For more than 60 years, I’ve been driving all kinds of vehicles. Old, new, damaged, dirty. Some barely worth the gas in the tank.
But one thing was almost always in excellent condition.
The owner’s manual.
Untouched. Unread. Practically suitable for resale.
In all those years, I’ve opened one to check tire pressure, locate the spare tire, and find a place to stuff my registration and insurance card.
Otherwise, it’s been a time capsule in the glove compartment.
I don’t know how much time I have left on this earth, but I figured I ought to read an owner’s manual before I’m whisked off to my final destination.
Preferably somewhere with valet parking.
For years, I thought I understood the basic operating system:
If something lights up red, pull over.
If something lights up yellow, hope it goes away before the next oil change.
Apparently, Honda had a more detailed plan.
My Honda Clarity has features I’ve never used, settings I didn’t know existed, and buttons whose purpose I’ve never questioned.
We’ve spent more than 100,000 miles together, and apparently we barely know each other.
What’s it keeping from me?
Is it cheating on me?
I could care less if it’s winking and tooting at some cute Toyota.
I know who’s coming home to my garage.
Still, I decided to investigate.
I felt like Geraldo Rivera in 1986, opening Al Capone’s vault. He found practically nothing.
At least my glove compartment had an insurance card.
I opened the manual.
There are thousands of parts in this car. I’m familiar with about eight:
Accelerator.
Brake.
Shifter.
Power windows.
Wipers.
Air conditioning.
Seat belts.
And the steering wheel. Almost forgot that one.
I’d include the emergency flashers if I could find the damn button.
The investigation immediately became complicated.
Apparently, Honda wrote the manual for people who already knew what everything meant.
SRS: Supplemental Restraint System.
Airbags.
Why didn’t you just say airbags?
“Supplemental restraint” sounds like something the nuns used after the regular restraint stopped working.
TIN: Tire Identification Number.
My tires have identification numbers?
They already have more writing on them than my college diploma. Now I’m supposed to learn their identities?
I’ve been calling them front left, front right, and the other two.
TPMS: Tire Pressure Monitoring System.
Finally. An old friend.
That warning light has been on for so long I consider it part of the dashboard décor.
I swear graduate engineers from MIT couldn’t figure it out.
My method has been to get out and look.
Apparently, Honda expects an actual pressure gauge.
Another accessory to read about.
Energy Flow Monitor.
There’s a diagram showing where the power is coming from and where it’s going.
Engine. Battery. Wheels. Little arrows.
I thought pushing the accelerator settled that discussion.
Now I’m supervising a utility company.
Deceleration Paddle Selector.
This lets you change how strongly the car slows down when you take your foot off the accelerator.
The paddle I remember from third grade at St. Matthew’s accomplished much the same thing.
Stopped me immediately.
Then I discovered what appeared to be the Anti-DUI Package.
Vehicle Stability Assist.
Road Departure Mitigation.
Collision Mitigation Braking System.
Lane Keeping Assist System.
Adaptive Cruise Control with Low-Speed Follow.
The car can help keep me stable, help keep me in my lane, warn me about leaving the road, and help me avoid running into somebody.
Of course, none of that makes it a designated driver.
But it does raise a question.
If my Honda knows how to do all this, why have I been doing all the work?
Then there’s an acoustic alerting system so people can hear the car coming when it’s running quietly on electricity.
Even my Honda has learned that sometimes you have to make a little noise to get noticed.
We have that in common.
By this point, I was running out of time.
Not battery time.
Earth time.
I closed the manual. Whatever else my Honda was up to, it could keep to itself.
I only wanted to settle one thing.
Where was the spare tire?
I looked it up.
There isn’t one.
Honda gave me a tire repair kit.
More than 60 years of ignoring owner’s manuals, and the first time I finally read one, I discover the car has been withholding a tire.
Forget the Toyota.
We have trust issues.
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