Cool McCool's Garage

There’s no team of horses to pull the truck through the mud, no life-jacket to cannibalize to repair the rigging, nor bottled water to dump in the radiator, but just like those geezers in the Viagra commercials who overcome obstacles that would make younger men get their cell phones out and dial 911, I too know what to do when the chips are down.  (And I do mean chips, not that appendage that some guys are using those little blue pills for!)  I will admit to using 3 bottles of Lipton iced tea in the radiator of our recently sold ’62 Impala to get to a rest area when a heater hose came out of a clip, fell down on the alternator belt and left us stranded and steaming by the side of I-80 somewhere west of East Overshoe, Nebraska.  Ya do what ya gotta do.

Today, I spent all morning trying to bleed the brakes on the GMC, with no luck.  I couldn’t get brake fluid to pull through bleeders with my  bleeding outfit, although it felt like the brake pedal was “firm” (again, no reference to the effects of Viagra intended), the brakes weren’t “up”.   After several hours of laying on my back on the cold concrete, rust scale falling in my eyes, my neck getting sore, and being unable to get the fittings on the front brake lines loose to replace the rubber lines,  I put my many years of experience and wisdom to use. 

I took the truck up to the Prairieville Garage, and told them to fix it.

It’ll be done tomorrow afternoon, new flex brake lines in front to replace the evidently collapsed/occluded originals, and all I have to do is write a check.

I’ve reached the age of knowing.  The age of knowing when to cut and run, cut my losses, admit defeat, and have somebody else do the dirty work.   Two new lines, $50.00, two hours of shop time, $100 bucks.  Knowing when to throw in the towel, pricless!