During the late 80's I was living outside Boston, renting a room in a creepy old house in the country. At the time I had a Chevy S10 that was powered by an Isuzu engine with the weakest clutch ever produced. I hauled band equipment with it and went through 2 clutches in 2 yrs.

Looked similar to this

Looked similar to this

Both times when the clutch failed, I changed them out myself in the spooky old carriage house where I rented a room. First time was hell working off jack stands that were sketch. The second time I had it down, knew the routine, so I decided to do it late one weekday evening. Removing transmission was brutal, you sort of break the fall of it crushing your chest as it pulls free. An hour later the clutch is changed and I'm doing the reinstall, balancing the trans on my legs/knee's as I guide it up and in, and it was going well. Almost had the splines lined up with the pressure plate when I heard something moving in the spooky carriage house with me. I look to my right and there is a full 20 gallon garbage bag creeping past the car. Needless to say I instinctively flinched, hit my face on bottom of car, let out a yelp, the shaft slid out of the pressure plate and the transmission crashed down on me. I'm pinned, I don't know why the garbage bag continues to crawl across the floor, and I can't breathe. Took a long minute to roll it off and roll out from under that stupid vehicle. By now the garbage bag has made its way to the outside door. It was not fazed by me crashing around, and my heart is pumping. I grab a metal rake and fling it in that general direction half expecting some ghost or creature to come flying at me. Instead a big fat Racoon waddles away. I threw everything I could find at him as he leisurely headed back to the woods. Not fazed by any of it.

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