Ah-HA!

I have discovered the culprit behind Danielle and my vehicle's inability to drive more than two miles without overheating. The mother-loving radiator fans have been out.




Yes, these two little babies (part #1ARFA00003, retails for about $180) have been responsible for more than their fair share of pains in asses. First Snyder's bachelor party, then about three hours of vicious ass paining last night.

I drove out to my dad's in Sagle (about eight miles) without incident -- so I assumed coolant had been the problem (Danielle first noticed abnormal temperature readings about a week ago after coming down Schweitzer Mountain after huckleberry picking). We refilled the coolant tank two days ago, and thought all was well.

Well, out at my dad's, we barbecued in honor of one of my two oldest friends' homecoming. Danielle (who's still training for a marathon) decided she'd run out to Sagle. I was to meet her somewhere along the road.

So here I am, driving about four miles and suddenly I look down to see the temperature gauge red-lining and the dummy light glaring its red eye of doom. I pull into the parking lot of Bill Jones Beer Distributing (coincidence) and wait for it to cool down. Danielle and I meet up and siphon water from the river into the coolant tank (mixed with some Prestone glycol-based anti-freeze, of course).

Still under the assumption that coolant was the problem (the tank was dry), we went on our merry way back to the party. Within two miles, the temp gauge was red lined again and the dummy light was on. We still had another two miles or so to go.

Being very far from any water source, we just punched through. By the time we got to my dad's place, steam was issuing from the hood like Edinburgh's "haahr" and just as we pulled into his drive way the car stopped moving all together. I couldn't even get it to turn over.

Needless to say, this was a bummer.

So we finished up with the party and went out to inspect the problem. I will never cease to be amazed at the fact that regardless of how old I get (and how "demystified" psychology books say I should be with my father) how my dad always seems to know exactly what to do regardless of the situation. He checked it out for about twenty minutes before noticing the radiator fans weren't connected. After a bunch of nonesense (jacking up the car, burning our arms on various steaming hot bolts and having the trouble light go out twice) we reconnected it.

When we started up the car the fans didn't start.

Jesus H.

So he offered to follow us into town in case it overheated again. Which it did. About two miles down the road.

We let it cool and drove it another two miles.

It overheated again.

Thankfully, we have a friend who lives on that particular road, so we left it at his house and dad drove us back the rest of the way. Now I'm sitting around waiting for some one to give me a lift out to Sagle so I can get it, then limp it back the remaining four miles to Sandpoint. The later it gets in the day, the hotter it will get. And if I'm not mistaken, the Long Bridge is exactly two miles long. This will be a touch-and-go situation, as the bridge is only two lanes, with no emergency pull outs until technically off the bridge. If this p.o.s. vehicle decides to freeze up in the middle, I'm proper fucked (see fig. below).




So here I am, waiting, with nothing to report on this blog except "car trouble."

Pain in my ass.

That is all.