Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Stop When You Still Can

June 16, 2015

"Well, at least it didn't catch on fire." I was happy to be able to say that as I watched the smoke wafting gently upward. Yesterday I changed the left front brakes on Linda's Toyota. I ran out of time to do the right side, but it was the left that really needed to be done, so we were good to go. I was actually feeling almost smug about it, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Linda would have to finally change her story, which by the way, is utter and complete fabrication. Well, maybe not complete.

As she tells it, I am guilty of hatching a subtle plot to do her in and have it look like an accident. In a court of law, her story might actually be plausible, although that's not what actually transpired. We were newly married, living in Alma, outside of Wellsville, NY. She was driving a  '64 Ford Fairlane at the time, and it happened to need brakes. I had more time than money, so I decided to do the job myself, not an unreasonable decision given the state of our finances. My mechanical expertise at the time was on a par with the guy in the commercial who decides to tackle brain surgery because he was smart enough to stay in a Holiday Inn Express. But Linda's dad was a mechanic, and taught me the rudiments of some of the basic maintenance that were required to keep a car running properly.

It really wasn't too bad a job; not quite as easy as today's disc brakes, but with the right tools, those drum brakes were back in service with new shoes ready to go dancing. Linda needed to go into town, and here's where the story veers off into the realm of female fantasy. As she tells it, I insisted that she take the route into Wellsville that took her up Alma hill before corkscrewing down a back road into the village, which is pure fiction. What is not fiction is that at the top of Alma hill, it is necessary to make a stop where it T's into the road that winds down the hill. It is also not fictional that when she tried to stop, the pedal went to the floor and she went sailing into a corn field. That I intended such a thing to happen is pure embellishment for the sake of a good story. I was almost as aghast as she, although I must admit, somewhat less shaken up. My observation is that if a fabrication is told often enough and long enough, it becomes a part of family lore that is largely unquestioned and quite impossible to disprove or dislodge.

Which is why I was quite happy to finally put the brake story to rest with the Toyota job. She came home from a short jaunt this morning to report that the brakes were working flawlessly. But this afternoon, it was time to tackle the other side. It went surprisingly well, much easier actually than the left side. But things did seem a bit tight when I finally got it all back together. I took it for a test run, and other than a bit of hot brake smell, everything worked just fine. I figured it would just take a few miles for the pads to seat, and then we'd be A-OK. Only it didn't work out quite that way.

We had a dinner engagement with a young couple from church, so at the appointed time, we hopped into the car and took off. The hot brake smell didn't go away as I had anticipated. When we arrived at their house and got out of the car to walk to their front door, I turned to check that right brake only to see the smoke curling out from under the fender. This was not good. We had to beg a ride with them instead of driving ourselves, in that had we attempted the trip, I am sure the car would have caught on fire before we arrived, which would have made for a quite memorable evening all by itself. They did the driving, we had a delightful meal, and by the time we got back to their house, the brake had cooled down enough for us to make it back home. You know what I'll be doing tomorrow morning. But as I said, at least it didn't catch on fire, for which I am truly grateful.

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