1. The car stopped running.
2. See above.
Yeah. Bucked, shuddered and died beneath the streetlights of a lonely side road. No amount of pleading could get her back to life (artist's rendering below).
Only about a mile and a half to walk back to the garage. We returned with a truck, flashlights, and a can of starter juice. Bitchin' Mustag cranked under a jump - so hard I felt bad for the starter. Nothing. We confirmed fuel delivery, or a decent output from the accelerator pump anyway, which ought to be enough for fireworks. We sprayed a pint of raw ether down her throat. Nothing.
Looks like we're getting no spark. Awesome. Maybe even predictable in a car with a history of fouling plugs?
This crude cell shot depicts me pushing Mustag back to the garage with my truck while Ryan capably steers.
At least the brakes still work. And at least I know what I'm doing with my weekend.
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