The Fear of Looking Under the Hood : Class is designed to help women avoid being ripped off at the auto repair shop.
I struggled to comprehend what the mechanic was saying. I had just plunked down $120 to have my Toyota serviced, and now he was recommending an “EFI flush.” Whatever that is. He also said I needed a “throttle body service.”
“But my car runs fine,” I weakly protested.
He shrugged. “Up to you,” he said.
Stricken with the frightening possibility of being stranded in a broken-down vehicle, I reluctantly agreed to have the throttle serviced and the EFI flushed.
But I couldn’t help but suspect I was being played for a patsy. It wouldn’t be the first time this fool and her money were parted at an auto repair shop.
Like most people who live or work in Los Angeles, I am pathetically dependent on my car. And I am completely mystified by the mess of metal parts and maze of hoses and wires under the hood. Deciding it was high time I learn what makes my vehicle go, I signed up for a basic car repair class for women.
The class was held at a North Hollywood garage. I parked my Celica next to a stack of tires and met the other students. The youngest, a teen-ager barely of driving age, brought her mother and the family Taurus.
Barreling up in an ’85 Lincoln was a fashionably dressed woman with long red nails and lots of jewelry.
A 20-something redhead drove a Ford Escort. Her rear window flaunted a handsome hunk’s silhouette--the female motorist’s answer to the shapely young thing on big-rig mud flaps.
Our teacher was mechanic Karen Valenti, 48, the owner of the auto repair shop. With her neatly coiffed blond hair and crisp striped shirt, she didn’t much look like a grease monkey--not even with a soiled rag hanging from her jeans pocket.
Valenti offers the class, she explained, because she remembers what it’s like to be on the other side of the auto repair counter.
“I know how derogatorily mechanics treat women,” she said. “But knowledge is power. If you know more about your vehicle, you can make intelligent decisions and get it checked without getting ripped off.”
Our first challenge was to pop the hoods open. I confidently pulled the latch. My hood didn’t budge, but the trunk swung up. Oops! Wrong latch.
Hoping no one noticed, I slammed the trunk shut and pulled a different lever--the correct one this time. Then I couldn’t figure out where to hook the bar that holds the hood up. I felt immensely stupid--until I looked around and saw I wasn’t the only one having trouble with this most basic automotive task.
Once our hoods were gaping open, we checked our oil. Valenti pulled a bright yellow dipstick out of my car, pointed out the markings on the stick, demonstrated how to insert it and explained what to look for.
Oil should always be checked when the car is cold, she said, which means my usual method of driving into a gas station and asking an attendant to do it is pointless.
Next we inspected the transmission fluid, which should be checked when the car is running. “This is what transmission fluid is supposed to smell like,” Valenti announced, dabbing some on her wrist and inviting us to take a whiff.
She moved on to the next car and repeated the process. This time when we sniffed her wrist, we detected a strong burnt odor--which is how transmission fluid is not supposed to smell. So far, so good.
I was beginning to feel very smart. “This isn’t so hard,” I thought smugly.
A car slowly cruised by. Two men inside leered at us from behind their sunglasses. Or maybe they were laughing at the sight of a bunch of women hunched over the hood of a Lincoln.
With Valenti’s patient guidance, I proceeded to check my radiator fluid. I squeezed my radiator hose. I examined my belts. I looked at my power-steering fluid. I peered into the battery. I inspected my brake fluid.
Valenti pulled out the Lincoln’s air filter and held it to the light, and we marveled at how dirty it was. It was all rather interesting. Fun, even.
At only one point--when the conversation drifted into spark plugs and cylinders and coils--did my eyes glaze and my mind wander.
At the end of the two-hour course, I was no longer terrified to peer under the hood. I still would not attempt to work on a vehicle; I wouldn’t even try to change my oil--much less service my throttle or flush my EFI, which I learned means electronic fuel injection. But at least I better understand the mess of parts and the maze of hoses and wires that make my car go.
WHERE AND WHEN
* What: “Look Who’s Under the Hood.”
* Location: North Hollywood Discount Muffler and Brake Shop, 6031 Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood. (818) 980-0501.
* Hours: 10 a.m. the third Sunday of every month.
* Price: Requested donation for the two-hour class is $15.
* To register: Call Women Helping Women Services, (213) 655-3807.
