I hear it

I don’t know about you…but when I do a mechanical job, and sit at the wheel ready to turn the ignition as the final test, I hold my breath. Today, after our scheduled 50 miler was scrubbed at the last minute, I steadfastly donned my favorite long-sleeved dark blue shirt (no embroidered name tag) and headed out to the RV. Armed with three jpgs, a small thermos of coffee and my kit of sockets, wrenches and ratchets, it was time to face the music, a concerto greaso in 454 time. 

The traveling mechanic had been out Friday and left me with instructions to put the other two ‘golf cart’ batteries back in, re-connect the spaghetti-like cables and, well, see what happens. Not really what one wants to hear from a mechanic. It might be the equivalent of an EMT asking you to give yourself 260 fibrillation volts. 

But I had an eerily confident swagger as I sauntered down the lane to the site where the RV has been parked for almost three years. I had a very clear picture in my head of what should happen, the steps necessary and the tools required. All it was going to take was my connecting all those cables in the right places atop the terminals of the three charged and ready batteries. 

Remembering the short circuit, the TV failure, the GFCI by-pass, the fuse fiasco, the deep charge on batteries well past their prime and the generator replacement, one of two things was about to happen. One, all my honest attempts at DYI and the associated cost savings would pay a dividend in both self-satisfaction and piece of mind, or two, it wouldn’t start and I would have to send an SOS for help and eat an entire very expensive humble pie. 

I am relying on the photos I took upon disassembly, referring to them as a cellist might with sheet music on a new piece, and have all the cables cleaned, attached and ready, when I decide to do one more check. I take my laptop over to the engine compartment and rotate the photo to ensure quality control. There is one cable missing from the center battery terminal. FUCK. I crawl underneath, go into the coach with a flashlight looking down past the engine towards the starter and then back to the battery compartment. I remember that weeks ago I tried to direct wire the chassis battery and by-pass the auxiliary batteries, but did I un-do that test? Did Rob the mobile mechanic do something when he was under? FUCK. 

I look at the photo again searching for clues. I enlarge to max. I tell myself to calm down and relax, this isn’t a ticking bomb. 

And I see it. Shielded cable, black, snaking up from behind the battery. I close the laptop, remove my blue latex glove and trace the cable with my fingers. Something is lose and I gently tug the cable up and good gawd amity, there is the copper connector almost smiling at me.

I sandpaper her clean, attach, and now I am ready for the aforementioned moment of truth. I even had a couple of sparks testify to the readiness of the team of fired-up batteries. 

I clean my hands, taking time to enjoy the moment, step up and into the cab and sit in the pilots chair. 

I remember what it was like the last time I drove this beast, almost three years ago and I wonder how I will react if she resists my efforts and won’t start. Then I think about my response should I hear the familiar sounds of a long comatose Chevy big block blustering back from the semi-dead. 

I hear it.