Red Line Sunset

I get a rare chance to relive the past.  

 

  Pirate Press            September 2023  

The John Grisham of Russian Readership*

No matter how long I live, I don't think I'll ever fully understand (or anticipate) the curve balls that life tends to throw at us. 

CASE IN POINT: Earlier this Summer, I spotted my old 2006 Saturn Ion Red Line at a nearby gas station. I watched it come and go and had that familiar twinge of regret, wondering if selling it three years ago was a mistake? I recounted the experience to my wife, underscoring how surreal it felt to hear it speed away from the ears of a bystander instead of the ears of the owner. Yet, it somehow sounded buzzy and not at all like the deep, baritone growl that I remembered. I've heard of viewing memories through rose colored glasses but I wondered if that also applies to ears as well as eyes? Like, do things even sound different than how you recall them?

 

And if I could do it all over again would I still sell it?

 

I last chronicled my Red Line in 2017, when it rolled over 100,000 miles. In 2020, I ditched it after I bought the Fusion, justifying the sale by pointing out how many items needed replacing and how that would have handily exceed the value of the car. Essentially, I'd be investing way more into it than it was worth, so I took the pragmatic approach and sold it. In short order, it needed: a new transmission, new clutch and new tires, or roughly $5000 in parts and labor for a vehicle with a book value of $2000. And given that it still had all original parts, I knew that eventually the a/c compressor, starter, fuel pump and water pump would fail.

 

But, I wasn't reunited with the Red Line by mere happenstance. No, it was an otherwise, ordinary Saturday and Amanda and I were headed to Ocean Springs to pick up some special Adidas for Victoria's Perkette Training Camp. We'd encountered one of those odd, afternoon thunder storms where it was raining and sunny at the same time. During that strange weather occurrence, I've often heard people remark that "The Devil's beating his wife." Now, having the inquisitive (and some might say warped) mind that I do, I naturally was curious about the origins of that expression. Typically, aged aphorisms are usually somewhat logical but I couldn't wrap my head around that one so I went looking for the genesis of the declaration I've been hearing all my life.

Upon further research, I found out that it can actually be traced back to Greek mythology circa 700 B.C. Not surprisingly, even that far back the phrase originated due to a woman's jealousy, proving that couples have been fighting ever since Eve got us kicked out of Eden. According to the fable, Zeus tricked Hera into believing he was marrying someone else and in a fit of jealousy she created a heavy downpour on the wedding day. However, Hera soon discovered the ruse and quickly turned her tears into laughter, creating the clash of rain and sunshine.

 

It's little wonder that other cultures around the world have adopted similar stories to explain the unusual phenomenon with people in Spain referring to it as "The Witches are combing their hair." In Estonia, it's described as "Orphans' Tears", where the sun is the grandmother drying those tears. And in Germany they proclaim it as "A Feast Day in Hell." Finally, Hawaii calls it "Ghost Rain" which sounds like an Anime anthology.

 

But, I digress. 

However, my point being that the pavement was wet from this sunshower when a vehicle approached an intersection in front of us. Apparently confused, they stopped, pulled out, and then stopped again with me barreling down on them at 60+ mph. I hit the brakes and felt the ABS kick in, but it made little difference on the slick pavement. 

 

There was a split-second realization that we were going to hit them, but as funny as it sounds, I wasn't concerned for my safety. I never doubted that the Fusion wouldn't protect us as were were wearing our seat belts and were surrounded by air bags. No, I was angry because I knew the insurance company would total the Fusion and I wouldn't get anything even remotely close to its value for the pittance of a payout I'd receive. 

However, the story doesn't end there.

At the proverbial last second, the stationary vehicle abruptly accelerated and just managed to move out of our way as we narrowly missed it. Disaster averted, I exhaled and reflected on how lucky we were. But a few miles down the road, the battery light suddenly came on and it seemed we'd exchanged one automotive problem for another. 

 

In the 12-month ownership report of the Fusion I discussed replacing the battery, so I knew it was barely two years old and shouldn't be having any issues. Despite that, we got off at an exit and I doubled-back to the nearest AutoZone to have it checked. Unfortunately, they weren't much help as the employee insisted that I had to turn the vehicle off and I refused given that I knew I might not get it started again. Ironically, their portable jump-box wasn't charged either so I left without a complete diagnosis. 

On the drive back home, the Fusion's condition deteriorated rapidly with an array of dashboard lights that strobed frighteningly at me. I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but I distinctly remember both the "ABS" and "Traction Control" symbols as well as some others I'd never seen before (and didn't recognize). Acceleration became more erratic and it wouldn't shift out of fourth gear resulting in a deafening drone of 4500 rpm at 60 mph. Of course, my Sport model does have the manual "SelectShift" option, but I was concerned that trying to physically upshift or downshift might cause further damage and the last thing I wanted was to have to pay for a new transmission, too.

So while the whole car was essentially uncooperative, mercifully the A/C continued to work as it was a sweltering 90-degree day and would have made for an (even more) unpleasant ride home.

 

Sure enough, it refused to start after I parked it, so I just left it in the garage. And that's when I called my brother-in-law, fully aware of all the begging/cajoling/pleading that would be required to borrow back my Saturn after a 36-month absence. Truthfully, slinking back to the Red Line made me feel like a deadbeat husband who had abandoned it after being seduced by a flashier, newer model. 

 

But my pride had a price, and it clearly didn't involve paying nearly $100 daily to rent an under-powered Nissan Versa from Enterprise! Unbelievably, that's what the average post-Covid rental price is now versus the $35 per day I spent on a Hyundai Accent in 2017. 

 

Truthfully, I was excited to get back behind the wheel of the Red Line and relive some of those great memories. Unfortunately, I didn't fully grasp just how much time had actually passed and it was heartbreaking to say the least. For the 10 years in my possession, it was always garaged but the past 3 years of it sitting outside in the unforgiving elements had really taken a heavy toll. The previously shiny black exterior pieces were now bleached a dull gray and even the famous Red Line insignia was so faded it wasn't even an actual red line anymore. But, worst of all was a freak hail storm a month earlier that had pock-marked the Saturn's hood, roof and trunk with marble-sized dents. 

Inside, it wasn't much better as the foot wells were caked with mud and grime, and it looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since I handed over the keys in 2020. There were a couple pairs of cheap sunglasses in the back seat, random change and coins in the cup holders, and even the desiccated remains of a tiny tree frog who had become a permanent passenger. During my time with the Red Line, the deceased amphibian stowaway became such an enduring fixture that I simply nicknamed it "Kermit" (although I didn't want to be guilty of assuming it's gender).

 

But the most pleasant surprise was the Recaro seats, which regardless of the considerable wear still remained as snug and comfortable as I remembered. Likewise for the special Italian leather shifter boot and emergency brake boot that I'd custom-ordered and installed— both looked almost brand new despite over 10 years of daily abuse.

 

On the downside, there were constant, annoying reminders that this vehicle was designed two decades ago by the lack of now-common features such as an outside temperature gauge or a backup camera. To that end, a rear camera would be particularly helpful since the high-mounted rear wing does such a great job of blocking nearly half the view out the back window. 

 

Similarly, the clutch creaked and was heavy, and fifth gear had pulled an Elvis and permanently exited the room. So, that only left four forward gears and one very uncooperative reverse gear. It takes steely nerves to endure the cacophony and vibrations of the engine at 80 mph on the highway. But aside from that, the only other mechanical casualty was the original a/c compressor which finally succumbed last summer. Thankfully, he replaced it with a new unit that wasn't as effective as the OEM part but still managed to get the job done. 

 

Likewise for the generic tires, which were a poor substitute for the B.F. Goodrich G-Force I used. They didn't look good or grip well, but did provide an acceptable barrier between myself and the asphalt, which I suppose is all that really mattered. 

 

Admittedly, the best thing about the Red Line was the light weight (2,800 lbs.) and 300+ hp four-cylinder so I was eager to experience that again. Yet after a brief third gear pull from 60 to 90 mph, I was underwhelmed and wondered if my memories of that too had been unduly influenced by nostalgia? Or had time and wear simply dulled the performance that I remember? 

 

However, I convinced myself that while it was loud, crude and rode like an ox cart, at the end of the day it was still free so I should be content with that. And while I try to limit using the A/C in the Fusion to only when absolutely necessary, I never missed an opportunity to run it full blast in the Saturn.  

 

But a few days into my time with it, it suddenly began acting up one morning. In fact, it was bucking and surging so badly that I thought I might have accidentally left the emergency brake on. And then the "Check Engine" light started glowing menacingly at me so I knew something serious had happened. My mind instantly snapped to the cruel irony that my brother-in-law had neglected this car for three years and it waited to break right when I borrowed it back!

 

Unfortunately, the situation failed to improve over the next few days as the misfiring continued. Even worse, it was taking a terrible toll on the fuel economy, dragging it down to an abhorrent 13 MPG and costing me $20 per day in gas. Suddenly, it was as if I was driving the Ferrari again, but without any of the redeeming qualities like the gorgeous Italian bodywork or razor-sharp acceleration. So, in a desperate attempt to temporarily appease it's petulant nature, I threw a 16 oz. bottle of VP Racing Madditive at it, but even the high-octane elixir failed to change it's angry disposition. 

 

 

By this point, I wanted to believe that all the Fusion needed was a new battery since it would be so much simpler and cheaper to fix. But numerous trips to have the battery tested and charged confirmed my worst fears and they all pointed towards needing a new alternator. Of course, a failed alternator at just 65K seemed ridiculous but it followed my bad luck and validated the existence of Murphy's Law. 

 

 

Naturally, the alternator's expense was a concern but the major problem was the labor required to remove and replace it, as it's the meristem of the entire car's electrical structure. Once again, my maxim of always buying the largest and most powerful motor available came back to haunt me as the 3.5-liter V6 is crammed sideways in the engine bay and nothing is easy to access. After the AutoZone rep confirmed it was the alternator, he simply shook his head and admitted he didn't even know how someone could reach it to change it. Obviously, that didn't boost my confidence in the matter but it had to be done regardless. 

 

A call to the local Ford dealer revealed that they wanted $450 for the alternator, but Rock Auto once again came through with the lowest price, saving me $200 on the exact same Motorcraft part. I ordered it on Sunday and by Thursday it had arrived. My brother-in-law, Clint, whom I borrowed the Red Line from, volunteered to swap it for me and I certainly wasn't going to refuse his charitable act. 

 

 

 

He determined that the alternator was best accessed from underneath and with the front passenger tire removed, so the Fusion went up on jack stands. My modest selection of assorted tools sufficed until he got down to actually trying to remove the alternator and he ran into a small 5mm stud holding it in place. Now, I don't know if any of my dear readers have ever used such a tiny wrench before, but it was literally impossible to find one. I checked all the auto parts and hardware stores and they each stopped at 6mm, just shy of what I needed. We even raided every tool stash (parents, friends, etc.) we could think of to no avail. I told Clint that locating that wrench was harder than finding an honest politician, but he finally managed to prevail with a minuscule socket set. However, to fully take out the alternator required dropping the entire engine cradle. And that necessitated just the opposite of the mini tools we had been working with, which was a massive 21mm deep well socket. Naturally, I had a 19mm that I used on the Fusion's lug nuts, but of course it was too small by the narrowest of margins. Fortunately, Advance Auto had one in stock so I bought it, knowing full well I'd probably never use it again in my life.

 

Upon hearing of our distress, Amanda's friend Tammy ordered me a 5mm wrench off Amazon. Even with Prime shipping it came in too late to use, but I now have one if the need ever arises again. (Which it better not!)

And to keep things interesting, the new alternator proved to be just as difficult to put back on as it was to take off. It took 30 minutes of Rubik's Cube-like manipulation to get it squeezed back into place from under the car. But once that was done, the bottom retaining bolt absolutely refused to screw back in, protesting as if it was hitting up against an invisible object. After 30 more minutes of finagling with it, Clint was about to give up when it suddenly slide right into place like there had never been any obstruction. (BELOW: If it's this hard to see the new alternator, you can imagine how difficult it was to change it!)

 

 

Out of an abundance of caution, and before he reattached the plastic wheel well and under-body cover, he wanted me to try and start it just to make sure that everything worked. I climbed inside, turned the key and after a couple cycles the engine caught and roared to life. I was ecstatic, but Clint was furiously motioning for me to kill the engine. Somewhat perplexed, I nonetheless obeyed but wondered if he'd sensed something wrong and that was why he was so desperate for me to shut it off?

 

I quickly hopped out and walked around to the front of the Fusion only to witness an enormous black oil spill splattered all over my pristine garage floor. Now, I'm the type of person who can't stand a single drop of stray motor oil on my driveway, so the sight of this nearly sent me into catatonic shock. The day before, Clint had removed the oil filter for easier access to the alternator and had simply forgotten to screw it back on before I started it. I frantically checked the dipstick and was relieved to see a tiny amount of oil on the lowest marker indicating we had just narrowly avoided an engine meltdown. Even so, the Fusion had lost nearly two-thirds of it's oil capacity and it took three full quarts the following day to bring it back up to its normal operating range. 

 

But while the Fusion was finally back on the road, all my attempts at resuscitating the Saturn had proven fruitless. I felt terrible returning it to Clint in its ailing condition— especially after all he'd just done for me— but I also didn't want to spend several hundred dollars on a car that wasn't mine, particularly with no guarantee that it would fix it.  

 

He shrugged it off and claimed that with the high mileage, it was probably just an ignition coil or spark plug that needed replacing, so I felt relieved that he wasn't overly concerned about it. 

 

The next morning, I dutifully trekked to our local auto parts store and picked up the aforementioned three quarts of cheap motor oil. I felt this would be enough to fill the crankcase and get me to Mobile where I could buy a gallon of Mobil 1 to properly change the Fusion's oil. However, I quickly discovered that "cheap oil" should be an oxymoron in that even the least-expensive 5w-20 was now $6 per quart. Heck, it wasn't that long along that I could get premium Royal Purple for $7 per quart but apparently those pre-Covid prices are now as extinct as the dinosaurs that generated it. 

 

The following day, I set up a cookout and invited Clint as appreciation for all the hard work on the Fusion. But when he arrived he informed me that neither new plugs nor fresh ignition coils corrected the misfire and he suspected it might be a blown head gasket. I really hated hearing that and felt responsible, but he said he was just going to sell it AS-IS and not worry about trying to fix it (even if he did throw me under the bus in the Craigslist ad.)

 

 

But the bad news didn't end there, as when Amanda's sister went to leave she suddenly noticed that something had shattered the entire rear window of her 2019 Buick Enclave. There was a tiny hole in the center of the glass where the object had struck it, and the rest had spidered and splintered all over the driveway. Although there was no way to determine exactly what happened, my neighbor had been mowing past it earlier and kids often race by on their four-wheelers so either could have been the culprit that slung up the offending projectile. We definitely had an encounter with an Unidentified Flying Object (UFO) but it wasn't extraterrestrial as far as I can tell. 

 

So, if you've made it to this point in the article I guess you're asking what's the big ecumenical precept I learned from all of this?

 

I suppose it's to simply live life without any regrets. Few of us are ever given a chance to relive a significant decision like I made by selling the Red Line which I'd owned for ten years. As humans, we're plagued and tormented by the daily choices we make and too often we second-guess ourselves with needless recriminations. I'm fortunate to see that getting rid of the Saturn was the right thing to do. That being said, I'm fully aware that serendipity rarely shines on us in such a favorable fashion and I was extremely lucky.   

 

The other painful life lesson is things will invariably break with no warning or reason as the Fusion and Saturn both did. But with the Fusion's third birthday coming up in October, I certainly hope this is the last mechanical malady for a long, long time!  

 

IT LIVES AGAIN!!! (E.T. not included)

                

*My BFF thought it was cool that Pirate Press was so well-received "behind the Iron Curtain" and that with it's popularity I could be like John Grisham in Russia. I laughed and told him I'd be sure to take credit for that in my next article!