Car Troubles
Maybe all those drag races finally caught up with me, not too sure, but I had a problem with the clutch in my Honda. There wasn't any resistance; I'd press my foot down and it would slam to the floor. The shifter, on the other hand, was stiff as a priest at a playground. This combination not only made switching gears a real pain in the ass, but it also put my car out of commission.
Mother's boyfriend promised to have a look see. His diagnosis?
"That there. See it? That's the Slave Cylinder for the clutch. It's leaking. Don't worry though. The part's cheap. And easy to replace."
I made a few calls, went to an auto-parts store and, sure enough, it was inexpensive: $23.99. Unfortunately, it was too late for him to replace it that day so I had to wait until morning. Fair enough; as long as everything was in working order before my return to work on Monday. He told me I'd have to help him bleed the lines which, if you ask me, wasn't a ridiculous request or anything. I mean, the least I could do was be of assistance; it's not like he wanted money.
The next day found me kneeling in the driveway, hand-pumping the clutch back to life. My instructions were to push it as far in as possible three times consecutively, hold it down, then wait for his signal before repeating the whole process. At first all my work was to no avail. No resistance in the clutch whatsoever. It wasn't until I'd pumped that sonofabitch twenty times or so that I started feeling something. The clutch fought back, making each pump a tad more difficult than the last. Finally, Mother's boyfriend said we were good to go.
I got up off the ground, wiped my knee clear of snow. He asked if I had the keys.
"I just wanna give it a quick test drive. Check if the clutch is slipping."
Fair enough. I pulled the keys from my pocket, slipped them in the ignition and started the car. He let it warm up a few minutes before hopping in the driver's seat.
"OK. Just wanna see if the clutch slips. Be back in a few minutes."
That was just over a month ago. If anybody happens to spot a Beige 1992 Honda Accord with a bumper sticker which reads, "If this car were a horse I'd shoot it" on the back, drop me a line.
I'm real sick of riding a bicycle everywhere.
Maybe all those drag races finally caught up with me, not too sure, but I had a problem with the clutch in my Honda. There wasn't any resistance; I'd press my foot down and it would slam to the floor. The shifter, on the other hand, was stiff as a priest at a playground. This combination not only made switching gears a real pain in the ass, but it also put my car out of commission.
Mother's boyfriend promised to have a look see. His diagnosis?
"That there. See it? That's the Slave Cylinder for the clutch. It's leaking. Don't worry though. The part's cheap. And easy to replace."
I made a few calls, went to an auto-parts store and, sure enough, it was inexpensive: $23.99. Unfortunately, it was too late for him to replace it that day so I had to wait until morning. Fair enough; as long as everything was in working order before my return to work on Monday. He told me I'd have to help him bleed the lines which, if you ask me, wasn't a ridiculous request or anything. I mean, the least I could do was be of assistance; it's not like he wanted money.
The next day found me kneeling in the driveway, hand-pumping the clutch back to life. My instructions were to push it as far in as possible three times consecutively, hold it down, then wait for his signal before repeating the whole process. At first all my work was to no avail. No resistance in the clutch whatsoever. It wasn't until I'd pumped that sonofabitch twenty times or so that I started feeling something. The clutch fought back, making each pump a tad more difficult than the last. Finally, Mother's boyfriend said we were good to go.
I got up off the ground, wiped my knee clear of snow. He asked if I had the keys.
"I just wanna give it a quick test drive. Check if the clutch is slipping."
Fair enough. I pulled the keys from my pocket, slipped them in the ignition and started the car. He let it warm up a few minutes before hopping in the driver's seat.
"OK. Just wanna see if the clutch slips. Be back in a few minutes."
That was just over a month ago. If anybody happens to spot a Beige 1992 Honda Accord with a bumper sticker which reads, "If this car were a horse I'd shoot it" on the back, drop me a line.
I'm real sick of riding a bicycle everywhere.
posted by Pretty Awesome @ 10:31 PM
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