What I found under the van upon returning home did not require crawing in the dirt: a river of antifreeze cascading from beneath the van, pooling into a lake in the driveway, then following the laws of fluid motion as it searched out the path of least resistance, creating a southbound meandering shallow riverbed with the help of cappilary action.

All of my scientific knowledge couldn't help my freakout: we are scheduled to do around 3,000 miles of driving in the next two-and-a-half weeks. Fargo to Sheboygan, Sheboygan to Milwaukee, Milwaukee to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Milwaukee to Fargo, Fargo to Milwaukee, Milwaukee to Fargo....and that's severely abbreviated, compared to our actual schedule. 80% is business, 15% is kids, 5% was planned for the bliss of driving a van in tip-top shape, which was rapidly vaporizing like the coolant dripping onto the hot engine.

I vomited part of my freakout onto D, who rationalized that we need the van, so we better call a mechanic, regardless of the cost.

By the time I found my phone (battery dead), pulled out the phone book, looked for a nearby mechanic, tallied up the cost of towing the non-driveable van...I decided I better take a second look at the van.

Chilton's manual in hand, I stepped out to the driveway. I'd the foresight to grab a resivoir to dam the flood of antifreeze -- a plastic toboggan, never used -- which had accumulated around two inches of green fluid in it. Investigating the manual, I began to disassemble the engine based on where the leak came from. Given that the van would have to be towed for repair, what harm could I cause?

The pulley for the water pump ground like sand underfoot when turned. Water-pumps go bad; it happens. This one, thankfully, went bad spectacularly in the driveway, rather than without indication somewhere around mile 580.

A phone call to the auto-parts shop later, and D and I were on-foot to the Autozone three blocks away. We're constantly pleased with living near downtown: most emergencies can be resolved with a short walk. $37 for the pump -- plus $16 for the aforementioned power steering hose -- and we were walking home.

Shirt off, grease covering my arms, legs, back -- even in my hair -- my testosterone needed a plastic toboggan resevoir of it's own to catch the runoff. It's been a long time since I've gotten to act so manly for so long a period of time (the last being assisting my father-in-law with roof repairs), and it felt good. Replacing a water pump isn't hard work, nor is the power steering hose; the worst of both were stuck threads, both vanquished by WD-40 and patience.

It didn't prevent me from becoming coated in numerous automotive fluids, bringing back memories of the fatherly smell of oil and road dust that my dad & Grandpa Vernon often brought in from the shop, memories of Grandpa Black and his gas station. Both sides of the family spent years of their lives with their hands inside a machine of one sort or another, the lines of their fingerprints almost permanently dyed black from regular contact with petroleum products. I come from a mechanical stock, one not afraid to get his hands dirty (thankfully, I got over that fear years ago). I was pleased that I didn't swear as much as I used to during car repair sessions; not that my male upline swore much, if at all, but it's a trait I've noticed in myself at least.

It took me several hours, entirely on my own, to repair the van. Again, it was a rather simple repair, but I recruited a young helper for the oil change, since it can be a bit tricky without assistance. Hunter did fine; he didn't get nearly as oily, yet laughed heartily at the black gusher that ran past the loosening oil filter and down my forearm, dripping into the drain-pan off my elbow. He dutifully retrieved a rag for me.

So here I sit, cleaned and showered (twice), back in front of my computer, typing in my blog. While it's satisfying in it's own way, and thought I often roll my eyes at being accused of manliness, it's nice to experience hardcore masculinity once in a while. The Blue Angels are also in town for the Airsho, so much of my time outside was narrated by the deafening roars of dual jet engines flying low as the F-18s turned over our house, streaking back towards the airport. Yesterday was so manly, Tim Taylor's head would have exploded were he here.

Two huge scratches on my right forearm couldn't have been earned at the PC, but it's a bit safer here. The van is purring like a van that purrs, so yesterday earned us back the 5% of our trip, knowing that not only is the van fixed, the skinny white guy writing PHP code in the basement is ready to break out the toolbox and fix what he can.