(October still life, with Syclone).

OK- despite the success in starting all five major motors on Saturday there was one little kink. The new battery for the Syclone didn’t fit. Or rather, it fit well enough to get the 4.2 cubic inch turbocharged V6 to turn over, but only with the battery jammed into the engine compartment at a strange angle, resting against the air conditioning line.

I considered my options. Just live with it? The new technology does not have open cells on top like the old models, where you could add battery fluid. That, of course, would permit the acid to pour spill out, corroding the engine mounts, cement floor of the garage, or spray over the engine. The hell with it.

The Russians stopped by to give me two eggs, fresh from the chickens and show how advanced the coop production facility was. They were delicious, BTW, and we agreed to get together after they made a run to town, and I decided to take decisive action and get a proper-sized energy source for the truck.

The easiest way to ensure that I got one that actually fit was to simply drive the truck- which had not been on the road in more than a year. Less than two, I think, but wasn’t sure. With a new battery, I could ensure the tires were filled with air, and sluice off the dust and debris of its long winter (and summer’s) nap.

She started up like a champ, and I babied her out to the two-lane, gaining confidence as I went. I forgot how cool it was, how lively she handled when the turbo-charger kicked in. It shimmied a bit- I couldn’t determine if it was flat spots on the tires from the long storage, air pressure or alignment.

No matter. She got up to speed nicely on Rt. 29 and delivered me to the NAPA autoparts store in good order. They took the incorrect battery back without argument, and we installed the new one in the parking lot in the mist. The wipers worked intermittently. Syclone may be a day VFR ride now.

Then to the gas station to pump up the tires and top off the tank with high test. I have a little notebook that World Famous Bomber Pilot Dick kept from the first fill-up in 1992, and entered the information: place, amount of gas, price. It is a fascinating little document that covers all 45,874 miles of rolling life for the truck, and all the places it has been.

Then I drove around to find a coin wash, gaining confidence that this really was a pretty low-miles classy ride. Most of the grime came off under pressure at the wash rack on the east side of town, and I felt better about it. It needs to be detailed, of course, before the 4th of July hot rod show in town, but there is plenty of time for that.

I will deal with the Explorer next, but I drove it in the Spring, and it seems to run like a charm.
Then football and a very nice bottle of 2012 Virginia Cabernet Franc Reserve from the cellars of the Barboursville Winery with Natasha and Mattski, which was delayed, since deer were sighted and the bow season is on. Mattski was up in the Tree Fort with the new cross-bow, and the drinks were delayed until dusk when he abandoned the hunt.

We chatted and laughed and we felt a slow buoyant feeling as the level of wine in the bottle went down, and sensed a vast wet soggy air mass passing away to the East.

This morning there is blue sky above. The lawn and pastures are drying, and if I play my cards right, the last cutting of the year is going to happen shortly.

All trees survived the storm. All the motors start. It is enough to make your battery feel totally charged.

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303