Arctic air slams the brakes on a day of pay, but not a day of work.

You are thinking about buying a diesel-powered vehicle? Maybe you should think again.

The weatherman said it was the coldest night of the winter; 20-below when I checked my outside thermometer. Thank goodness I had plugged the old diesel in the day before.

Just before dawn I go out and crank the engine. It cranks and starts easily. As soon as it is running well, I turn the heat and the blower to maximum and trudge back into the house for another cup of coffee. Five minutes later it happens: From inside the house it sounds like someone is revving a car. Looking out the window into the early morning darkness, I see no one. I open the front door to look around and am greeted by a disquieting silence. My truck is not running.

I slip into my parka and trudge back out and climb into the cab. I crank the engine. It starts, it runs, it revs up and down and dies. I know what this means: jelled fuel and a clogged fuel filter. Diesel fuel does not like cold weather. It tends to wax up, clogging filters and plugging fuel lines. Southerners caught up here in the great white north in winter learn real quick. Their fuel, untreated for the cold weather, shuts them down in a heartbeat. Now, even my Maine fuel, supposedly treated for winter and ready for a chill, has waxed white with the arctic temperatures. Luckily for me there is an auto parts store a mile down the road that opens at 7:30 a.m.

At precisely the appointed time, I arrive at the store and purchase two bottles of fast acting Diesel 9-1-1, which promises to rid my filter of wax and ice.

Back home, I remove the fuel filter, dispose of the waxy fuel inside and refill with the special liquid. Diesel on leather gloves makes them extremely slippery and incapable of gripping a cold filter. I remove the gloves. Working quickly, I replace the O-ring and filter and tighten it down. My fingers are paining wicked from the cold. I restart the truck. It runs, it revs, it dies. My parka is grease smeared and smelling of diesel.

Back to the store. This time I buy diesel additive to treat the fuel in the tanks and another bottle of 9-1-1 (they did not have new diesel filters for my truck).

Again I remove the filter, replace the fuel with magic chemical, pour a bottle of treatment in each tank and then, with fingers numb from the cold, retreat to the warmth of my kitchen. I will let the chemicals work awhile before trying again.

An hour later I crank up the truck. It starts, it revs, it dies. Again I treat the filter. It runs, it revs, it dies.

Into the house for coffee, a sink of warm water for my numb hands and a few minutes to think on the problem. I call my company’s shop. They say they have trucks stranded all over and advise me to get hold of some 9-1-1 and treat the fuel and filters. I sigh deeply and say I’ll call them back in a few hours if I cannot get it started.

Back out to the truck. You guessed it: It runs, it revs, it dies.

Again I treat the filter. Then I retrieve my wife’s hair dryer from the house, plug it in, set it on high and aim it at the filter and the last 90 degree elbow in the fuel line (a likely place for blockage). I prop the dryer firmly in place and scurry back to the warmth of the house, boot up my computer and lose myself on the Internet. With the truck dead, I am not making any money so I may as well spend some.

I buy a memory module to replace one that is acting up.

An hour later and $80.00 poorer, I return to the truck. It runs, and runs, and runs … then dies.

I’m making progress – I think. I again treat the filter, set the dryer and walk back to the house. I decide to count my blessings: at least this little drama is playing out in my front yard and not out on the interstate a thousand miles from home. I’ve been there and done that. It is not fun. This is? Well, all things are relative.

Five hours after beginning this frigid one act play, I again slip into the driver’s seat and crank the engine. It runs and runs and runs and runs.

I make a promise to myself: The next time true arctic air slices into this state, I will treat my diesel before shutting down for the weekend. Then, maybe, I will stand an even chance in the trucker’s annual battle with winter. And lest I forget and look even sideways at a diesel pickup or automobile, my wife has been instructed to slap me a good one.

Guy Bourrie has been hauling on the highways for 20 years. He lives in Washington, Maine, and can be reached at [email protected].