Unhooded
It’s not every day you make repairs to your car and then damage it a half hour later.
Yesterday, after picking my car up from an early morning oil and break change, getting it all spiffy and clean at a carwash (manual carwash, not the kind where rich people pay immigrants $50 to do the same thing they could do themselves for $2.50), I was driving back home on Beach Boulevard in Huntington Beach when the SUV in front of me stopped at a yellow light just ahead. I thought he was going to go through it (common practice in California), but when he didn’t I pressed as hard as I could on my break peddle. I didn’t stop and didn’t stop and didn’t stop. It was as if I was magnetically attracted to the SUV’s back bumper and couldn’t keep my car form attaching itself, however violently. I tapped him, hard.
It was my first fender bender. Well, the first that did much damage to my car. Six years ago, on an Interstate 35 off-ramp somewhere north of Mason City, I gave the director of Minnesota’s Special Olympics a strong tap with my parents Explorer (I was looking left and thought she had turned right, but she was still sitting there waiting for a gap in traffic when I slid into her). She was driving her brother-in-law’s truck, using the bed to move something, and I put a dent in the brand new chrome bumper. Besides a scuff in the plastic bumper, the Explorer was unscathed. Yesterday, on sunny Beach Boulevard, I wasn’t so lucky. My little car hit the SUV’s bummer where the hood and grill meet.
On impact my hood popped up, but didn’t open all the way. I thought my front end was destroyed. I followed the SUV into a nearby parking lot where we got out to exchange insurance information. The first thing I did was examine the damage and was relieved to see it wasn’t much. The plastic front was scuffed and the hood had a slight lip on the very tip. The SUV — a brand new Lexus RX 350 (my insurance guy said, “You sure know how to pick ‘em”) — was practically undamaged, by my poor man’s guestimation. The back bummer was scratched and the tip of the tail pipe was bent a little. It was nothing a new bumper couldn’t fix. The guy had nothing to worry about. Me, on the other hand…
My hood wouldn’t close. It did close — hooking on the latch so no matter how much I pulled up I couldn’t open it unless pulling the release — but it wasn’t pretty. There was an inch of space left between the grill frame and hood. Fuck. The man offered me a ride home.
“Can you drive that?” he asked. “Without it flying up?”
Common sense told me yes. It was secure and locked; the only before and after difference was the small gap. So I declined his offer — I was a block away from home and would have to walk back and pick it up anyway — and drove off cautiously, much slower than I normally drive. The hood vibrated from the ride, but nothing spectacular happened.
I’ve driven sparingly since the collision, and though I’m sure the hood will stay in place and not fly up on me — imagine driving down the 405 and the hood flies up and blocks your view — I’m still a little uneasy about hitting the road. I’ve been paranoid ever since. Last evening, when I was lacing up to run (in my new running shoes — yay!), I could hear what I thought was dripping within in the engine, something falling to the pan at the bottom. What kind of expensive, killer crack had the blow created? When I returned I couldn’t hear anything (it was probably just the engine cooling), but the distress had been established and I worried for the rest of the night. I’m still worrying. That’s my only mode of transportation in the Kingdom of the Car; I’d be screwed without it.
Yesterday, after picking my car up from an early morning oil and break change, getting it all spiffy and clean at a carwash (manual carwash, not the kind where rich people pay immigrants $50 to do the same thing they could do themselves for $2.50), I was driving back home on Beach Boulevard in Huntington Beach when the SUV in front of me stopped at a yellow light just ahead. I thought he was going to go through it (common practice in California), but when he didn’t I pressed as hard as I could on my break peddle. I didn’t stop and didn’t stop and didn’t stop. It was as if I was magnetically attracted to the SUV’s back bumper and couldn’t keep my car form attaching itself, however violently. I tapped him, hard.
It was my first fender bender. Well, the first that did much damage to my car. Six years ago, on an Interstate 35 off-ramp somewhere north of Mason City, I gave the director of Minnesota’s Special Olympics a strong tap with my parents Explorer (I was looking left and thought she had turned right, but she was still sitting there waiting for a gap in traffic when I slid into her). She was driving her brother-in-law’s truck, using the bed to move something, and I put a dent in the brand new chrome bumper. Besides a scuff in the plastic bumper, the Explorer was unscathed. Yesterday, on sunny Beach Boulevard, I wasn’t so lucky. My little car hit the SUV’s bummer where the hood and grill meet.
On impact my hood popped up, but didn’t open all the way. I thought my front end was destroyed. I followed the SUV into a nearby parking lot where we got out to exchange insurance information. The first thing I did was examine the damage and was relieved to see it wasn’t much. The plastic front was scuffed and the hood had a slight lip on the very tip. The SUV — a brand new Lexus RX 350 (my insurance guy said, “You sure know how to pick ‘em”) — was practically undamaged, by my poor man’s guestimation. The back bummer was scratched and the tip of the tail pipe was bent a little. It was nothing a new bumper couldn’t fix. The guy had nothing to worry about. Me, on the other hand…
My hood wouldn’t close. It did close — hooking on the latch so no matter how much I pulled up I couldn’t open it unless pulling the release — but it wasn’t pretty. There was an inch of space left between the grill frame and hood. Fuck. The man offered me a ride home.
“Can you drive that?” he asked. “Without it flying up?”
Common sense told me yes. It was secure and locked; the only before and after difference was the small gap. So I declined his offer — I was a block away from home and would have to walk back and pick it up anyway — and drove off cautiously, much slower than I normally drive. The hood vibrated from the ride, but nothing spectacular happened.
I’ve driven sparingly since the collision, and though I’m sure the hood will stay in place and not fly up on me — imagine driving down the 405 and the hood flies up and blocks your view — I’m still a little uneasy about hitting the road. I’ve been paranoid ever since. Last evening, when I was lacing up to run (in my new running shoes — yay!), I could hear what I thought was dripping within in the engine, something falling to the pan at the bottom. What kind of expensive, killer crack had the blow created? When I returned I couldn’t hear anything (it was probably just the engine cooling), but the distress had been established and I worried for the rest of the night. I’m still worrying. That’s my only mode of transportation in the Kingdom of the Car; I’d be screwed without it.
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