I was backing out of a downtown parking space when something flashed on my dashboard. The mileage calculator changed to a wrench. OMG. What’s wrong? This is not good.

It was late Tuesday, and I was leaving for Dayton Thursday morning. I was heading for the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop – a professional, fun, and stimulating conference. I couldn’t wait. And now this?

It was almost 5 p.m., so I drove directly to my mechanics. Rick and Mark have kept me safely on the road for more than 15 years. On my way to their shop, I glanced up at the oil sticker on the windshield. There, plain as day, was the reason. I was within a hundred miles of the number demanding an oil change. OK. Reason for the dashboard wrench? Solved. But can they work me into their notoriously crammed schedule?

I felt really stupid. How could I have missed this? Easy. At my age, Missing is my middle name.

As I hoped, Rick managed a spot for me. He has always been kind, but I think he also pitied the desperate face across the counter. He has watched me grow older and probably knows I’m a doofus.

To balance out the doofusness, I occasionally deliver cookies or brownies that bring smiles.

I left the car overnight and Rick texted me Wednesday noon that it was ready. Oil was changed and all systems topped off – ready to go to Erma’s shindig. Amazing. A chunk of homemade fudge accompanied my check.

Thursday morning, Dear Richard helped me load the car. Off I went into the spring sunshine, eager to do the 375 miles to Dayton. The mess didn’t start until I was south of Akron.

The car was getting warmer – time for the first AC of the season. It blew cool air until I was comfortable again. Ten minutes later, the blower was putting out blast furnace heat. Huh? NO WAY. Then, as if being too warm in truck-heavy traffic wasn’t bad enough, my screen went black and my dash symbols went kerflooey. I pulled over, messed futilely with all the buttons, then called Rick.

“Sounds like you’ve sprung a leak.” He looked up my model year, offered some potential solutions. We determined that a Honda dealer was in my near future, especially since it sounded like an electronic gizmo had also gone haywire.

When I restarted the car, I got dash lights back only for MPH and distance elapsed. Except the readout was now in kilometers. For the rest of the trip, I had no idea how fast I was going or how many miles I’d covered. To keep up with the passing lane traffic on the busy highway, I was now going 120…? The speed limit on Interstate 71 is 70 mph. I assumed the passing lane was faster.

Nearing Columbus, I stopped and googled Honda dealers in Dayton. I called the one nearest the hotel and I got “Brook” the over-friendly automated voice who would solve all my troubles. “I know you want to speak to an agent but first tell me the details of your auto problems so I can get you to the right person.”

Baloney. There’s only one person, and her line was busy. After 15 minutes of “Brooking,” I finally reached a sympathetic human. She listened to my tale of woe, and offered me a 7:30 a.m. appointment on Friday, complete with a shuttle service.

Planning my trip included potty stops, a quick lunch, and some leg walk-around time. Extra stops and multiple phone calls killed my extra time. I just made it to the conference opening dinner on time. So much for relaxing with my feet up after seven hours on the road…in a CRV sauna.

VERY early the next morning I found my way to Honda. The mechanic promised me a text as soon as the diagnosis was made. Ironically it arrived during a humor-writing class, complete with an under-hood video. It was no laughing matter.

I left the class to hear the rest of the good news. Major leak and minor electronics. $1,200. I picked myself up from the hallway floor and slunk back into the laughter.

The Honda driver fetched me late afternoon, dropping me at the dealer’s cashier. The newly perfect Honda took me and my abused credit card back to the hotel for dinner and the keynote speaker.

Despite all the car rigamarole, the conference was more than wonderful. It is well-run, full of worthwhile new knowledge, and great fun. “What do you write? Where do you live?” are the most common questions introducing new friendships daily. I loved it.

This week, I’m baking cookies to thank Rick for his roadside wisdom. But I’m not mailing any to that babbling “Brook” in Dayton. She had no humor whatsoever.

Contact Marcy O’Brien at moby.32@hotmail.com.