I have mixed feelings about my state’s mandatory annual car inspections being suspended (at least until April, the last I heard).
Part of me feels relieved because having my car inspected every year always has been a source of great stress for me, right up there with scheduling a dental appointment. I’m talking about heart palpitations, clammy hands, dry mouth and nausea. The only difference between the two is with a dental appointment, it’s the physical pain I fear. With the car inspection, it’s pain in my wallet.
My biggest mistake with my past car inspections was I always had the dealership conduct them. And the dealership never failed to find some expensive part that “urgently” needed replacing. I never managed to escape without forking over a minimum of $350, and that was on a good day.
Still, although saving money every year sounds fine to me, another part of me fears that if there no longer are any more mandatory auto inspections, I might not be aware of any impending doom until my car does something like drop its entire exhaust system in the middle of a four-lane highway or lose its brakes just as a moose dashes out in front of it.
Three years ago, however, I finally smartened up and began to suspect the dealership just might be taking advantage of me. About eight months after one of the aforementioned inspections, my car's oil light popped on as I was heading home from shopping. Concerned, I pulled into the first auto-repair garage I spotted.
“When’s the last time you had the oil changed?” the mechanic asked me after checking it.
I shrugged. “I have no clue. I figured it was something they automatically took care of during the inspection every year.”
“Obviously not,” he said, frowning. “The oil is supposed to be dripping off the dipstick when I check it, not sticking to it like tar.”
He said I was lucky because he had some spare time before his next customer was due to arrive, so he could do an oil change.
Relief flooded through
me as I took a seat in the waiting area while the mechanic set to work.
Unfortunately, my
relief was short-lived.
It seemed like only
seconds before he came into the room and said, “Ma’am, come here, please. I
want to show you something.”
Years of experience
had taught me that whenever a mechanic utters a sentence that begins that way,
it’s never a good thing.
He led me to my car,
which was up on the lift, and started wiggling some kind of rod that looked as
if a good sneeze would cause it to fall off.
“Your tie rod is
broken,” he said. “If you hit a bad frost heave or pot hole with it like that, you could risk losing your steering.”
My eyes widened. The
road up to my house was comprised of nothing but frost heaves and pot holes. I imagined what it would be like to
suddenly lose my steering on that road. Visions of my car dangling by two
wheels over the side of the Catamount Pond bridge weren't exactly comforting because swimming never was one of my best assets...especially while wearing jeans, boots and a winter jacket.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t have time to do the job today,” the mechanic said. “Can you bring the car
back tomorrow morning?”
“You actually want me
to drive that deathtrap home?” I asked in disbelief.
“It should be OK as
long as you take it easy,” he said.
“Easy?! You haven’t seen the
road to my house! It has so many frost heaves, it looks like the roller-coaster
track at Canobie Lake Park!”
“OK, then,” he said.
“If it makes you feel better, you can leave the car here and I’ll have my son
drive you home.”
He didn’t have to ask
me twice. So his son drove me to my house and then zoomed off. I’d
barely walked to the front door, however, when I noticed his car coming
back up the driveway.
“Forget something?” I
asked him.
He smiled. “Yeah, you!
My dad just called me. Your car is ready.”
I just stared at him.
“He changed the oil,
put in two new tie rods and then did an alignment. It’s all set.”
I couldn’t believe my
ears. I figured his father must have been a former member of Mario Andretti’s
pit crew. Either that, or he was like Samantha on “Bewitched,” where all he had
to do was twitch his nose and “poof!” the car was fixed.
When we returned, the
father showed me proof of the work he’d done, probably because I couldn’t
conceal my skeptical expression – which probably resembled that of someone who’d
just witnessed a magic trick and wanted to know where the magician's hidden props and
wires were.
Even better, his price
was so cheap, I had to ask him twice if he was sure that was all he wanted.
He laughed. “I can charge
you more, if it will make you happy.”
It then dawned on me that because he was so speedy, the labor fee, which usually was the most expensive part of any job (no matter what the profession) probably totaled about $25.
After that, I vowed he
would do the annual inspections on my car, and the dealership could kiss my big fat…annual
checks goodbye.
The only problem was,
my newly discovered mechanic retired that winter and moved to Florida. I was
crushed.
Was I discouraged enough
to return to return to the dealership?
Heck no.
I found another
mechanic in the area and for the past three years, my annual inspection has cost
me a mere $39.
The reason for that,
however, just might be because I drive an average of only about 1,000 miles per year. The older I get, the less appealing driving seems to me - mostly because I value my life.
On second thought,
maybe my car will do just fine without an annual inspection after all…unless
the tires get dry rot from lack of use.
I can relate.
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