How I Learned to Stop Panicking and Deal With Car Trouble
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I’m amazed at myself! Somehow, despite great reluctance and a bitter aversion to automobiles, I’ve managed to become a semi-competent fleet manager for one old van. Not a Mr. Fixit, mind you, but a manager of the van and its complications.
See, I didn’t grow up learning about cars. Wrong influences for learning by osmosis, and no interest in seeking the info out.
If I’d lived in New York or San Francisco, I might never have gotten a driver’s license. But I didn’t. I grew up in Dallas–Fort Worth, a modern American highway sprawl. I delayed getting my license until I was 18, but since then it’s been all driving, all the time.
Even so, I somehow managed to stay ignorant for years. Oh, I learned a few things—how to change my oil and air filter, how to change a tire. But that’s about as far as I got.
I got away without knowing more. I bought new cars, paid for AAA and mechanics to handle problems, and moved on to the next vehicle when the current one got too long in the tooth.
Even with all that help, mechanical problems terrified me. Driving every day felt like the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. When my car inevitably had a breakdown, I couldn’t decide whether to call a tow truck or a suicide hotline!
That started changing about a decade ago, when I hit the road in my then-new campervan. As I put on the miles and took off-road chances, problems crept up one by one—and I had to deal with them.
That’s because I was out in the sticks. No AAA when you get stuck on a desert sand dune [https://oakiemcdoakie.substack.com/p/stuck-in-a-hole-where-no-tow-truck] or crack an oilpan 10 miles down a forest road with no cell signal. You just have to deal.
A few weeks ago, the van overheated while climbing a long escarpment. Near the top, the dashboard started beeping wildly as the temperature needle swung toward hot. I pulled over immediately.
My friend and I hopped out to see if coolant or oil was leaking. One thing I’ve learned is that engines need both to stay cool. Nothing was spraying or steaming. The coolant reservoir still had fluid in it, and the oil level looked okay too.
As we waited for the engine to cool, I got online with ChatGPT—yes, the Devil Himself! After some back and forth, it gave me a list of possible causes, with a failed thermostat the most likely culprit. It strongly suggested getting a tow.
Well, that was a problem.
We weren’t in suburbia, or even near an interstate. We were 32 miles from Taos and 22 miles from home on a Sunday afternoon. Even if a tow truck was available, we’d probably wait hours. Then what? No rental cars in Taos on Sunday. Home is 20 miles from the mechanic. No public transportation. Didn’t seem wise for two people and a pit bull to start hitchhiking.
So I made a calculated gamble.
I figured that if I drove slowly, watched the temperature gauge carefully, and stopped whenever it started heating up, we’d probably make it home. ChatGPT didn’t approve, exactly, but admitted it was a reasonable risk. So I rolled the dice.
We got home fine.
The next morning, ChatGPT helped me work through some basic diagnostics simple enough for my limited tools and knowledge. Again, the thermostat looked like the likely culprit.
Now, the van is old and I’m not made of money, so I briefly wondered whether replacing a thermostat was something I could handle myself. I remembered seeing it done on my mom’s late-1970s Dodge Duster as a kid. It had looked simple back then. Not on a modern Promaster City.
I found a YouTube video, and the repair looked more like heart surgery than part swapping. I even showed it to a mechanically inclined friend. His response: “Wow! That’s complicated!” So I made an appointment with my mechanic.
Getting there presented another problem. AAA won’t cover an “off-road” tow, and I live seven miles down a dirt road. Only a couple tow companies in Taos will even come out where I live, and it would’ve cost me about $500.
Again, I made a judgment call.
I drove slowly, watched the engine temperature, and made it to the mechanic without incident.
Having a little experience, a little knowledge, and a little confidence—as a junior honorary fleet manager, at least—saved me days of hassle, hundreds of dollars, and possibly a ruined engine.
Once the mechanic dug into it, the problem turned out to be bigger than just the thermostat. There were leaks elsewhere in the cooling system too. He fixed all that. Then he discovered the van was still underpowered because of exhaust and sensor issues.
So now I had two jobs: fix the problems, and manage the van safely in the meantime.
That part would have sent the old me into a panic spiral. Instead, I researched the issues, figured out which repairs were within my limits and which weren’t, ordered one part myself, and outsourced the rest sensibly.
Meanwhile, I drove the van carefully for a couple hundred miles in imperfect condition, learning how to baby the engine on hills and manage heat buildup without freaking out.
The next week, the muffler shop repaired the damaged exhaust section for about $250 instead of replacing the entire MOPAR system for an absurd $2500. That alone was a major victory.
Now it’s mostly fixed. The remaining bad sensor has defeated me for the moment—not because replacing it is theoretically difficult, but because heat and corrosion have effectively welded the thing into place. After nearly stripping the bolt head, I decided to stop before I made things worse.
That, too, is part of what I’ve learned: know your limits.
In the meantime, I’m still driving the old van around just fine. I recently got back from a thousand-mile road trip to Arizona and back, over mountains and through remote canyon country, without causing myself either a breakdown or a panic attack.
And that’s what’s really changed over the last decade.
There was a time when any car problem sent me straight into terror. Now I perform a strange kind of alchemy by combining a little knowledge, useful tools, outside expertise, and a lot of hard-won patience into something resembling competence.
I still wish I had the means and fortitude to go carless. But in the meantime, automobiles are a tool I’ve somehow learned to manage with some sanity.
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