by Preston
(original post on November 1, 2010)
In July I noticed that my truck was behaving a little strangely. The transmission didn’t seem as peppy as usual. Since I was overdue for my 60,000 mile maintenance, I chalked it up to the fluid needing flushing. After towing a Trans Am from the other side of Warner Robins, GA, I decided to have the truck serviced at a Firestone close to where I worked. After having a talk with the district manager over some work I ordered that didn’t get performed, I got the bill straightened out and have been driving the truck ever since.
A little over a week ago, we traded She Who Must Be Obeyed’s (SWMBO) 99 Odyssey for a 2007 Odyssey. Power sliding doors, heated leather seats, factory DVD for the rear. The ultimate soccer mom vehicle that is acceptable for even the Marlboro man to drive (only when he has to go the drug store to pick up feminine essentials, but I digress). We wanted something a little newer, safer and nicer for SWMBO and the progeny of the paterfamilias of the Lane household.
As typical luck would have it, right after obligating the family to a car payment for a vehicle that the used price is higher than most decent new cars were 10 years ago, I noticed that my truck was misbehaving once again. Even threatening to pull over to the side of the road and having a stern talk didn’t phase the truck at all. It kept acting up. I noticed more than once when slowing down that either the transmission was downshifting hard, or a midget in a Smart Car was rear ending me. Considering that the truck sits so high off the ground in the back that an FAA waiver is required, I couldn’t see the midget. I looked, and I couldn’t find him either. Either the little booger was quick getting away, or the transmission was acting up.
I began putting out feelers to anyone I know who could recommend a decent transmission shop in town. I’ve never had to have one repaired before, but I’m no fool when it comes to cars. I religiously DVR all the car shows that come on cable TV and encourage SWMBO to watch them with me. She tries, but she is so exhausted when I turn on the shows that she is usually asleep before I can fast forward the first commercial. I can spell things like “Torque Converter” and “Dual Overhead Cam.” I even have a Craftsman Club card so that I regularly receive catalogs in the mail, although some folks call it “tool porn” instead. BTW: I’m not addicted…I can stop looking at those catalogs anytime I want! I just wish I remembered where I put last month’s edition….
Well, today I read about a guy with a Jeep with the same motor and transmission as my truck (Jeep is owned by Chrysler, the owner of Dodge). He was describing the same problem I was experiencing, and since he couldn’t find the dang midget either, he came to the conclusion that his Throttle Position Sensor (TPS) was going bad. Like a tool porn addict, I mean tool connoisseur, I opened a web browser and found a local store that stocked the exact part I needed.
Tonight when I got home, I dutifully changed out of my work clothes into some grubby clothes I usually reserve for yard work and fine dining. I raised the hood on the truck to let the motor cool and placed the meatloaf in the over for SWMBO (see, I do obey her). Then, I proceeded to work on the truck.
Now, for those of you who haven’t seen me in 15 years, that extra cheeseburger I ate after that date my senior year of high school has finally caught up with me. Given that I am a little more well rounded than I used to be, it’s sometimes hard to get my body into the weird shapes required to perform tasks. Now, for those of you not familiar with the task I was about to undertake, the TPS sits on the top of the engine underneath a casket like box labeled Dodge Magnum V-8. Both the V-8 and the shape of the box serve as reminders that if you bought this truck for its excellent gas mileage, you are dead wrong.
According to the guy on the web, this is a 10 minute job. Since I own Craftsman tools from my tool “catalog,” I figure it might take me 20. So, as mentioned in the service manual of my truck, I stood on the bumper and began taking the casket off the top of the motor. However, since I am standing on the bumper and am having to bend over the top of the motor to reach everything, there is now a 6 foot high plumber’s crack being shown to the next door neighbors. Thank God they’re my in-laws.
I get the casket off the top of the motor about 30 minutes into the job. Not too bad, considering that as many times a month that I go to Harbor Freight, and as much money as I have spent there and at Sears after looking at my catalogs, I have never seen fit to buy this thing called a breaker bar. It’s supposed to make getting tough to loosen/tighten bolts easier to work with. It’s only $10, but why spend the money when I can sweat off the weight grunting and tugging on the ratchet set and uttering under my breath the only words I remember from high school French, and they weren’t the words we were taught in class.
Now, when I bought my truck (slightly used), I was guaranteed that it was an American made truck. It was built in America, sold in America, and the last I checked, I’m still American. It’s an American truck. Right off the bat, I suspected something fishy with the dang Germans that owned Chrysler a few years back. See, I’ve got one of the Daimler Chrysler Dodge trucks, so my truck is the American cousin of the Mercedes. However, something ain’t right in this family. The first thing in the instructions I read was to get an 8mm socket.
So, I have to get off the American made truck’s bumper, go to my American made Craftsman tools and get the European tools out. It’s now getting dark, I’m sweating like I’ve run a marathon, the motor is still hot enough to cook on, and SWMBO is telling me that the meatloaf is ready. At this point, I’ve used my 8mm, 10mm and 16mm sockets and am cursing Frau Blücher and any other German involved in the engineering of my beloved truck. I realize at this point that somehow Lee Iacocca is laughing at me for buying a European American made truck.
So, I’m finally ready to remove the old TPS. According to the instructions of the guy who said the whole job only takes 10 minutes, I’m to use a T-27 bit. T-27? What the heck? He just sank my battleship! So, I grab that bit (after failing miserably with an Allen wrench…don’t get me started on that Allen dude and his ideas on tools), and realize that I have stripped the head of the 2nd of 2 bolts. Now muttering in Klingon (closest language to German I understand), I go to the house to get the mother of all tools, the Vice Grips!
**** IT!!! The vice grips won’t stay on! It could be the fact that I am now laying prostrate over the motor to reach the bolt and am having to weave through hoses as wires and Jimmy Hoffa’s remains, but I can’t get the dang 2nd bolt out. At this point, I'm trying to remember if the truck has one of those fans that turns on after the vehicle is turned off. As much as I would like to lose 50 or 60 pounds, I don't think a radiator fan liposuction is approved by the FDA. Also, since I just changed jobs, I'm not sure the aftercare of such surgery is covered by my new health plan.
After fighting with the vice grips for several more minutes, and fearing that my flashlight’s battery will die, I climb down off the bumper for the 73rd time. Now, I’ve attended Mass at a Catholic church before, but I swear I was up and down off that bumper more than I was in the pew at Mass. I go back to my trusty Black and Decker Drill Bit case and start looking at the T bits again. I realize then that the instructions were wrong. So I grabbed the T-26 (you sank my destroyer), chucked it up in a ¼ inch (finally, an honest to God American size!) socket, and a few seconds later, I have the TPS in my hand. Now, sometime during all of this, I did finally manage to get the wiring off the TPS without damage. It’s amazing, since my hands were greasier than the politicians that I’ve seen downtown.
So, less than 10 minutes later, I have my truck back together…no missing appendages, all the tools are accounted for, and no missing or leftover bolts, screws, etc. Truck even cranks and idles properly. While revving the engine a few times, I notice once again that my speedometer has two sets of numbers. American miles per hour, and European KillaMothers (also used in Canada, eh?).
For a split second, I have a flashback to my final driving exam with Coach Armstrong in the spring Driver’s Ed class. I remember seeing that second set of numbers, and the closer we got to 88, the more scared I got. Coach A finally told me that the car was a Ford Taurus, not a Delorean, and that to go back in time, you have to have a Delorean doing 88 miles per hour, not 88 killamothers.
Now you see, doc, that’s why they brought me in. Now, if you could loosen these straps just a little and hand me one of those pink pills.....thanks.
As I have heard from other parents on children on the Spectrum, my son is ADDICTED to video games and quite often cleans everyone’s clock when playing them. I do regularly get to beat him at some regular sports games on the Wii (Frisbee golf, bowling, etc.), but when it comes to standard games that the kids play, I’ve got less of a chance of winning than a snowball in Arizona has of lasting in August.
