Rusty is putting it mildly.
So when we test drove Sunny for the first time, she developed a little smoking habit.
As we alighted on the test drive, which was a perfect mix of highway and two-lane country road, we were cautiously enthusiastic. Although there were no seats in the bus except the pilot’s, the owner came with us. To me, this was reassuring. If there was a known safety problem, I’m sure we would have either not been allowed to take the drive (we would have then walked away), or the owner felt confident in its performance.
The latter was true.
But…
The initial drive felt great on that country road, then we took Sunny out on the highway for a cruise. Even the highway cruise went great until it was time to turn around and head back to the fella’s house. Minimal noises and rattles, despite the emptiness of the interior. The V8 roared along. We took an exit, then an overpass, and soon enough we were back on the highway.
“Hey, do you guys smell something? Like, a burning something?” Steph said, from her seat on the wheel well.
Then, to me, the smell came a-quickly wafting through the bus, filling the coach with the malodorous aroma all-too familiar to rally drivers and late-to-the-stop-pedal commuters: Burning brakes.
In all my years of rallying and driving in general, I’ve never seen brake pads that look like this.
Along with the maloderaromatherapy (hey, some of us like this smell), came too the sensation of an all-too familiar pull in one direction — a seized caliper. In this case, the smell emanated from the right front, which I would prefer, as we’d end up in a ditch rather than more lanes of highway.
Our exit came soon enough and I let the rig slow down as much as possible on its own without putting any more unnecessary pressure. Testing the pedal as we went along from highway to driveway, the rig kept stopping when it was supposed to, but the caliper didn’t like it one bit. By the time we rolled back into the driveway, the stopper had the cooling tick of a cast-iron block that came out of the foundry oven too quick. I thought it was just going to fall apart.
The heart wants what the heart wants…
Steph and I had been searching for a suitable rig for several months without nary a nibble, except one that was so rusty and shoddily put together, I didn’t think it would make it back home from upstate New York.
This particular night, we set out to look at two possibles, Sunny, and another shuttle bus down the road. We never made it to that second appointment because as soon as we rolled into the driveway, we both knew — without saying it to each other — that this was the one. I had that same feeling when I bought my first house, second house, and all the rest of my cars. It’s just a feeling.
The good news was, now with smokin’ hot pads, we also had a bargaining chip. We were able to chisel off a significant amount off the asking price. Since AAA wasn’t quite an option, the previous owner let us borrow both his plates, and by default, his insurance, to limp our new bus home. That was a huge help.
By limp, I mean limp…
Before we set off into the fast-approaching rural night on back-country roads, I did a little banging on the caliper in a vain effort to loosen up the piston that was smashing into the pads and disc. Like an older brother with his foot on the head of his screaming younger brother underneath his Chuck Taylor’s — it didn’t let go.
And so, with the wind of the Rally Gods at our backs, Steph and I set off into the night. The curves, elevation changes, narrow bridge crossings, jumping deer, screeching Sasquatches in our path, we plodding along at 5-10 mph under the speed limit. Steph went first as pilot car, in her DOT orange Subaru Crosstrek, as if to warn other drivers that crazy people were coming up from behind. It’s a good thing she went first too. Other than risking a 12,000-lb GVW bus ending up in her back seat, it kept me from driving normal speeds and forgetting about the brakes until I crashed through someone’s living room and ended up on their couch, where they could pass me the popcorn through the screechy bus door.
In complete horror-movie darkness now, we had to make our first hot-stop to let the caliper cool a little. Despite the 17 million tools I brought with me to do all my checks, I did NOT bring a BFH, so I had to pound the gripper with the back of an adjustable wrench, alternately with a Vice-Grip. Steph climbed in the bus and tried the brakes in between me beating on it from underneath, but still nothing.
Flashers on, intermittently lighting up the side of the road, we pounded a bit and waited some more. Steph watered the local road weeds with a biologically filtered iced-coffee (pee), then we were off again. Our next stop was a gas station thankfully wide enough to park the bus away from the pumps and give it a longer cool down. We still had the adrenalized glow of awesomeness, so we weren’t quite ready to utter those words: What the f*ck did we just do?
After several more leapfrogs down dark, unfamiliar roads, 5 minutes away from home, the caliper finally released and it started stopping like a normal mini bus (whatever that feels like). With only 5 minutes left before closing, I pulled the bus into our local school parking lot, whilst Steph went ahead and picked us up some celebration snacks and a frothy 6-pack for me.
For some reason, it wasn’t until we rolled down our road that first time that I ever thought this thing might not actually fit in our driveway. I know it’s only ‘fun-sized’, but we still have a few low-hanging branches and a tight dogleg to the garage. Lo, nary a worry was needed, as Sunny rolled right up the drive as if it had done it for years.
The 30-minute drive up to see the bus took us a full 90 minutes to get home, including all the stops, which had my nerves clenched up tighter than the caliper.
But Sunny was home.
And we were alive.
