From the Couch: The 48 makes the rest of us look stupid

Please bear with me, as this anecdote may get out of hand.

So the other day I walk down my driveway to jump in my beater truck, "Grandpa's Truck", a Ford F250 V8 7.5L 460. Originally blue in color, it's now more of a Barney.

I have to grab some wood to finish off the trim for our deck, and Grandpa's Truck is the vehicle for the job. It shares two things in common with a NASCAR stock car: you measure its gas consumption in gallons per mile and with 224,000 on the clock, you get to drive it like you stole it.

Of course, on this day, nothing, it won't start.

After the requisite S.D.F. (s**t, damn, f***), I pop the hood for a look-see. Sadly, Grandpa's Truck is also my plow truck, and I take a good hour to chase down the two thousand wires giggling at me from the engine compartment. None are loose; the grounds look solid. I climb back in and give it a few more cranks. Nothing, though I can hear the starter solenoid clicking, and I can see the fan belt moving marginally.

So I walk back down the driveway and grab another car. I drive back down to Grandpa's Truck. I try to jump it. Nothing. I walk back down the driveway. I grab some pliers, walk back to the truck and try to jump the solenoid. Nothing. I walk back down the driveway to grab some wrenches. I walk back. I leave half of them behind. I walk back down the driveway and get the right tools. I inhale a beer. I walk back and pull the starter.

Naturally, it tests fine at the auto parts store (the auto parts dude got a S.D.F. for that one). I grab a new solenoid while I'm there, because how can I possibly walk out of an auto shop without spending money? I replace the solenoid. Nothing. I am perplexed. I disconnect the plow harness to subtract it from the electrical circuit. Nothing. I try jumping it again. Nothing. I repeat these steps like eighty times. I cuss myself for not parking the damn truck at the house. I cuss Jack Roush, just because. Blasphemy runs rampant.

I begin to fear that freak snow storm will blow in and render me creeked. Finally, I get an idea to connect my starter to my positive battery terminal with the positive side of my jumper cables. Bam, Grandpa has been exhumed. Apparently green battery cables won't start trucks.

A week later (after procuring my shiny, new Ford-truck specific positive cable, because a standard cable just won't do), it took me three hours, two cans of brake cleaner, two knuckles and part of a fingernail to replace both cables. The ground on my engine block damn near took me all of that, entirely because it was designed by a blind engineer that assumed a four year old, nimble-fingered mechanic would be available for all future repair work.

So to make a long, laborious story curt: it took me two weeks to diagnose, procure parts and fix two wickedly corroded battery cables. I'm clearly no Ray Evernham, but I thought I was doing damn well by getting it running before winter.

Then, during Monday's race, I fully appreciated why NASCAR crew members are way better people than I am. The 48 team checked all wires, changed the carburetor and replaced some spark plugs in three laps - three fricking laps, during a points race, nowhere near their shop, arguably when it mattered least. The spark plugs fixed the problem. Then they got three Luckys and snagged a 13th-place finish, sending a warning shot whistling over the bow of every other contender.

After the race on Monday when I went to move Grandpa's Truck back down the driveway, I concluded two things: Jimmie Johnson will become NASCAR's first back-to-back-to-back-to-back champ, and any future I may have in NASCAR will be pushing words, because again, Grandpa's Truck wouldn't start.