Life is full of challenges, no one can avoid them. It is just a question of which challenges one accepts. My car mechanic brother tells me this one should be avoided at all cost.

Ever since the '94 Suburban rolled on the Interstate, we've been needing a new vehicle that can (a) seat 8+; and (b) pull a trailer. So the wife and I went up to the auto auction that is held every Tuesday and Friday just over the line in Limestone county. It's an interesting location, with a mix of cars from wealthy Madison county and the much poorer environs. We've bought 2 cars there, and discovered that the average mileage is 150,000, and average price around $2000, unless its  Japanese in which case the mileage is closer to 250,000. They've been serviceable cars, though I've spent more than I bid for them, since evidently the buyer is obligated to buy what he bid, but the seller isn't obligated to sell for that.

But both of those cars came from the $300 deductible guarantee lot--if it requires more than $300 in repairs than it can be returned. Today the only vehicle that met our criteria was an old '92 Suburban in the "as is" lot. Now Suburbans hold their resale value much longer than most both because they are reliable and because there isn't much competition, even from the crop of modern SUV's. When's the last time you saw one with 9 kids packed into it? And this Suburban had only 160,000 miles. Low mileage for a 17 year old truck, I thought as I watched it being driven around the lot. The paint was peeling on the hood, the interior was dirty, the A/C didn't cool, and at that age, required the Montreal-protocol-banned Freon propellant, so it couldn't be recharged. "That's probably why it is in the as-is lot", I reasoned as I bid on it and got it for $850. "We'll clean, sand and paint the car, and maybe get some black-market Freon from Mexico" I said to my wife, as I pulled out of the lot and she followed behind me.

That's when I discovered the real reason for the "as is" lot, it had no third gear. The engine shifted up twice and then the power vanished as the tachometer raced wildly. I made an emergency stop at the auto store and bought transmission fluid, oil and radiator anti-freeze. The engine was hot, having been driven 50 miles to the auction in 2nd gear. But no joy, the transmission refused to find 3rd. I bought a Haynes manual.

When I got home I parked the vehicle where it could be jacked up, opened the manual, and read that automatic transmissions were beyond the ability of home repairmen. I went on the internet and discovered that rebuilt transmissions were going for $1100. Ouch. But a rebuild kit with new "steels"--the clutch bands--could be had for $130. This is where I e-mailed my brother, "which kit should I get?"

His advice was immediate. Drive it back to the auction and sell it as fast as possible.

Alas, some things can only be learned by experience. I ignored his advice, got my 16-yr old son off the couch, and jacked up the car. While Haynes may not have instructions on rebuilding transmissions, they did have instructions on removing them. (Installation, as they always say unhelpfully, is the reverse of removal. Would that life were that symmetrical!)  So we got out the wrenches and proceeded to drain the transmission fluid, take off the bolts, and got to the stage where we had to remove the driveshaft.

It wouldn't budge.

"Maybe we should jack the back wheels off the ground," I said while rereading the manual for the fifth time. Strangely, the screw jack in the Suburban was unused. Did they never have a flat tire in 17 years?  But as I soon discovered, this was because the jack was useless. Oh it operated properly and lifted the truck, but the leaf springs were so big, the tires never came off the ground.

"We'll put some boards under the jackstands and the jack," I told my son, "we'll get it off the ground." Three boards and four feet later the truck teetered precariously on the jack stands. Looking around, I found an old log that my son had rolled from a neighbor with the intention of using it as an anvil for making plate armor. "Let's put it under the truck," I said, "we don't want that coming down on us." One tire still had some friction with the ground, so we placed some more boards under the jack and just as the wheel cleared the ground, there was a groan and the entire truck slid sideways off the stands.

As my son scrambled clear, the log did its job. But the jack was bent and my wife's face had gone pale.

"Enough messing around for the day", I said, "time to put the tools away."

"Can we take it to a mechanic?" my wife asked with pleading eyes.

"We'd have to tow it" I answered.

My e-mailing brother was less sanguine. "I'll give you a Subaru that needs a new clutch fork. Why don't you work on that instead?"

Challenges may be accepted or rejected, but they come unanticipated, as heralds of a unknown future, of an unforeseen war. Yes, we can pick our battles, but we cannot pick our wars.

The Suburban said nothing, but its hulking frame remains a mute gauntlet in my driveway, waiting for me to make up my mind.