All that rests under the bonnet has remained a mystery for years. I have never pretended to be mechanically minded and do not know one end of a car engine from the other. I did not learn to drive until I was almost 30. I lived in Belfast; we have black hacks and buses.
Then I married a country girl and had to learn to drive the car that we had to buy – because we lived in the sticks without black hacks and with only occasional buses.
Bit by bit, I had to macho up – or should that be mechanic up? For years, I did no more to the car than fill up the water for the windscreen wipers. That in itself was no mean feat; I knew where to find the water reservoir for the windscreen wipers. It is at the front of the car, under the bonnet, beside the thing called “an engine”.
I was proud of myself. Then came the oil. A light came on the dash – never a good thing. That forced me to take it to the local mechanic.
“There’s a light on the dash,” I said, “according to the manual it is for oil.” (Yes, I read the manual.)
The mechanic is a kind man. He shows me where the oil is, how to fill it up gradually and not to overfill it.
He shows me the oil I need to use. I have learned something new. I now check the oil regularly. I know where the dipstick is. I am no longer the dipstick.
I start watching car shows on the television; the American ones in particular, Fast n' Loud; Diesel Brothers and the likes. The Americans fascinate and frighten me. They are talking American about American cars. They speak of fuel injection, chopping, manifolds, injectors, torque, blowers and turbos.
They do not seem to bother too much about water for the windscreen wipers or checking the oil. No one ever mentions the dipstick – which I can now find.
They do not seem to do a lot of work on the sort of cars I drive – Citroens, Nissans, Hyundai. They like American cars, cars that are cool, cars that they can rebuild and “flip” for a profit. I am learning American. I too want to “flip” things but a Citroen is not a Corvette, a Qashqai is not a Mustang.
I am hooked, however. I want to learn the lingo; I want to speak American cars; I want to be able to convince people that I actually know more than I know.
Who really cares about page-making, about spell-checking, about cropping pictures when you could be taking an old Ford, chopping it down, painting it candy-apple red, putting in a small block V8 turbo-boosted nuclear power plant and then flipping it at the Barrett Jackson auction for a million bucks?
Still, I am not handy. I really do not like messing with the car.
I have, it is true, had to change a puncture on occasion. Other than that, I never go near the tyres. I did once – foolishly – put air in them.
I blew them up so much that they resembled the wheels on a lunar buggy. The guy at the garage had to help me to let the air out.
Now, I leave it to the guy in the garage to check the air pressure. (The tyres, FYI, are the four black things under the chassis. See, I know where the tyres are.)
Another light on the dash. The manual says “coolant”. I open the bonnet – it is at the front of the car – I find the coolant reservoir. I buy coolant. I panic. I go to the local mechanic.
He is very nice. I show him the light, show him the coolant reservoir, tell him what I am about to do. He stops me. I have the wrong coolant. There are different types of coolant. He puts in the right coolant.
“How is the oil?” he asks. “Oh, I check the oil regularly,” I reply. He is happy. He is Obi Wan Kenobi to my Luke Skywalker. The force is strong with me; I have learned to check the oil.
Still, I yearn to customise the car, to lower its stance, boost its horse power, paint racing-stripes down the side, pinstripe the hood and add some character.
However, I am middle-aged and sensible. What about the insurance, I think, the Americans never seem to have to worry about the insurance.
The coolant is fine; the oil is fine and yet there is a misfire in the engine.
I listen as I drive. Is it bad petrol? No, the petrol is fine. There are no lights on the dash but the engine is not a hundred per cent. It is an old car with lots of miles on it.
Spark plugs, I think, it might be spark plugs. I bring it to the mechanic. I tell him my concerns; we take a little drive and he listens to the engine. He finds the spark plugs and takes them out. “It is the spark plugs,” he says. I could not be happier had I flipped the car for a million bucks.