There is a curse involved with knowledge and that is of course the responsibility that goes with it. When you have the knowledge of the working of things mechanical, electrical, &c., you are cursed with the vision of its proper or intended order. When things get out of order, and you’re a Midwesterner, the tug for placing things in a repaired state merely adds to the guilt for failing to prevent the disorder to your curse, and millstone of obligation to rise to the need and fear of the displace of incompetence in meeting the challenge all compounds the issue.

And so it is that while on this first leg of our full timing life that the starter on our 9-year-old GMC Yukon (220K miles!) finally completed its slow death. It died on a street in Madison, WI. And I made the repairs myself, on a windy day with temps hovering around 37˚F.

Changing a starter begins with really knowing the problem is with the starter. And empirically I knew that my fate was to dive underneath the truck, reach in the dark and, while laying on my back, unbolt and unwire the wretch, drop it down and replace it with a new one. I had no trouble light, no creeper to lie on — just my cursed knowledge and experience.

I had changed starters before; heavy, black, oily, greasy, schmutz-laden pendulous hunks, murderous to hold in place while impossibly hidden bolts were miserably sought out — while my arms tired and went numb, while rust and crap fell into my eyes.

I had bought a replacement starter a few days before as insurance. When you buy a starter you have the choice of “new” or “rebuilt”. In the universe of starters usually the only real difference is the price. Yet “rebuilt” at $234 was a shock. And then there is the Core Charge. It seems your dead starter can be brought in for a deposit like an old pop bottle. Since mine had not died yet, I paid the additional $30 core charge up front with a promise for a refund when the deceased was brought in.

The starter finally did completely croak two days later. No amount of coaxing, threats, prayers, entreaties or bargains with the Mad Gods, would resurrect it. My fate to face my curse, layered with guilt, cloaked in obligation and fear of failure, was sealed. My time had come.

Now the difference of full timing was washing over me, showing how profoundly one’s perspective changes. Not so long ago another layer of anxiety would be present. Shame of not considering to simply call someone to tow the beast away and fix it all for me, pay for it with a plastic card, and be on my way. I could certainly do it. Yet it seemed out of the question. I knew it wasn’t going to be that hard. I needed to do it myself for myself. A test of skill? of stamina? I deny it all — I’d detest revealing myself as engaging in anything so cliché. No! I am simply so cheap! This flaw I can face and wrap around and warm myself with, like a scratchy horse blanket.

And so it went well. The new starter has a rich clean high-pitched winding sound as sweet as an underage girl’s first kiss. The core charge is retrieved, my paranoia ameliorated, while secure with a truck that starts. It’s time to go to get on the road once more.

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