Crank It

``Crank it,'' said the Indian, his upper body obscured by having been buried in the engine compartment. I wasn't sure I understood, or, rather, I wished I hadn't. He was asking me to crank the engine while his hands and head were embedded deeply within the engine. I had torn two belts, and had just bought replacements, along with tools to properly replace them.

 The Indian was having none of this. He was using a pair of pliers to guide the belts into position on the pulleys, and now only needed some kick from the starter motor to finish their installation. Being a city boy, cranking the engine while a person was enclosed within it seemed a bit rude.

 ``Crank it'' he demanded again, confirming my worst fears. So I cranked it. He asked me to inspect his work. The belts were now mostly on. Another round of the Indian vs. the Starter Motor and they were installed perfectly, and in much less time than loosening things properly would have taken.

 The engine still didn't start. After a few moments of careful consideration, the Indian said ``Modulators''. Modulators. Modulators... What could he mean? Oh, of course. ``You mean the coils?'' ``Yes, Modulators.'' Thus began my education of the Navajo usage of the English language.

 I pulled out my voltmeter, then measured the resistance of the coil packs. Three coils were bad. But one wasn't. The Indian replaced the plug wires, pulled one plug from the engine, roughed up the electrode, then held the gap close to the engine. ``Crank it.'' I did, and he jumped. We found the good coil. But the engine should fire on one good coil, I thought.

 I ordered two coil packs and had them shipped overnight to the hotel, installed them the next day, and the engine resumed its failure to start.