Seeing Red
I’m generally not inclined to link one story to another and prefer that each story stands on its own as opposed to being part of a series. So, while yesterday’s story is preamble to this one, you be the judge of its independence.
Yesterday we bought a red car. We had decided in advance and together to buy a white car, which is really funny to me because I have a favorite and well-developed story from my second marriage that pertains to a white car and Kim and I always laugh about that marital episode. But in riding through the lot and looking at the various vehicles that were on offer at the Escondido Mercedes dealership, the array of white and silver GLS 450’s blended together with differing package detail differences, but otherwise uniform likeness. Kim has always had a liking for red things and that included cars. The old wive’s tale about red cars drawing added police ticketing attention be damned. She had even owned a red 2011 Mercedes GLK in Staten Island, which she abandoned to my oldest son when we fled Staten Island for the mainland of Manhattan. I’m not sure what such a strong and bold color preference says about someone, but I love Kim and if that’s what she wants, I’m fine with it. I have always had a “go for it” attitude towards life, so what the hell, it’s only a car. The truth is that as a motorcycle guy, cars rarely float my boat anyway. Strangely enough and contrary to that indifference, and despite buying six previous GL-series Mercedes, the car I drive out here in California is a white Tesla X and I love that car like no car I have ever owned. It’s hard to explain since I wasn’t really even into electric vehicles the way some people (like my Inspector Gadget Brother-in-Law Jeff) are. But whatever car passion I have is already over-spent on the X, so if Kim wants a red car, we get a red car.
Having made room in the garage for the new red beast (what a guy I am, squeezing my two motorcycles into the middle spot of our three-car garage just so my wife’s new red car can get out of the sun), we decided to get the odometer up into triple digits by taking an otherwise lazy last day in San Diego and turning it into a mini road trip. In other words, we decided to take our new red car out for a ride. We had planned on going to Borrego Springs for lunch, but were warned off on account of temperatures expected to exceed 110 (that would be the red zone in this story) in the Anza Borrego Desert. So, we decided to go to the quaint town of Julian, a little rural wide-spot in the road that is “famous” for its pies for some reason. We began by dropping off some paperwork at the Mercedes dealership and then headed up Rt. 78. Rt. 78 east of Escondido is a pleasant road that wanders into a quiet golden valley where the San Diego Zoo keeps its wild animal park. We pass by the big old rhinoceros sign for the Safari Park and past the ostrich farm (no joke) set amidst the fruit tree orchards. The road then starts to head up a canyon just after the San Pasqual Monument, which commemorates the bloody battle where the United States fought Mexico for California and suffered its greatest defeat in 1946. The road goes up the Santa Ysabel Canyon towards the cow-town of Ramona. That road is a lovely twisting mountain road that I enjoy riding on my motorcycle as it climbs to the high desert. I was looking forward to the curves right up until our new red car failed us.
As we started up the hill, I suddenly saw a warning light on the dash that announced “Malfunction” in bright warning yellow. We are all used to seeing warning messages from our diagnostically-observant cars, but I have to say, the word “Malfunction” is a bit more severe as far as warnings go. That’s a more troubling warning than I want to get, especially without further clarification, while I’m driving up a rather challenging piece of road. I didn’t know what to make of it and needed to keep my eyes on the road anyway as it wound its way up between cliffs on the right and beautiful but now a bit scary precipices on the left. Two hands on the wheel, 10 and 2 as they say, with a tight, but confident grip on the wheel and eyes 150 feet out ahead, just like they teach you at the Keith Code School of Motorcycle Racing. Warning lights in cars go on for lots of silly reasons including, most often, because sensors give false indicators, right?
That was fine, but then I noticed the car starting to bounce mildly up and down as though hitting a dip or a speed bump. It was as though the road was rougher than it looked. It suddenly felt like I was on a tractor in a bumpy field. I asked Kim if I was imagining this since nothing like this has ever happened to me while driving a Mercedes GL Class (remember, I’m driving in my seventh one of these babies and it has 59 miles on the odometer now). She confirmed that it was not my imagination and that there was definitely something wrong with the car. Then the bouncing got more and more pronounced and I began to think I might have blown a tire…or two…or maybe even four. We were literally careening up the hill, avoiding downhill traffic with a full array of all sizes of trucks (this is a busy arterial road to the high desert) on the opposing side of this two-lane road. Kim was getting visibly concerned about the car’s handling while I was just white-knuckling the wheel to keep it more or less in its lane. Meanwhile the cars were starting to pile up behind me as I slowed to try and minimize the bouncing.
By this time, given the treacherous road we were maneuvering, Kim’s concern grew severe enough so that my normally calm wife started to strongly advise me to pull over. She is never a back-seat driver with me, so this alone is unusual for her. This was a narrow road with heavy traffic and no good pull-offs. It was also too damn hot to get stuck in such a precarious spot. I made a spot call that I could control the vehicle well enough and that waiting for the gas station I knew was at the top of the hill in Ramona was both possible and the wisest (always easy to say with hindsight) course of action. We made the top of the hill and I was even able to pull over enough to let some of the wondrous trailing cars go passed so they could see the idiot in the red rubber bouncing ball of a GLS. We quickly came to the Ramona intersection and a welcomed ARCO station. When I stopped I heard that telltale hiss of an evacuating suspension system. The good news was that all four tires were sound. The bad news was that the car body was resting completely on the rear tires like a low-rider, with the front end was jacked up like a monster truck. The car was not right.
While I calmly called the dealership (well, maybe not so calmly, actually move like a raving lunatic), Kim finally, after thirty minutes, got Mercedes Roadside Assistance to pick up. After all, it was, I’m sure, a busy midday Tuesday for them. While we waited for the technician from the dealership who would accompany the vehicle back with the tow truck, we decided to dine at Ramona’s finest, the KFC next to the ARCO station. The world of red was conspiring against us as we both tried to fill our cups with ice, only to have the red Hawaiian Punch squirt all over our hands. Another fine sticky mess we had gotten ourselves into.
After a mere four hours at the dealership and another blinding array of paperwork, we were presented with our new new white car while the red car was back at the service bay being used for training as an example of what a GLS should not look like in red or any other color. When I got in the white car and started it up with the long-suffering salesman next to me, another warning light went on. I suddenly started to see red all over again.