I’m 17 and I have no idea what I want to do with my life; I thought to myself as I looked at a list of colleges near Detroit, Michigan. I slammed the book shut and grabbed my backpack and returned the book to its shelf. Enough college searching for one day, though I knew my mother was only going to nag me about it when I went home. I walked out of the high school with pep in my step until I remembered what I had to drive. I walked up to my ’72 blue Skylark and said a silent prayer to myself that I would at least make it home today with this sad excuse for a car. I got into the car and turned the key, she fired up surprisingly with not too much protest. I started on my route home on the east side of Detroit past all the smoking factories and
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I emerged from the wonderful world that is a gearhead’s garage. Compared to the beauty I had just seen, my car looked like it was ready for the junk yard. I stole a glance down the side of the body. The deep scratch from the accident and the sizable dent from my mom’s car made me cringe. I peered under the hood to find that my dad already had my sixteen-dollar chrome air cleaner off and was adjusting the old Quadrajet. I looked with envy at the shiny Edelbrook carburetor that sat on a shelf to my left. I had wanted to replace my carburetor for a while, but I couldn’t justify the cost. My car was running well enough. It idled roughly, and like a spoiled child, refused to move if it thought it was too cold outside of the garage. My car came alive. He started whistling to himself as he checked the brake fluid. We talked about my car, his car, his friend’s car, cruise-ins, and street race nights. As the sun started to cast shadows, I filled the oil pan with fresh Penz oil and the tune-up was finished. I swung open one of the big blue doors, sat down on a square of brown carpet that covered the hole in the seat, and turned the key. The small engine started without complaint. Even with brand new oil, I was annoyed when I heard the old oil lifter knock still ticking under the hood. This is quite common in Buick engines of the sixties and seventies; Buick couldn’t seem to make a sufficient oiling system. I started thinking about ways to improve the oiling …show more content…
Yanked back to reality, it took a moment for me to comprehend the question. I had been asked it many times before, and I never had a good answer. At that moment, though, I felt as though I had a fairly solid grasp on it. “Right now, it’s looking like Automotive Engineering.”
He nodded, seemingly impressed. I was certainly more impressed than he was. I’d never really come to a conclusion on a college major, but after a few hours under the hood, I felt like I knew what I wanted to do. As I drove my delightfully smooth-running ’72 Buick Skylark home to my mama, I began to envision my future as an Automotive
I emerged from the wonderful world that is a gearhead’s garage. Compared to the beauty I had just seen, my car looked like it was ready for the junk yard. I stole a glance down the side of the body. The deep scratch from the accident and the sizable dent from my mom’s car made me cringe. I peered under the hood to find that my dad already had my sixteen-dollar chrome air cleaner off and was adjusting the old Quadrajet. I looked with envy at the shiny Edelbrook carburetor that sat on a shelf to my left. I had wanted to replace my carburetor for a while, but I couldn’t justify the cost. My car was running well enough. It idled roughly, and like a spoiled child, refused to move if it thought it was too cold outside of the garage. My car came alive. He started whistling to himself as he checked the brake fluid. We talked about my car, his car, his friend’s car, cruise-ins, and street race nights. As the sun started to cast shadows, I filled the oil pan with fresh Penz oil and the tune-up was finished. I swung open one of the big blue doors, sat down on a square of brown carpet that covered the hole in the seat, and turned the key. The small engine started without complaint. Even with brand new oil, I was annoyed when I heard the old oil lifter knock still ticking under the hood. This is quite common in Buick engines of the sixties and seventies; Buick couldn’t seem to make a sufficient oiling system. I started thinking about ways to improve the oiling …show more content…
Yanked back to reality, it took a moment for me to comprehend the question. I had been asked it many times before, and I never had a good answer. At that moment, though, I felt as though I had a fairly solid grasp on it. “Right now, it’s looking like Automotive Engineering.”
He nodded, seemingly impressed. I was certainly more impressed than he was. I’d never really come to a conclusion on a college major, but after a few hours under the hood, I felt like I knew what I wanted to do. As I drove my delightfully smooth-running ’72 Buick Skylark home to my mama, I began to envision my future as an Automotive