My Jeep has provided a few scary moments recently, although, in all honesty, I was probably the one to blame. I've never paid much attention to the never-ending advice about modifying my Jeep. Strange as this may sound, I've always had this wacky notion that the Jeep engineering staff knew what they were doing for the most part. (Editor's Note: Quick, where are my pills? What was that? Sure, I'll walk towards the light...) Unfortunately, my misplaced trust came back full circle with a vengeance.
For starters, the tires and suspension haven't changed since the day my CJ-2A rolled off the line in Toledo. Actually, the tires themselves aren't the 1948 originals, but they're still about the same size. The springs, however, are probably original and seem to be just getting broken in. In nearly stock trim, this old Jeep behaves like a mountain goat out on the trails. Little did I know that I was legally required to do all sorts of upgrades, such as swapping out the tires and springs so that I'd need a rope ladder or trampoline to reach the driver's seat. (Editor's Note: A jetpack is another option, but it can be tough on the upholstery.)
Well, there I was at the rockcrawling competition, wheels spinning furiously as I tried to pick my way across the boulders. Soon, all forward motion ceased, accompanied by horrific metallic screeching. Every last mechanical component simultaneously failed. Even though the original T-90 transmission isn't the strongest thing in the world, I never expected it to break in half. The stock four-cylinder flathead engine, despite its tractor-like torque at low RPM, simply evaporated from embarrassment. The axles, which until this point had been entirely adequate, not only expired but rained shrapnel across the stadium.
Having been warned repeatedly that I should have fortified the drivetrain before anything terrible happened, the stock components also convinced my youngest daughter to cover herself with tattoos and hang out with the wrong crowd. She then told me she no longer wanted to be the world's first combination ballerina/veterinarian when she grew up and would rather be a magazine editor. I cried in anguish, kicking myself for scoffing at all the advice I'd heard over the years.
About this time, I woke up. Pleasant dreams always end way too soon, while nightmares don't know when to quit. I quickly found my trusty bathrobe standing in the corner and wrapped myself in it for warmth against the nighttime chill. Checking my daughter's room, she was sleeping peacefully with no evidence of tattoos, so all was well there. Next, I checked the garage. The Jeep was still resting quietly, awaiting summertime with its many trails to be explored. My panic had been caused by hearing the same advice over and over again about how I must upgrade my Jeep.
Anything, no matter the subject, eventually becomes accepted as truth if repeated enough times. Before you know it, it seems there's no point venturing from the garage unless your Jeep's crawl ratio approaches several bazillion to one.
For another example of how repetition can lend an air of truth, consider the plight of my daughter. Despite knowing I'd be roundly condemned by "The Society of Good Parents Who Would Never Do Such Things," I've always buffaloed her with tall tales. No matter how many times she heard it, she's always known I was never really stranded for hours on a broken escalator. She also knew I didn't really write my name and address on my driver's license in case it was ever lost.
To avoid publicly embarrassing my daughter, please don't repeat this next part to anybody else. You see, one morning as I perused the headlines over a cup of coffee, she mentioned that the newspaper ink smelled funny. "That's nothing," I said, thinking on my feet. "The pages in back get much worse." I then explained that because I could run the exhaust fan, I'd always finish reading the paper in the bathroom. When she writes her tell-all book, at least one chapter will be devoted to how she finally realized the truth during the middle of her show-and-tell presentation about newspapers.
Remember, it's not my daughter's fault for believing something simply because she heard it repeated many times. After all, the whole premise didn't sound too far-fetched. In fact, even though I haven't noticed it myself, I've heard many comments about something equally stinky in the back of this magazine. -- Dr. Vern