Clutch performance

Folks used to ask me how the Mean Green Machine was running.

"Knock on wood, I haven't had any major problems."

That's what I use to say. And it held some weight when the MGM motored past 100K miles a few years ago. I could say it with pride, like I was talking about my kid acing its second-grade spelling exam. My chest would swell (not from a jalapeno and chili dog for once) and you'd need to grease my head in Crisco to get my overinflated ego through a door jamb. The MGM was my pride and joy, it was Jesus Christ and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream on wheels.

Then the wood knocked back.

It started Friday (maybe earlier, but with my chest and guts dancing the hokey pokey the day before I probably didn't notice) on the way to work. I shifted into third and it felt like I stepped on a frog. The MGM's typical rice-burning pep wasn't there. It felt like it was burning fried rice mixed with a extra helping of MSG rather than clean steamed rice. I figured I let it out to quick. Then I shifted to fourth gear and gave it some extra gas to outpace the street sweeper who impossibly seemed to be gaining on my limping MGM.

"Hmmm," I say to myself because I often talk to myself (no one else listens ... hell, I don't listen sometimes when I talk to myself either), "this could be a problem."

There was no question in my mind, it was the clutch.

I've driven a six-cylinder car that ran on four-and-a-half, a car that squealed louder than Brittany Spears on the delivery table when it 60 mph, and resurrected a car squirrels in Idyllwild had called home for two years. There were days when I prayed to Al Pacino for the car to start, and would daydream in class about how my fellow classmate would leave for home in cars that would start on the first turn and wouldn't stall at a stop light if they didn't quickly throw the tranny into neutral.

The MGM gave me that glimpse into how the other half lived. And now, 10 years later I have to wonder how much the ol' girl has left in her. I've been lucky, but sometimes you just have to let it go. Don't get me wrong, the MGM still has plenty of rice in her engine, but slapping a new clutch in her reminds me it won't last forever. My ol' man just dropped a new rice burner in his little ride. It has 200K-plus. You drive something that long the car company ought to kick some new floor mats your way. Hell, I should get a little somethin'-somethin' for cresting a dime, at least something better than a new clutch - that I had to pay for.

Whew, and pay we did. For the cost of a new clutch you buy a small country and populate it with slave-labor chimps. I think that's why I'm starting wonder whether the ol' MGM is becoming the OPS - Old Piece of Shit (which I'm sure Wife was death gripping until the day I turn 40, then whammo, that'll be my new nickname).

Of course I'm nothing if not proactive, so in the next few weeks I think I'll start test driving new rides to see what I like. I'm global-warming sensitive to, so I'll start with something environmentally friendly - a Harley Sportster. It's motorcycle, it's gotta be sweet on gas mileage. President Frat Boy will gnash his teeth when he sees me tootling around town not sucking up the oil he's no doubt getting enough kick backs from to afford a swimming pool full of Wild Turkey. After that, maybe I'll look at sports cars. They don't eat up too much gas, right? Say, something like a Ferrari. In fact, I know a dealer in Vegas, smack in the middle of Wynn, who would like nothing better to hook me up with a Magnum-red ride.

Well, a man can dream, right? Knowing my luck, I'll have to beg and plead, and promise back rubs for eternity to Wife just to get a used 1988 Chevy Citation.