Clutching the Sky

One may not be surprised to learn that given this



and this



and these



and this



and this



and this



and this



as well as this



this



this



this



and this



that Larry the Volvo station waggon was suddenly sorely in need of this:



(That's a clutch disc, kids.)

Poor Larry. His get-go had been getting slower and slower, and that pedal on the left lower and lower, until finally Mom had to have him towed home because he'd pretty much stopped moving entirely, though he was still capable of making loud brrrrum-brrruumm!! noises.

So Tara (our handy go-to grrl mechanic) checked it out and concluded that the clutch had finally ascended to heaven. You've been a very good clutch, Tara said the angels sang; Come into the light!

After three day-long sessions in her trusty (albeit filthy) speed suit Tara got the thing switched out, though it involved (if I am remembering this correctly) dropping the transmission out and decoupling the shift something or other and sawing off some bolts and breaking an allen wrench and getting her hair caught in the creeper wheel and getting covered head to toe in grease, as well as (you can imagine) a lot of swearing, especially at the Haynes manual which was not exactly laid out in a straightforward manner, now was it.

But she got it done, though you should have seen her last night after she'd finished, her hair and face charmingly* smeared with grease; and as far as it looks, Larry is more or less back in the game.

So, go Tara!

Of course, what do you think we have planned for tomorrow?

An iron run.

Poor, poor Larry. There's always more.



*for "charmingly," you may substitute "frightfully," if you are so inclined.