A tornado of dust swirled over the hood as we came to a stop next to an old Ford Bronco with its hood up. A large decal on the door read “Caballo del Diablo,” encircling the number 26, and another decal under the spare tire read “SLAGIATT?” The driver, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a beer in hand, looked into the engine bay and shook his head. “Everything okay?” He looked at us with a ‘What do you think…moron?’ expression, “Don’t know, stopped running.” My friend Jim Harris (aka Uncle Willy), a genuinely good guy but a cantankerous old fart at times, replied, “What’s the problem?” Another stink eye glare, another reply: “Don’t know, stopped running.” He was obviously not a mechanic. Uncle Willy withheld his typical condescending…