Ok. Time for a little story. Several years ago, we went to Venezuela on vacation. Our vacations tend to be long and adventurous, involving lots of challenging driving and exotic destinations.

On this trip, we rented a car in Caracas, with plans to tour thru the Andes, hitting every high pass in the country, and ending in Merida. The car we had rented was something substantial, up to the task, but it was delivered with a flat tire and no spare. So we took the only other car they had: a Chevette. I know, I know, but what could I do? It was that or nothing.

The car had a great deal of difficulty going up the mountains, unable to cope with the altitude. It reduced my normally agressive driving style to verbal abuse. At last we reached the highest pass in the northern Andes, whose name escapes me, but was something like the Aconcagua pass. It was perhaps 12,000 feet above sea level, at which altitude the little Shove-it could barely make 3 miles an hour as it chugged up the steep peak. The top was shrouded in clouds that day, and visibility was close to zero, with a light, cold rain sort of condensing on everything.

After the top, the road turned downwards, in a long, serpentine descent to the valley below. Relieved that gravity would do what the little Briggs & Stratton engine could not, I let the little thing gather some speed. I came to the first sweeper, majestically riding that little red bastard to it's limit. A long straight led into the next turn, a nasty hairpin. Wet road. Poor visibility. Wipers going snick snack, hopelessly trying to clear the mist. I confidently step on the brakes, expecting to take this turn in high style. The brake pedal glides silently, ineffectively, to the floor.

My wife will tell you that I am the world's best driver. This isn't true. But it is amazing what you can do on adrenalin. As the plot unfolded, things seemed to slip into slow motion, with all the time in the world to react. In one smooth motion, jammed the tranny into low, and set the handbrake for all I was worth. Gratifyingly, the brakes responded, while the little engine, reluctant as ever, protested the speeding wheels with all four cylinders.

I was headed into the outside of the hairpin turn, on a sharp downhill stretch. My strategy was to hang on the shoulder, scrubbing off as much speed as I could on the sharp gravel, then cut the turn close to the center to get the smoothest line, and put a little space between us and the edge... As I came to the turn, I spotted a big truck coming up from below, while I, on the outside, faced a sharp turn with no guardrail to spoil the view over a 1000 foot descent. Deperate, I pump the brakes like a bicyle pedal. They grab, and then......nothing. A superhuman effort on the handbrake at last brings the slide under control. We are both screaming, but I make it around the turn, and now face another steep downhill slope ending in another serpentine turn. Fortunately, I had the inside on this turn, and was able to scrub up against the shoulder, making it relatively easy. A level spot allowed me to get the car under some level of control.

It continued like this for five miles, but the rest was simple. I descended in first gear, using the handbrake, never exceeding 3 miles an hour.

The problem, I believe, was water in the brake line. Under heavy stress and high altitude, the water vaporized and made the brakes go away. By the time I got to the bottom of the mountain, the brake fluid cooled off and I had brakes again.

I then spent the better part of a day trying to get my brakes bled. The phrase books failed me on this. One mechanic offered me a band-aid, whether as a badge of courage for my episode, or in response to my fractured Spanish, I don't know.

MORAL: FLUSH YOUR BRAKE LINES, AND REPLACE YOUR LIQUIDO PARA FRENOS HIDRAULICOS!
 

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