The number of car-related stories I could share approximates the number of miles and kilometres I have driven during my 68 years of owning more than a dozen different vehicles. This week’s experiences continue to deal with getting vehicles serviced.
I was driving my 1961 VW Beetle to California. Somewhere near Tucumcari, New Mexico I stopped for gas and a washroom break. When I returned to the car, the attendant asked if I was heading west, across the desert. At my affirmative response, he gestured with an ice pick and was about to indicate the tire’s inadequate tread depth, saying in a solemn voice, “You’re not going across the desert with those tires, are you?” I was.
Disappointed at not making a sale, he handed me the bill for the gas. It was more than double what I had ever paid for a fill-up! I opened the trunk, in the front of the car, where the fuel tank filler is. It was a-slosh with double the amount of fuel that should have been put in. I insisted he give me a deal: he dries out the trunk and I get the gas for free.
The tires? They took me to L.A., then back to Ontario, and through the next two winters.
Then came my service experience with my 1966 VW Variant Squareback. We were returning from a quick Christmas trip to Key West. At a Georgia fill-up I asked the gas jockey if he’s a mechanic.
“Sure am!”
“She’s running a bit rough. Could you check it out?” Without a pause, he asked me to pop the hood. That told me that he didn’t even know one end from another, that it was a rear-engine car.
Then there’s those who give absolutely great service. In Collingwood, Ontario, our then 20-year-old VW camper van “died.” The young tow-truck driver asked, “Do you want to go to the big shop that doesn’t know what they’re doing, or my guy on the back road?”
When we arrived at the garage, a customer ahead of us was told, “We’re booked solid for two weeks.” We then presented our dilemma. Without a pause, he said, “You can camp in our backyard, use our washroom. The generator will be here and installed by tomorrow morning.” It was!
Near Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, our then 23-year-old VW camper once again “died.” Once again, it was a young tow-truck driver who asked, “Do you want to go to the big shop or to a guy who knows his stuff?”
Through town, then along a gravel road we went, further and further out into the country. After I described the van’s symptoms, the mechanic ambled toward our vehicle, lay down on the ground, reached under the bumper (as if milking a cow), gave something a tweak and jumped up with a smile, “There! Have a good trip to B.C. No charge.” Magic!
