Today the girls, my mom and I headed to the city for my eye exam. It's time for me to admit that I need glasses. Real glasses, all the time. On the way home I suffered a vehicular crisis... Calling on my vast knowledge of, and experience in mechanics (ahem), I quickly diagnosed the problem as I pulled to the side of the road. The transmission. Yes, I had experienced this once before as a passenger which is almost the same as being the driver (at least it's closer than a backseat driver). I engaged my emergency blinkers and we glugged and crawled the next 3 miles to my mother's house. I white knuckled and gasped as my passengers sent up prayers (the out loud kind, none of those silent types for this kind of situation) as we scaled mount horror just before turning onto her street. Once inside, I made the dreaded hubby call. He would be off work in 45 minutes and then come up driving the workhorse. I in turn would take that wheel and follow him and the girls home. We decided not to dawdle but to leave right away because we didn't want to be caught in the dark if he didn't make it. I was prepared to putt along behind him with my emergency's flashing.
Does anyone have a law that explains why once you get to the doctor's office, your symptoms disappear? Because as soon as hubby was behind the wheel the van bolted... I followed at a distance because I couldn't seem to keep up with him!
|that's him up ahead, and I was doing 55... I WAS|
So, the good news is we didn't get stuck in the dark. And we probably don't have to purchase a new van. A new transmission was not even an option as we have friends who have the same van and are needing to replace theirs for the second time. Not going there. Planned obsolescence you know.
The bad news is that as optimistic as the drive home seemed from a distance, hubby says that it definitely does need trany work. On one hand this is disappointing. On the other hand I find minimal satisfaction in having diagnosed the problem! ;)