The old gray mare ain’t what she used to be, and by old gray mare I mean my old gray truck. She has served me long and well, but is getting long in the tooth and developed more than a fair share of weird noises and malfunctions.
We often give our vehicles names and personalities, so it is no coincidence I call my truck the old gray mare. Like many men, my vehicle is female and, rightly or wrongly, that is often due to the relationship we have with both women and vehicles. For instance, I don’t spend enough time with my truck. I don’t talk to it very nicely. I don’t spend as much money on it as I used to.
There is the weird tapping emanating from inside the door that my wife describes as “Morse code”. There is the tendency to stall out if you drop too quickly into idle. The tailgate latch is broken. The right-hand rear view mirror is missing. The CD player won’t eject the Greatest Hits of Judas Priest, but it won’t
Greg O’Driscoll Staff Writer
play it either. The interior dome light only comes on when it wants to.
All of which means my truck isn’t very happy with me, but it’s paid for, so my truck is stuck with me— and I am stuck with it, often wherever it decides to strand me.
For over a year or more my old gray mare has had a nonspecific starter issue. It has been diagnosed a dozen different ways and supposedly fixed multiple times, but the problem always returns. Camshaft position sensor. The bendix gear. Ignition switch. The mounting plates behind the starter were left off. A loose wire in the steering column. The list goes on and on.
What remains consistent is that, after a month or more of working just fine, my old gray mare always finds the absolute most inconvenient time to give me trouble while starting. It tries, but it won’t catch. Multiple tries, multiple failures, and soon I am alternating between coaxing and cursing my truck.
This is where we get to the womanish part of my truck. Don’t get your pitchforks just yet, ladies. This is really about the stubbornness of men.
I get to a point where I finally give up. It’s hopeless. This is the time the truck just won’t start. Usually, if I calm down, wait a few minutes and then try again, she will roar to life as if to say “how could you ever doubt me?”, but this time is the final nail in the coffin. She just won’t start, bringing me to the dreaded moment all men hate.
I have to swallow my pride and call someone for help. A friend, a coworker, a family member, it usually depends on where I have been stranded by the old gray mare. They answer the phone, I explain my situation and by way of example I turn the key, so they can hear my truck willfully refusing to start.
Then she roars to life. After all, she would never leave me stranded. She just wanted me to humble myself, show how desperate I was and maybe make me look a little stupid in the bargain— then we can get going to wherever I need to be.
You can only take so much of a truck making you look dumb.
It is a new year. 2025 is upon us and I’ve been saving up for a down payment. That means it might be time for a new truck.
Just don’t tell the old gray mare. For now, I still need her to get me to work.
