We're driving to Pennsylvania from Michigan on the turnpike for our Christmas break. Coming up to the tollbooth at the Ohio/Pennsylvania line, suddenly we lose power to our transmission. With the pedal to the metal, we make no progress -- we are mere feet away.
The gate goes down behind us so no traffic backs up. My husband gets out of the car to explain to the tollbooth operator what is going on. He turns off the engine, turns it on again. Pedal to the metal, we make a few inches' gain. I have a sinking feeling. We have a dog in the back seat; a trunk full of luggage; and we are already half a day late on our way to my parents' house. We're supposed to leave Pennsylvania for Connecticut on December 26th -- about a ten-hour drive.
We make it to the tollbooth, pay the toll, and in what sounds like first gear with with RPMs far above 4000, we limp over to the shoulder. We stop to assess our predicament. Should we call for help now? Should we try to make it to the next tollbooth, less than a half a mile away?
We keep going, hoping for a safer place to be stranded. We're able to go about 30 miles per hour, but the RPMs don't sound like they could be much higher. As my husband urges the car along, I keep an eye on the temperature gauge. I don't want my car over heating on top of what is already happening.
Less than two months ago I replaced a failing transmission with a used transmission. That was $1,200. Back in August I put $1,000 into this car. Thinking that the used transmission might be bad, I am reminded of several years ago when I sunk $3,000 into a dying Jeep only to have it die anyhow.
What did I learn from that? Anything?
We are still losing power. We can no longer go 30 mph. We are down to 10 mph. The next tollbooth is many hundreds of yards away. My husband stops the engine. We let it "rest" for a while. The he tries again. We seem to have a little more power. In this manner, rolling slowly, letting the engine "rest" every so often, we make it to the entrance of the Turnpike employee parking lot.
Then, we lose all power. My husband gets out of the car and pushes it while I steer us safely to the far edge of the lot. He gets back in, and we just sit there for a stunned moment. I feel a mix of emotions. I am numb, but I am angry. Angry at whom? Myself, probably. I am afraid.
My husband has had the foresight to purchase AAA roadside protection. A series of cell-phone calls takes us from AAA of Michigan to AAA of Ohio to AAA of Pennsylvania to the Turnpike Authority. My husband explains our predicament again each time he is transferred to a new person.
We wait. The Turnpike Authority will get back to us. Sometime. My husband rubs my leg reassuringly. I look back at the dog. She is crying silently. She knows something is wrong. I stroke her comfortingly, whispering words of encouragement.
I, who often hurry to the worst possible conclusion, speculate that the transmission has failed (it is used), and that we will have to get a new car (which we can’t afford). My husband, always the voice of reason and caution, urges me to take it one step at a time.
I call my parents. My mom says that my dad can come pick us up, once we know where are. I feel badly that I may now have ruined my dad’s afternoon.
My husband reminisces about a time when his car broke down in the middle of nowhere on a trip from Seattle to Michigan. His car had a fluid leak. I leap out of the car and peer underneath to see whether we are leaking fluid. We are. There is a rapid drip, drip, drip of fluid. I return to the car to relay the news. I return to the pavement for a second look, and the drip has slowed considerably. We must be out of fluid.
Finally, a flatbed tow truck arrives. We cannot take the dog in the cab with us; she must remain in the car. I feel terrible. Car trips are hard on our dog. Now we add insult to injury by abandoning her. I hope that she will forgive us.
As the car slides up onto the flatbed, I notice not one but two pools of fluid. The larger pool is antifreeze. The smaller pool appears to be transmission fluid. The tow truck driver offers some insights. He thinks our problem could be much less serious than a bad transmission. It could be the radiator (which he says is connected somehow to the transmission fluid), or it could be some leaking lines. I cheer up, hoping that he is right.
We hop into the cab with him as we proceed to a transmission shop in a town called Cranberry, about 30 miles away. Our base-level AAA Roadside Service only covers a 3-mile tow trip. Additional miles cost $3 per mile. Ouch.
At least we have the pleasure of hearing about the burned up bodies and decapitations our driver has seen over the many years he has been assisting frantic accident victims. He waxes nostalgic as he imagines the severe pain the burn victim must have felt. We also address more pleasant topics, this being the Christmas season after all.
After our driver drops us off and we call my dad, we have a snack at a nearby restaurant. Soon, my dad appears, a welcome sight. He gives me a big bear hug of sympathy. On the highway, he misses a turn. But he knows the area, and we hurtle around the bends of a Pennsylvania back road.
At my parents’ house, I am so numb I forget to give my mom a hug. We eat dinner and I begin to unwind.
What was supposed to be a relaxing vacation and a time to bond with my family is turning, instead, into a time of anxiety and unknowns. It is Sunday. With luck, the transmission shop will be open the next day. It is also possible that it would be closed, since Monday is Christmas Eve.
Making a trip to Connecticut is now in doubt. We will probably be without a car. But for tonight, we will forget about our troubles. We can only wait until events unfold and the next step becomes clear.
