Transmission: Impossible. A trip to LP Field becomes a matter of automotive life or death

Week before last, wife Brenda and I decided to go see the Titans play the Jaguars. We gathered up our lightweight jackets and our leftover Halloween candy and settled into Brenda's 18-year-old station wagon, which we affectionately call the Jellybean. The Jellybean was Brenda's first "mom car," the car that hauled Baby Jess and her baby friends all over town. These days, though the Jellybean is loaded with fond memories, she's the car we drive to places where a car might get dinged.

LP Field's parking lot is such a place. It's abuzz with Tahoes, Hummers, Armadas, Sequoias and other bloated vehicles that won't fit into any parking space anywhere. Typically, the Bunyanesque vehicles at LP Field are populated by folks who've had a little something to drink, and are likely to dish out a ding or two.

But what the heck, Brenda and I had a perfect autumn afternoon and a chance to see the home team go 1-6. We set out for downtown, happy as hayriders. The ballgame traffic was flowing nicely, and drivers were letting us change lanes freely. We moved smartly along I-24, and turned onto the ramp that runs up to Shelby Avenue.

And that's when the trouble started.

Two-thirds of the way up the ramp, the Jellybean's elderly transmission just let go, in one sickening lick. The car's spirit headed for the light, going to see Transmission Jesus.

"Uh, Mizz Brenda," I said, "your Jellybean just died."

"What do you mean, she just died," she said. "We're still rolling."

"Not for long," I replied. "Her transmission is deader than Elvis. I told you that a day would come when the engine or tranny would die. That day is here. As of this moment, this car is done."

Just then, the Jellybean rolled to a stop in the middle lane of the three-lane ramp. She wouldn't move forward, and she couldn't roll backward without crashing into the truck behind us. With no transmission, I couldn't move the car to the right or left. The ramp was way too steep to allow for any car-pushing—not that anybody was going to volunteer to push my dead car 100 yards up a hill.

Seconds after the car stopped, I-24 started backing up, and people who didn't know me started hating me, honking at me, and flipping me the bird.

Lucky for me, a policeman rode up on a motorcycle, and started directing traffic around our crippled car. Two more policemen walked up, and one of them offered to call for a tow truck.

Knowing that we wouldn't be driving back home, Brenda started gathering up our jackets and bags. A half-hour later, as Brenda and I leaned against the fence at the Shelby Avenue off-ramp, our tow-truck driver drove up, grabbed up the Jellybean and took her to our mechanic's shop.

Then, on a beautiful tackle-football gameday, Brenda and I hiked from the I-24 off-ramp to LP Field, loaded down with hoodies, Halloween goodies, sweatshirts and shopping bags, looking for all the world like we'd just robbed an extended family of homeless people.

The next day, Monday, was sure to be a dark day. The Jellybean was on the other side of town at our mechanic's shop, a junker waiting to go to that Cadillac Ranch in the sky. I browsed a CarMax website, and found that any worthwhile car would cost about $20 grand. Meanwhile, Brenda was also browsing CarMax, and getting a car crush on a little red sports car that was going for—well, about $20 grand.

Then the phone rang in my office. "Walter, it's Ken," our mechanic said. "Your car's fixed. I cleaned out the transmission, flushed it and filled it up with new fluid. She's running fine."

"What's that going to cost me," I asked, worried that the answer would be somewhere between $2,000 and $4,000.

"A hundred and thirty bucks," Ken said.

I called Brenda at work. "The Jellybean lives!" I told her. "Ken fixed it for the cost of one good tire. It's a miracle."

I fetched Brenda from her office, then drove her to Ken's shop, where she took possession of her beloved Jellybean. She left me at the shop, talking to Ken, and headed straight for the car wash.

An hour later, when Brenda got home, she was all atwitter. "She's squeaky clean on the outside, and I quadruple-vacuumed her on the inside," she said. "The Jellybean is redeemed. She might last another 18 years!"

"Grandbabies in the Jellybean," I thought to myself.

It could happen.

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