When a shoelace comes undone, I stoop over and intertwine the strings in a very familiar way. My forward momentum continues as before.

When a long belt of rubber suddenly snaps off a car engine, a different chain of events occurs.

“September Girls” by Big Star is filling my car on a flaxen Friday evening. I’m flying down pavement toward Springfield, Ill., where new friends await with pints and tumblers in hand. It’s been a rare week, one where work and pleasure duel to the death and leave little room for my usual introspection. Piles of laundry and dishes litter my apartment. 80 degrees in October! Windows down.

What’s that noise? The first warning was an undercarriage sound, perhaps a small branch. It eventually works loose and I’m back at ease.

A battery warning light glows red; clearly unrelated. And besides, I just had the battery and alternator replaced a few months ago (see part 2, after the jump.) I’m ignoring it.

A second light blazes, this one yellow. It seems less urgent, yet tells me that my engine wants attention. Damn it. It’s escalating. I prepare to pull over.

Fever. The engine temperature gauge is reading “supernova meltdown.” Pinned to the right, PAST red. Holy hell.

The power steering fails. My little Ford Focus becomes more like a Mack truck. This is it. The end.

I glide the car toward an exit ramp. It rolls to a stop, where I kill the engine and pop the hood. Nothing seems amiss; but the sound! Sizzling bacon paired with boiling water. Oh dear god, what have I done?

I’ve managed to murder my car equidistant between Peoria and Springfield. I’m surrounded by giant windmills, more like Sancho Panza than Don Quixote.

A breeze brings an amplified disembodied voice. “And with first place, a time of 1:24…” The giant blades spin and I spot a steel shed not far from the exit.

A rodeo. No, horse barrel racing! I leave my faithless car for dead and walk toward the sound. Just as I reach the complex, the announcer proclaims, “That’ll do it for today, folks. Thanks again, and see you tomorrow!”

I purchase a bottle of water from the concession stand, an alien among these equine enthusiasts. They know nothing about my countless hours spent in Kansas documenting this lifestyle. I’m dressed for an evening out, not for horseshit. The sun dips low, threatening to snuff itself out. I’ve accepted my fate.

A few hours later, I’m sitting passenger in a tow truck (Billie Jo’s) back to civilization. There will be no fun tonight.

_____

This is not the first time I’ve been betrayed by that red killing machine. Last summer, I made plans to catch a train to Chicago and watch a few bands at the Pitchfork Music Festival. I’m usually a Lollapalooza man myself, but this year I decided to switch it up. An extra ticket from my friend Genevieve sealed the deal, and I set off for the train station at 7 a.m. on a Sunday.

An unfortunate fact of life for those living in Peoria is the lack of direct rail service. That disappeared about 1980, along with prominent mustaches and short shorts on men. All packed into the last train out of town, no doubt. We are left with driving to Bloomington/Normal or Galesburg, each a 30 minute+ drive.

I roll through a vacant downtown Peoria, aiming for the Interstate, but there’s a problem. My radio keeps flickering on and off. And then the entire dashboard. The speedometer reads zero while moving.

Pulling over, I try restarting the car. Click. And thus begins my 3-hour wait for a tow truck in the epicenter of my own city.

Alternator AND battery. Double whammy.