Good old Truck. Truck is 18 years old now and I hold my breath when it comes time for a smog check, wondering if this will be "the time." Back in the day with a different car I would put over 40,000 miles a year on the engine. Now I drive less than 3,000 miles annually, mostly here in the hills with a trip to the valley maybe once or twice a year. But still, in car years 18 is getting up there.
A trip to town requires time calculation; it takes about a half-hour to get to Placerville. Did I have enough time to get gas first? No. Did I have enough gas? Y-e-s-s. (I try to never let the tank get below half, but have had to make several trips recently and I'm not sure the gauge is reliable.) I allowed 45 minutes in case there were flatlanders on the road. I always carry a book along in the unlikely event I'm ever early, but what's 15 minutes? Leaving Bess in charge, I headed out. I only wear a watch when I'm going to town. Going through Bucks Bar, I glanced at said watch and, oh no! How could I possibly have miscalculated so badly? I was going to be not 15 minutes early but an hour and fifteen minutes. Good thing I had a book. Figuratively smacking my forehead, it dawned on me that I had not set my watch to daylight saving time and was right on schedule. (I've tried so hard not to go into my twice-a-year diatribe on the time change.)
The guys in the shop laughed when I arrived (early) and said they would not punish me by making me wait 15 minutes to start the paperwork. In fact, they took Truck right in. I'd barely read a chapter when Smog Guy came back, flourished the form and said we'd passed with flying colors.
Good old Truck.