Death of a Subaru, Part 1

Or, why I will love Buster Blue forever and ever.

My trials with cars have been fairly well documented. This was, however, by far the worst.

A few weeks ago, Buster Blue was playing in Crystal Bay (near Tahoe). I had spent the day working on rotation projects and preparing for a gigantic pharmacy convention and was huddled underneath my electric blanket when I realized that their show was that night. I debated for a good half hour as to whether or not I should attend (as my greatest weakness in winter is an electric blanket), but decided to venture forth and be social.

This proved to be a mistake.

The drive from Reno to Tahoe is along a small mountain highway that crawls through forests and up hills, that twists and turns and is generally inhospitable. It was a fairly pleasant journey, until I had left the last town before Crystal Bay long behind and was creeping my way up the last mountain. The car started to decelerate. I figured this was due to the grade of the hill, downshifted, and continued up the incline. The car continued to decelerate despite my desperate pleading and promises of sacrificing various creatures to the Subaru gods. Then it rolled to a stop. Though the engine would still roar, the car would not move anywhere.

I was alone. In the winter. In a car stuck on the side of a hill in the woods at 10:00 at night. The occasional vehicle would zoom past, not even slowing when they saw my blinking hazards. I sat there for a few minutes, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. The car had not seemed to be overheating, or acted like it was low on oil, but for lack of better things to do I stumbled around to the hood and checked. Coolant and oil were fine. The only thing left to do was call my father.

"Sooo the car is stopped on the side of the road and won't move."

A sigh. "Where are you?"

"On the way to Tahoe on the side of the road?"

"What the hell are you doing driving to Tahoe at 10:00 on a Saturday night?!"

It struck me that this was the electric blanket's revenge for my decision to leave its addictive embrace. 

The padre proceeded to call the insurance company and I stayed sitting at the side of the road, mutely watching cars pass me by. Then one pulled off in front of me - another Subaru, and a young man came hustling down the hill toward my car. He claimed he could not leave another Subaru driver in distress and offered to attempt to fix the car.

The car was unfixable (why is it always unfixable?), but he helped me maneuver my car about 200 yards down the mountain to the side of the road. He then offered me a ride to Crystal Bay - he was going to see the same show. I weighed my options. Five minute ride with a potential axe murderer to a nice warm casino v. hours sitting in an increasingly frigid car on the side of the road, easy prey for any axe murderers hoofing their way through the forest. I got in the car when he gave me the number to the highway patrol, figuring that if he was going to murder me in the short time it would take to get to the casino, at least highway patrol would know about it.

I stumbled into the casino, covered in mud and looking, I imagine, rather stressed. I walked around, waiting for the insurance to call and tell me what kind of towing I could expect. In my anxious meanderings I ran into Bryan (singer/guitar/banjo/saxophone).

"Dude, what the hell happened to you?" He was dressed for his show, lounging near one of the slot machines. I quickly explained, with more than a little flailing, and he leapt into helpful action - offered me one of their hotel rooms if I couldn't get back to Reno, the use of their AAA card if my insurance wouldn't do any towing, and best of all, a beer. He took me to a hotel room where I could dump my muddy belongings and sit in warmth for a few minutes.

There I met up with the other members of the band, all of whom could not be nicer, more helpful people. (This is where I order all of you to go buy their music, because it is amazing and they are amazing). I get the call from my insurance - they will cover a grand total of 13 miles of towing. THIRTEEN MILES. What are the chances that anyone, anywhere, breaks down bad enough to need towing withing THIRTEEN MILES of a shop? Because I had no options, I agreed to pay the whopping $225 for a tow to the Subaru dealer back in Reno. Unfortunately, the tow truck couldn't get to my car until 1:30 that morning.

Andy (singer/guitar/trombone/banjo/piano - seriously, these people are talented) offered me a ride to the car at the appropriate time, and then we went back to the main show room so they could perform. It was fantastic. 

After the show, Andy hopped into their tour van and drove me back to that lonely spot on the side of the road where my poor car was lurking. We ended up sitting there for an hour past the appointed time because my insurance had told the company I was in Truckee. Let me illustrate for you exactly how wrong that was:

As you can see, we have the location of my car, and Truckee. Which is not where my damn car was.

An hour and a half later, after a ride in the tow truck full of awkward silences, I was back in the confines of my electric blanket. Wondering why I had bothered leaving.

Stay tuned for Part 2 - in which the Subaru dealership tries to rip me off and my roommate and I are total badasses.

Now go and buy all of Buster Blue's music. It's on iTunes.