Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Part II, Chapter 6
Pieces of Eight
Pieces of Eight. That's what the pirates of yore called their treasure. Well, I had a treasure of my own; my own Pieces of Eight.
Vee-eight, that is. In my basement workshop, (if you could call it that; more like a walled-off junk room, truth be told ) in many pieces, riding out the winter snows. The thing about having a motor in your basement, rather than out in the garage, is that you have a lot of pondering time ..that is, lots of time to stare at the pieces and dream your dreams about what was, was is, and what could be. This is the next dance, the second time around for this motor. I don't want to re-make any mistakes I'd made before, and I certainly want to maximize this little mill's potential ...better than last time, if possible. Winter in the Land O' Lincoln is a bad time for outside projects, unless you've got a fully heated, well equipped shop to work in , and not a garage with no heat and ankle-deep snow to trudge through every time you get a hankering to go play with things. (Or, a workshop in which to assemble an engine, which once assembled is too heavy to carry out. But then we've been down this road, remember ..) Which is what I have. An outside garage, that is. And until I get the place plumbed for heat, that icebox of a garage is no friendly winter retreat, trust me.
So, the pieces sit silently, unprotesting, in the basement, waiting for the Robins of Spring to burst forth in song , and for me to start assembling things. Meanwhile, my mind is racing with ideas and questions, like; Which cam? Which carb and intake combo? Stock heads or aftermarket? Stock rockers and valve train, or high-dollar bling? Stock Chrysler electronic distributor or aftermarket? All valid questions, the answers to be dictated more by the almighty dollar than simple choice or preference.
But I'm trying to shove all that under the rug for now, and concentrate on the bottom end of this motor. So that means the cam will have to be the next big decision I have to make, and Tony already talked me out of reusing the old cam. So, I guess the cam is the Next Big Thing.
I've think I've also decided to get a new oil pan. The pan off the 69 motor is in decent shape, and the minx motor pan is dented from sources unknown, (although I think I know the source and he used to live here once!) but reusing either pan would involve cleaning, stripping and blasting, then repainting. This seems like a major P.I.T.A. to me; I don't know, maybe I'm just getting lazy in my old age. But it seems I can get a new steel pan for around 50 bucks or so, paint it, and slap it on. Why wouldn't I? I mean, what's your free time worth?
The block and crank still lie slumbering all cozy and undisturbed in their plastic sleeping bags in the basement. I know well the futility of starting something before it should be started; I have to get the block outside to paint it, and I don't have the gasket set, cam or timing chain kit yet. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie, I guess. Warm weather will get here soon enough. In the mean time, though, my project is going nowhere fast. Which doesn't leave much in the way of pictures or witty text to keep you faithful readers hooked.
So in the mean time, I'll ramble . I'll tell you a bedtime story. Did I ever tell you the story of the winter of '77, when it was colder than a witches tit and I was cruisin' around in the li'l red minx with the Valiant Little 318 That Could? Of course I didn't. Otherwise, I wouldn't be telling you now. So, anyway, Once Upon A Time, I worked at a place that had the parking lot (for employees) out back, butting up against a garbage landfill. Man, during the summer that place reeked to high heaven! The smell wasn't so bad in the frozen clutches of Ol' Man Winter, but garbage landfills are usually devoid of trees and buildings (duh!) and thus make a fairly good wind tunnel when the occasion arises. Well, one particularly brutally cold winter night, (the temp was rumored to be dropping down to twenty below that night without the wind chill factor, which was substantial, as there were twenty MPH winds that night), I had to work, regardless of the temp, and fired up the minx (which started without hesitation!) and motored my way to work, heater and defrost blowing on max but still never really getting the chill out of the air. I got to work in the late afternoon, with the sun still on the horizon, a brilliant glowing orange orb in a cloudless, crystaline sky, with air so cold it fairly crackled, your breath jetting out in little tendrils of steam like a quarter horse trotting about in a pasture on a cold winters day. My feet and fingers were totally numb by the time I arrived at work, the Hurst feeling like a block of ice even through my winter gloves. (Dusters were never known for their outstanding heat systems and mine was no exception). Usually I'd back into a parking space for a quick exit when work was finished. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. Tonight I was running late, so I nosed it into a spot alongside the dumpster facing the open expanse of the landfill and hurried inside.
I finished my shift around 9:30 pm and stepped outside onto a frozen tundra of a parking lot. Holy crap, was it cold! The stars stood out like brilliant little diamonds in a sea of inky blackness, shimmering in the cold. There was no moon that night, and save for the lights of the building around me, it was dark and still as the inside of a tomb. Nobody ventured forth that night unless they had to. The minx made all kinds of squeaky protesting noises as I climbed in and shut the door, and then I found the door latch didn't want to catch, so cold was the grease, so I spent several frantic minutes wrestling with the stupid latch mechanism before it finally caught and held. Damn! My fingers were numb to the bone already, and covered with frozen grease from the latch. I smeared the grease on my pants, hurriedly thrust my frozen fingers back into my ice-cold gloves, popped the tranny into neutral and turned the key.
Well, I thought for a few moments I was done for ..that little 318 turned so slow I never thought it would catch , but it did, (it always did!) and soon it was perking away merrily. The gear oil in the tranny was so thick I had to wait for the motor to warm up some, so I shifted it back to neutral and let out the clutch to stir the pot a bit. Finally I could move it somewhat freely and backed out, the rear end howling in anguished protest.
I don't think I got maybe four or five miles down the road before I noticed (with more than a little bit of alarm) the water temp gauge moving a lot closer to redline than I was comfortable with. That was right before I noticed the steam, and smelled glycol. Yep, you guessed it. Split radiator. Pissing antifreeze like a drunken sailor in a parking lot. This was in the days before cell phones, and I don't mind telling you the thought of walking in 20 below winter weather didn't make me all warm and fuzzy. Fortunately for me, I happened to have an unopened gallon of Prestone in the trunk. I had about ten miles to go, so I just kept rolling until the temp gauge hit redline, then pulled over and popped the hood with the engine still running. I popped the rad cap, burning the living crap out of my fingers in the process, despite the rags I'd bunched up around it, and stuffed the cap in my coat pocket for safekeeping. I figured if I left the cap off, I could keep the pressure down, and maybe, just maybe I could milk it home. I grabbed the Prestone from the trunk and dumped the whole gallon down the chute. When I'd climbed back in, the needle was off the peg and heading downward, so I popped it in gear and started off again. Within a couple miles it was back kissing the redline again.
It was clear I wouldn't make it . I was still 3 miles from home and I could barely see through all the steam. Then, salvation! A gas station, still open at this time of night! (Most gas stations didn't stay open 24 hours back then)
Leaving the steaming motor running, I sprinted inside and spent my last 5 bucks on a gallon of no-name antifreeze and the guy loaned me a watering can full of water from the closed-and-dark shop area. I dumped in the antifreeze and then poured in water until it was pouring out the top of the radiator like a bubbling green volcano. I guessed maybe I'd better put the cap back on if I wanted to keep any of the green lava. I put the cap back on, but didn't go full-tight with it, and hopped back in crossing my fingers.
The temps were back down to normal as I headed off into the frigid night. No more gas stations between here and Home Free, so this had better be good. By the first mile, the temps were climbing back towards redline again. Mile two, temps peaked and rolling steam like a locomotive. By the time I made the driveway, the minx was bucking and jerking like a rodeo bronc and I was seriously questioning my choice of actions, praying I hadn't fried the little motor or blown a head gasket as I rolled up in front of the garage, billowing steam like HMS Titanic leaving port. I was frozen, my fingers and toes numb, with blisters on my hand from the steam burns ..but I was home! When I shut it down, it dieseled for a minute or two, as if trying to decide if it wanted to keep running, then finally gasped like a dying asthmatic jogger lying on the shoulder of the road breathing his last and shuddered to a halt.
Next morning I surveyed the damages. The radiator was split open like a frozen can of Pepsi you forgot in the freezer overnight, green PopSicles hanging from the radiator like some freaky frozen jungle moss and a large, green pool underneath resembling a Lime Slurpee that little Bobby just dropped on the floor of the Seven-Eleven. Now, the car had been winterized for 20 below according to the chart on the back of the Prestone gallon jug, (so nice of them to put that there!) as well as with the special hydrometer I had for checking such things. They say wind chill only affects humans, but I can't help but wonder what part that 20 MPH hurricane screeching across that open landfill played in splitting my radiator open like a ripe watermelon? Regardless, I avoid parking any of my cars nose-into-the-wind when its below zero; or I nose up to a building, another car, fence, anything when its unavoidable. Even a herd of cows would do. Actually, that might be preferable, as those things are good for about 1000 watts apiece!
So, a re-cored radiator and a couple hundred dollars later, the minx was back in biz, no harm done and her owner just a tad wiser (the radiator was now stoked for forty below!)
And they all lived happily ever after!
Pieces of Eight
Pieces of Eight. That's what the pirates of yore called their treasure. Well, I had a treasure of my own; my own Pieces of Eight.
Vee-eight, that is. In my basement workshop, (if you could call it that; more like a walled-off junk room, truth be told ) in many pieces, riding out the winter snows. The thing about having a motor in your basement, rather than out in the garage, is that you have a lot of pondering time ..that is, lots of time to stare at the pieces and dream your dreams about what was, was is, and what could be. This is the next dance, the second time around for this motor. I don't want to re-make any mistakes I'd made before, and I certainly want to maximize this little mill's potential ...better than last time, if possible. Winter in the Land O' Lincoln is a bad time for outside projects, unless you've got a fully heated, well equipped shop to work in , and not a garage with no heat and ankle-deep snow to trudge through every time you get a hankering to go play with things. (Or, a workshop in which to assemble an engine, which once assembled is too heavy to carry out. But then we've been down this road, remember ..) Which is what I have. An outside garage, that is. And until I get the place plumbed for heat, that icebox of a garage is no friendly winter retreat, trust me.
So, the pieces sit silently, unprotesting, in the basement, waiting for the Robins of Spring to burst forth in song , and for me to start assembling things. Meanwhile, my mind is racing with ideas and questions, like; Which cam? Which carb and intake combo? Stock heads or aftermarket? Stock rockers and valve train, or high-dollar bling? Stock Chrysler electronic distributor or aftermarket? All valid questions, the answers to be dictated more by the almighty dollar than simple choice or preference.
But I'm trying to shove all that under the rug for now, and concentrate on the bottom end of this motor. So that means the cam will have to be the next big decision I have to make, and Tony already talked me out of reusing the old cam. So, I guess the cam is the Next Big Thing.
I've think I've also decided to get a new oil pan. The pan off the 69 motor is in decent shape, and the minx motor pan is dented from sources unknown, (although I think I know the source and he used to live here once!) but reusing either pan would involve cleaning, stripping and blasting, then repainting. This seems like a major P.I.T.A. to me; I don't know, maybe I'm just getting lazy in my old age. But it seems I can get a new steel pan for around 50 bucks or so, paint it, and slap it on. Why wouldn't I? I mean, what's your free time worth?
The block and crank still lie slumbering all cozy and undisturbed in their plastic sleeping bags in the basement. I know well the futility of starting something before it should be started; I have to get the block outside to paint it, and I don't have the gasket set, cam or timing chain kit yet. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie, I guess. Warm weather will get here soon enough. In the mean time, though, my project is going nowhere fast. Which doesn't leave much in the way of pictures or witty text to keep you faithful readers hooked.
So in the mean time, I'll ramble . I'll tell you a bedtime story. Did I ever tell you the story of the winter of '77, when it was colder than a witches tit and I was cruisin' around in the li'l red minx with the Valiant Little 318 That Could? Of course I didn't. Otherwise, I wouldn't be telling you now. So, anyway, Once Upon A Time, I worked at a place that had the parking lot (for employees) out back, butting up against a garbage landfill. Man, during the summer that place reeked to high heaven! The smell wasn't so bad in the frozen clutches of Ol' Man Winter, but garbage landfills are usually devoid of trees and buildings (duh!) and thus make a fairly good wind tunnel when the occasion arises. Well, one particularly brutally cold winter night, (the temp was rumored to be dropping down to twenty below that night without the wind chill factor, which was substantial, as there were twenty MPH winds that night), I had to work, regardless of the temp, and fired up the minx (which started without hesitation!) and motored my way to work, heater and defrost blowing on max but still never really getting the chill out of the air. I got to work in the late afternoon, with the sun still on the horizon, a brilliant glowing orange orb in a cloudless, crystaline sky, with air so cold it fairly crackled, your breath jetting out in little tendrils of steam like a quarter horse trotting about in a pasture on a cold winters day. My feet and fingers were totally numb by the time I arrived at work, the Hurst feeling like a block of ice even through my winter gloves. (Dusters were never known for their outstanding heat systems and mine was no exception). Usually I'd back into a parking space for a quick exit when work was finished. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. Tonight I was running late, so I nosed it into a spot alongside the dumpster facing the open expanse of the landfill and hurried inside.
I finished my shift around 9:30 pm and stepped outside onto a frozen tundra of a parking lot. Holy crap, was it cold! The stars stood out like brilliant little diamonds in a sea of inky blackness, shimmering in the cold. There was no moon that night, and save for the lights of the building around me, it was dark and still as the inside of a tomb. Nobody ventured forth that night unless they had to. The minx made all kinds of squeaky protesting noises as I climbed in and shut the door, and then I found the door latch didn't want to catch, so cold was the grease, so I spent several frantic minutes wrestling with the stupid latch mechanism before it finally caught and held. Damn! My fingers were numb to the bone already, and covered with frozen grease from the latch. I smeared the grease on my pants, hurriedly thrust my frozen fingers back into my ice-cold gloves, popped the tranny into neutral and turned the key.
Well, I thought for a few moments I was done for ..that little 318 turned so slow I never thought it would catch , but it did, (it always did!) and soon it was perking away merrily. The gear oil in the tranny was so thick I had to wait for the motor to warm up some, so I shifted it back to neutral and let out the clutch to stir the pot a bit. Finally I could move it somewhat freely and backed out, the rear end howling in anguished protest.
I don't think I got maybe four or five miles down the road before I noticed (with more than a little bit of alarm) the water temp gauge moving a lot closer to redline than I was comfortable with. That was right before I noticed the steam, and smelled glycol. Yep, you guessed it. Split radiator. Pissing antifreeze like a drunken sailor in a parking lot. This was in the days before cell phones, and I don't mind telling you the thought of walking in 20 below winter weather didn't make me all warm and fuzzy. Fortunately for me, I happened to have an unopened gallon of Prestone in the trunk. I had about ten miles to go, so I just kept rolling until the temp gauge hit redline, then pulled over and popped the hood with the engine still running. I popped the rad cap, burning the living crap out of my fingers in the process, despite the rags I'd bunched up around it, and stuffed the cap in my coat pocket for safekeeping. I figured if I left the cap off, I could keep the pressure down, and maybe, just maybe I could milk it home. I grabbed the Prestone from the trunk and dumped the whole gallon down the chute. When I'd climbed back in, the needle was off the peg and heading downward, so I popped it in gear and started off again. Within a couple miles it was back kissing the redline again.
It was clear I wouldn't make it . I was still 3 miles from home and I could barely see through all the steam. Then, salvation! A gas station, still open at this time of night! (Most gas stations didn't stay open 24 hours back then)
Leaving the steaming motor running, I sprinted inside and spent my last 5 bucks on a gallon of no-name antifreeze and the guy loaned me a watering can full of water from the closed-and-dark shop area. I dumped in the antifreeze and then poured in water until it was pouring out the top of the radiator like a bubbling green volcano. I guessed maybe I'd better put the cap back on if I wanted to keep any of the green lava. I put the cap back on, but didn't go full-tight with it, and hopped back in crossing my fingers.
The temps were back down to normal as I headed off into the frigid night. No more gas stations between here and Home Free, so this had better be good. By the first mile, the temps were climbing back towards redline again. Mile two, temps peaked and rolling steam like a locomotive. By the time I made the driveway, the minx was bucking and jerking like a rodeo bronc and I was seriously questioning my choice of actions, praying I hadn't fried the little motor or blown a head gasket as I rolled up in front of the garage, billowing steam like HMS Titanic leaving port. I was frozen, my fingers and toes numb, with blisters on my hand from the steam burns ..but I was home! When I shut it down, it dieseled for a minute or two, as if trying to decide if it wanted to keep running, then finally gasped like a dying asthmatic jogger lying on the shoulder of the road breathing his last and shuddered to a halt.
Next morning I surveyed the damages. The radiator was split open like a frozen can of Pepsi you forgot in the freezer overnight, green PopSicles hanging from the radiator like some freaky frozen jungle moss and a large, green pool underneath resembling a Lime Slurpee that little Bobby just dropped on the floor of the Seven-Eleven. Now, the car had been winterized for 20 below according to the chart on the back of the Prestone gallon jug, (so nice of them to put that there!) as well as with the special hydrometer I had for checking such things. They say wind chill only affects humans, but I can't help but wonder what part that 20 MPH hurricane screeching across that open landfill played in splitting my radiator open like a ripe watermelon? Regardless, I avoid parking any of my cars nose-into-the-wind when its below zero; or I nose up to a building, another car, fence, anything when its unavoidable. Even a herd of cows would do. Actually, that might be preferable, as those things are good for about 1000 watts apiece!
So, a re-cored radiator and a couple hundred dollars later, the minx was back in biz, no harm done and her owner just a tad wiser (the radiator was now stoked for forty below!)
And they all lived happily ever after!
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