Oh, jeez, that sounds a lot like my story.
In NJ, we used to have an annual safety inspection that included a
brake test. The tester would accelerate the car for about 25 feet and
then slam on the brakes. On the floor were four suspended grates that
were connected to manometers, which had "go, no-go" lines on their
tubes.
So in '67 I took my MG Midget Mk III (around 1400 lb. dry) in for its
first inspection. The rear wheels wouldn't even register -- the
manometers on the rear wheels didn't budge. So they failed me and I
had two weeks to correct it.
The rear brakes were manually adjusted, and they had little
square-headed bolt adjusters. I took a crescent wrench with me when I
went back for re-inspection. While I was waiting in line, I tightened
the suckers down until they were just touching the drums.
I went through the line. Again, they failed. The manometers just
registered, but not into the "safe" zone.
I expressed my frustration. The inspectors were sympathetic and told
me I could cut into the line for another try. So I tightened the rears
down until they were squealing and hobbled around to cut into the
line. This time I passed.
When I got out I drove about ten feet, took out my wrench, and
adjusted them back where they were supposed to be. The inspectors were
not amused. They said I shouldn't do that. "OK," I said, and pretended
to tighten them up again.
Anyway, the following year I knew what to do, so I tightened them to
the squealing point just before going in. I passed again. But, not
wanting to raise their ire, I just kept driving and decided I'd make
it home -- it was only a few miles -- and I'd adjust them properly
there. The squealing had stopped. I probably put 5,000 miles of wear
on the rears.
On the way home, up US 1, there was a curved turnoff to the right that
I like to hit at about 50 mph and just start a slide, practicing
powering out to see how much power I could apply without spinning (I
don't do that anymore). Not thinking about my brakes, I hit it at my
usual speed. Hee-haw! The rear end came around and I couldn't steer
out of it -- off the road I went, into the nicely manicured Reed Turf
Farm owned by my buddy Bill Reed's family. <g>
I plowed some great furrows, mostly sideways, and barely got out of
the soft ground. Then I crawled the rest of the way home, reminding
myself of the brakes about every 100 feet.
The next day I told my friend Bill that I was the culprit, and offered
to pay for the damage. Not to worry, he said. It happens all the time,
and they were getting ready to put up a thick steel-and-concrete guard
rail, anyway. d8-)
--
Ed Huntress