GAIL WHITE Vehicularly challenged, I keep motoring along

My problems started when I was a young child riding on the lawn tractor. On separate occasions, I ran into a log, blew up a motor and somehow pulled a steering wheel completely off -- while in motion.
I was simply destined to be vehicularly challenged.
Perhaps that is why my father bought me an old beater for my first car. (Or maybe it was because I had introduced my sister's car to a telephone pole.)
My '74 Regal was a steel-plated tank. Dad knew I would be safe in this moving fortress.
The problem was, it used as much gas as it would take to move a fortress. Five dollars didn't go far. One morning on the way to school, it didn't go far enough.
"Get out and push before it stops completely!" I remember yelling to my brother and a neighbor friend.
It was the first time I pushed. It was not the last.
In college, a stylish diesel Audi became my transportation. I had upgraded from the mid-'70s to a late '70s vehicle.
It had a sunroof that opened with the push of a button. Windows, side-view mirror and seat comfort were all a mere button push away.
I began having problems in the fall. On cold mornings, my stylish ride had trouble starting. By winter, it stopped starting altogether.
Several mornings, McGuffey hill became my ignition -- roll down the hill, pop it into second. Eventually, I ran out of pushers to get me to McGuffey.
What helped
A dip stick warmer became my saving grace. Every night, when I arrived at my apartment, I plugged in my stylish Audi.
Problem solved -- until I moved to Pittsburgh.
It didn't take me long to figure out that those in my apartment complex did not care that I was vehicularly challenged.
I asked, pleaded and made signs to reserve a spot where I could "plug in." My efforts were in vain.
Luckily, Pittsburgh has a lot of hills. I regularly used one across Liberty Avenue. One morning, however, I ran out of hill. The car sat at the bottom for a week.
By this time, none of the fun buttons worked. (The sunroof was stuck open half an inch.) And I had discovered the joy of public transportation.
The stylish Audi was towed from the bottom of the hill.
My husband learned of my vehicular challenges when we were dating. Driving my car, he dropped me off at the airport.
I was in Georgia, having dinner with my friend, and he was still on his way back from the Cleveland airport, stuck on the side of the road with a blown engine.
Something about oil, they said.
In 1995 we bought a 1992 Grand Caravan. I felt like I had arrived in life! For the first time, I was driving a vehicle made in the same decade we were in.
Today's situation
It is now 2002, and I am still driving that '92 van. The decade of my "arrival" has passed me by.
It has endured the abuse of four children -- and their friends, the hazards of city and country roads, a basketball hoop, a deer and one lamppost.
The van now has 212,000 miles on it. My husband is determined to reach 250,000. I am not convinced that it will make it. Those old vehicular challenges are starting to occur.
Driving home at dusk a few weeks ago, my husband turned on the headlights. At the first stoplight, I hopped out to tap the light on the passenger side. (It no longer comes on without a little tap.)
Then, we noticed a man in a shiny, green, 2000-something truck looking at us. Somewhat embarrassed, I turned away.
"He's rolling his window down," my husband informed me.
Dreading the encounter, I rolled mine down. (Thank goodness, manual windows never go bad!)
"I think your hood is open," Mr. New and Shiny Green said kindly.
"Oh!" I responded as if surprised. "Thank you!"
The hood had been problematic since the deer encounter.
"Time for a bungee cord," I told my husband. Then I muttered under my breath, "Only 38,000 miles to go."
gwhite@vindy.com