The Corvette Saga: Part 1

A few weeks ago I mentioned in my Un-Resolutions how I would never drive my fathers 1987 Corvette again - no matter how cool it looks. Sure, I could look like the ultimate eighties guy with the dark shades and driving gloves as I cruise to the grocery store, but honestly this car is not made for people taller than six foot tall. Good grief, I was packed into that car tighter than

But do you want to know the real reason?

That car hates me. It REALLY, REALLY hates me.

I had stated in a previous post how my father let me drive the car on Christmas because Stella was still in the shop and Leslie had dropped me off at work a few days prior - so, it basically was the only car left that I could use. In a way I felt honored that my father let me drive it - while it could have been a type of twisted Christmas present of his to let me drive this awesome ride, I felt more proud that he actually trusted me to drive it. That meant more to me than anything else.

I should have known better.

On the way home, I noticed the car pulling to the right a good bit. Not wanting to be blamed for tearing his car up a mere five minutes after cramming myself behind the wheel, I quickly called my father to explain this and was informed that he has pumped up the tires before I left and that he thinks he overinflated the left side because the air gauge was frozen.

Makes sense to me. Overinflate the left side, it would push it to the right. Right?

I am so stupid when it comes to cars.

I was so nervous driving this car that once I got home - I parked it, vowing to never drive it again until I take it back to his house once Stella was fixed. The weekend passed with the only glances I gave that vehicle was noticing that our 27 cats have grown quite fond of it. So much so it fact, that it was covered in little muddy footprints.

Stupid cats.

Monday rolls around and I decide against my better wishes to take the car into town to pick up some milk. I was nervous of course, but as I approached the eighties icon I noticed that the right front tire was flat. Not just low - we are talking flat.

The car pulling to the right should have been a hint.

And so the planned week of doing absolutely nothing turned into a week of working on this cursed demon car in sub-freezing temperatures. I could end my story here, but what fun would that be? You guys live for my humiliation.

And yes it took me a week - I said I am stupid when it comes to cars.