Last weekend was ideal for painting. Dry weather stayed around for days. The weatherman predicted temperatures in the mid 70s to lower 80s. After being too sick to paint one summer and too broke the next, I couldn't wait to replace the chipping paint on the trim with a brand-new fresh white coat. Earlier in the week I sprayed all the wasp nests under the eaves and scraped them off the next night. Every night after work I sanded and scraped and taped and primed, all with an eye toward how much nicer the house would look after I remedied the neglect it had suffered for years. I anticipated the compliments and praise that would flow from the neighbors after I improved the view from their house.

Then came the pop. Or was it a thump? I thought a loose trailer-hitch ball I'd had resting on the hump had rolled under the brake pedal. After stopping inches from the car ahead, I looked all around under my feet. The ball wasn't there. In fact it had rolled but to the other side. I drove the remaining few blocks to work without a care. It must have been a fluke.

It was no fluke. The brakes didn't seem just right on the way home. Carolyn and I went to dinner in town. Undaunted, I drove the truck. That's when the awful truth came out.

As we left the restaurant I noticed an oily puddle underneath the axle on the left side. I had blown a brake line. Well, I thought, no big deal. I can change the line tomorrow morning and still get plenty of painting done. We went back home and I sprayed the line's connectors with penetrating oil so they'd roll right out in the morning.

Saturday morning came and I dug out some wrenches and crawled under the truck. I own some special wrenches that are made to slip over brake lines. They fit onto the ends so that they won't slip and destroy the fitting. The inboard fitting turned out without any argument. Then I slid the wrench on the wheel end. It slipped right around, neatly rounding over all six points with one turn. The "2X Rule" played in the back of my mind: All jobs take twice as long as planned. Realizing that the line was junk anyway, I snipped it off close to the fitting, grabbed a socket wrench, and popped the connector out.

"Hah," I said to the now-impotent piece of brass in my hand, "you didn't know who you were dealing with!" As I rolled over to slide out from under the truck, I cast a suspicious eye on the undamaged brake line going to the other wheel. As much as I realized that my non-painting time would double if I changed it, I also realized that having a warm sunny day to work on the truck was a blessing and that if I ignored the opportunity, the likelihood of the other line blowing during a mid-February blizzard would quadruple. With a quick turn-snip-turn, I freed the second line.

I labeled the right-side line so I'd know exactly where the replacement parts would go. Tossing the lines in my wife's car, after carefully wrapping the downward ends to prevent fluid leakage and marital discord, I made off for the auto-parts store in town. I dropped the cut ends in my pocket so that when the pipe-bending expert finished crafting the new lines he could put matching parts on them and I could be painting within moments of my arrival at home.

I carried the lines into the store and told Bob the counter man what I needed. He returned in a flash carrying two pieces of aluminum tube as straight as uncooked linguini! "This look like what you're looking for?" he asked. "Uh yeah, I guess so." I said. Then I asked, "aren't you supposed to bend it?" Bob looked around the store at the assembled Saturday mechanics, some of whom turned away to hide their smirks. With a sidelong glance at his co-workers behind the counter Bob said, "Oh, you can bend it by hand. It's easy. By the way, do you need that little notch right there? That could be tricky." I inspected the old line, which looked like a first-grader's coat hanger art project. I said, "I guess not. Do you have a tool for that?"

My philosophy is that it's less expensive to buy a tool and do a job myself than it is to pay a nice man who already has the tool to do it for me. I paid for my new lines and tubing bender and made my way home, slightly unnerved, hoping that a false move wouldn't kink the line and force a second trip into town. When I got home I laid the new lines down next to the old ones and copied all the required bends and curves, occasionally holding the old and new lines together to make sure that everything bent in the same direction. Even if I'm the only one who will ever see them, I actually did a pretty good job. The only problem was that when I was done, the new lines were about four inches longer at one end than the old ones! I wondered aloud how I was able to do that. Two thoughts came to me at once. First, since I bought standard-size lines instead of measuring the old ones and letting the store cut them, I couldn't be too surprised that they didn't come out exactly like the stock ones. Second, I had to figure out a way to use up that extra line.

I crawled under the truck for the second time just as the radio announced noon. I bolted the inside end on, grateful that at least we'd gotten the fittings right and then I worked the new line along the axle, past the shock absorber, and up to the wheel. I added a bend or two that the Ford Motor Company left off the original part, but I thought that the s-curve added a certain amount of grace to an otherwise plebian design. I attached the fitting to the back of the brake plate, and repeated the process for the other side. As I admired my work, I glanced up at a rusty little nipple just above the shiny new connector and I realized I still had to bleed the brakes!

For those unfamiliar with auto mechanics, "bleeding the brakes" is the process of removing air from the braking system. Most brakes work by forcing fluid from a large master cylinder down the brake lines and into parts at each wheel which apply force to a drum or a disc to slow the vehicle. When air gets in the lines it compresses instead of the fluid, which lowers the brakes' effectiveness and causes wrinkled metal and higher insurance costs. You have to open a "bleeder," which is the little nipple, and hold a small hose against it while a helper pumps the brakes. The other end of the hose goes in a bottle of brake fluid so the system can't suck air back in.

Muttering about the paint that wasn't leaving the can, I dug around and found my brake-bleeding supplies and picked out the tools I'd need. I put wrench to bleeder and pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled harder. Still nothing happened. Fearing that if I pulled too hard I'd snap the nipple off and turn a quick job into a major operation, I took the wrench off and gave the bleeder a friendly tap, hoping to jar a bit of rust or corrosion out of its place and free the bleeder. I replaced the wrench and tried again, sure that the overnight soak in penetrating oil did most of the loosening and the friendly tap would finish the job.

I pulled the wrench one more time, still being careful. And got nowhere. I decided a strategic retreat was in order and took a lunch break. I mulled the problem over, grousing over the rotten turn of events as I ate. About then I remembered that my uncle had once loosened a stuck bolt by heating it with a torch and squirting cold water on it. I also remembered that the oil I'd soaked the nipples with was flammable; I'd have to proceed with caution.

After lunch I took my propane torch, a box of kitchen matches and a cleaning rag back to the truck. Wiping the excess oil away, I carefully noted the position of the gas tank and struck a match. Seconds later, blue flame brushed the nipple. Small bits of rust soon glowed red. Just one second more, I thought, and I'll spritz this thing and it'll spin right out.

Just then I heard a whuff and a small cloud of gray smoke rose from the wheel. It was a reminder, coming just an instant too late, that brake fluid is also flammable! I sprung out from under the truck and doused the torch. Before long I caught my breath and my pulse stopped pounding on my eardrums. While I composed myself, I wondered if my insurance covers self-inflicted fire damage. Thankfully, the conflagration didn't amount to much. But it was enough to cook the inside of the wheel cylinder; I had just birthed a weekend project.

I watched as the last of the smoke blew away, wondering momentarily if my mom and dad were first cousins. How could I be so stupid? Just then I was through playing mechanic for the day. I left the truck in the driveway and painted the trim on the garage. At least I would finish one section of the house. The white paint flecks that remained under my nails after I washed up gave a nice contrast to the black grease from the brake work. I took Saturday evening off to rest up and plan the job of replacing the wheel cylinders. Once again, I had to do both sides, knowing that if I didn't my truck would do pirouettes on the highway the first time I braked hard. I stared dully at the TV.

Things looked far less dismal after a good night's rest. I stopped on the way home from church to buy the replacement cylinders. Bob asked if my truck had nine-inch or ten-inch brakes. I had no idea. When we got home I took the wheel off and measured the drum. Ten inches. After lunch I made a quick trip to town and picked up the cylinders.

"Finally," I said to myself, "I'm on the happy side of this job." The only thing between me and a guilt-free evening in the recliner was the brake drum. Drum-style brakes come with an adjuster which is accessed by prying the cover off of a hole the size of a lima bean and forcing one tool in to push a release lever while turning a gear with a second tool. When I looked inside I saw a part, one that wasn't shown in the shop manual, dangling between the hole and the adjuster. Lying on my side, I picked up the first tool and stabbed for the release lever. Once I thought I found it, I dug away at the adjuster, scraping away at it while nothing at all moved inside the drum. After several tries I realized that the brakes were probably worn enough that I could slip the drum off without fiddling with the adjuster. I crawled out from under the truck and jacked it up. Setting it on jack stands so it couldn't fall and squash me like an ant, I took the tire and wheel off. I pulled on the drum; it didn't budge. I sprayed the lugs and hub with penetrating oil and gave the drum a few persuading taps. The infernal thing held fast. I got out a pry bar and heaved and tugged mightily at the rim of the drum. Then I combined banging and prying with yelling and begging; finally, with a pop, the drum came free. And was I sorry! Various springs and broken parts, coated in generous layers of road grime, rust and leaked brake fluid, fell onto the driveway. One brake shoe had a big hole in its lining. Shuddering, I realized that I'd been barreling down the highway, carefree as a puppy, in a deathtrap!

I got out a plastic tub and started cleaning parts. After several passes with carburetor cleaner I could see several major landmarks; slowly I found the springs, clips and various guts that make up drum-brake anatomy. I started unclipping and unspringing, dipping each greasy, grubby part in the carb cleaner, rinsing away thousands of miles worth of gunk. I laid the pieces out in order and started the cylinder replacement. Just then I noticed why Bob asked me what size my brake drums were; it was so he could sell me the wrong cylinders! I sat on the cool driveway, shaded by my currently-indisposed truck, and I cursed. I cussed out Bob, the parts store, Ford Motor Company, torches and brake fluid! Words I hadn't used since my last major repair job rolled out like gumballs. My mood darkened even more when I remembered that the parts store closed at mid-afternoon on Sunday around here so I'd need to burn a vacation day to finish the job. We missed evening church that day, which is too bad...I had a few things to repent!

I called the office on Monday and told the powers that be that I wouldn't be in. My dad called just after I hung the phone up. He wondered how the job was going and if I needed any help. It turned out that I did. One of the parts I'd removed, which is listed in the shop manual as a "doohickey," is held in place by a spring at the end of a cable. Replacing it involves holding the end of the cable with a pair of pliers in one hand, pulling the spring back with a pair of pliers in your other hand, and slipping the doohickey back in place with your third hand. Seasoned brake technicians probably know enough about doohickies to leave them where they find them; I didn't. So I was glad that Dad skipped his usual Monday-morning retired-guys coffee break to help me out.

Back once more at the auto-parts shop I exchanged cylinders with Bob, picked up yet another pile of parts and returned to the job. After much heaving and tugging we replaced the doohickey. In fact we did it twice, just to show we could, and because we put it on upside-down the first time. One by one shiny new parts replaced old grubby ones. With one last parts run, we finished the first wheel in about three hours. After a good long lunch break we did the second one in about an hour.

At last the truck stood on all four wheels. I ran it, very carefully, up the barn hill and backed it down, pumping the brakes to set the adjusters. And then we bled the lines. They still need just a little tweaking but at least now I can get stopped safely. And that's important to me; as much as I like going, I like stopping even more. We've had wet pavement ever since I put the truck back together, and that's OK because I needed to rest up from all the heaving, tugging, pounding and crawling I did last weekend. But this weekend's supposed to be nice...