Keep On Truckin'

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.