The mechanic was the first to recover, which made sense, as this sort of event wasn't new to him. I ignored his placatory prattle while I waited for my heart to descend from my throat, then proceeded to remove the cab jack pump from the frame to dissect and repair. The mechanic wisely busied himself with the engine problems while I set off to the local truck dealer for parts for the pump.

The culprit seemed to be a disintegrated washer, rotted with age. So I carefully laid out the dismantled pump, as I learned from all those shop manuals (my dad was an engineer, remember? Theory and schematics, not applied) and noted that all the washers seemed to be the same size. At the dealer, no identical washer could be found. An O-ring was produced for my inspection, then a larger diameter washer. Returning with the otherwise appropriately sized O-ring, the counter guy advised. “Just give him (the pump repair “guy,”) this one. He'll never know the difference.”

Even today I can recall the stunned look and the backpedaling when I informed that parts guy, “I'm 'him.'”