And I mean that!
I think there’s a secret law of physics that controls when your car battery mysteriously goes dead. If I were still in school, I’d say that there’s an inverse relationship between the power in your battery and your need to get somewhere quickly. But now that I’m not in school anymore, I wouldn’t bother putting it like that. Now I just scream “BLOODY HELL!!” at the top of my lungs, until my neighbours give me odd looks and back away slowly.
I guess I’ll either enlist the help of a passer-by (now that they neighbours are afraid that I’ll actually become violent) or I’ll phone CAA. Again.
Less than a month ago, I was happily driving home over the Cambie Street bridge, when suddenly the accelerator stopped cooperating. It was as if the car just went, “Alright, I’m taking a break now,” and started idling. It ignored me completely, no matter how I firmly I told it to go. Swearing at it didn’t help either, believe it or not. Neither did pounding the steering wheel with my fists, which I was sure would fix it.
My momentum took me over the top of the bridge — fortunately, too, since it was rush-hour — and down the other side. I rolled, unpowered, down the first off-ramp, up a short incline, turned right, then left, and into a parking lot, where I rolled right into a parking space. I gave thanks to the car gods before calling CAA for a tow.
So now it’s time to call CAA again. At least I’m getting my money’s worth out of that membership.