Confessions of auto enthusiasts
Humor page is HERE
You think you've done silly things??

Ping-pong with my own skull
(Chris Saulnier 1/2006)

The way law enforcement should be
Jim Bowden (submitted 7/03)

In the 70's I worked for Datsun in the Portsmouth, VA region. In those days, the great ole' days of 510 Trans-Am victories, Nissan USA would have performance days at race tracks around the country for the dealership salesmen (today known as sales-PERSONS). They had three 510's painted up like the BRE cars and sent them around the country with John Morton and a few other drivers participating, like Fitz, etc. Anyhow, I got the assignment, along with two other District Managers, to take the cars from VIR (Virginia International Raceway) to the Memphis, TN regional office, where we would pick up a new demo and all three of us drive back together. Having these BRE painted 510's was a gas and we all got a little "racy pants", even though they were totally stock 510s. 

Also at this time came the first fuel shortage and the federal government had mandated the "55" nationwide speed limit. Well, in those 510's we certainly didn't feel that it applied to us! Anyhow, as we got into Tennessee, we were doing well over 90 along a major Interstate somewhere near Johnson City. As it would happen, a Tennessee trooper didn't take too kindly to us whipping down his highway at that rate of speed and pulled all three of us over. Now in my state, the tickets would have been at least $100.00 (yep, even at that time!), but the trooper explained that they were a little more reasonable in the Great State of Tennessee. Y'see, if the highway originally had a 55 mph limit on it and we were caught doing 90+, the fine would have been that....but, on a highway that had a higher speed limit prior to the fed's imposition, they felt the fine shouldn't be so high. The trooper explained that Tennessee really didn't feel like the government was doing the right thing (Ride on, Trooper!), but, to keep the highway funds coming, they had to have so many tickets (Yep, the feds told the states that if they didn't enforce the 55 mph, they wouldn't send highway funds to those states). So, he politely told us that the fine would be Five Dollars.............each. With that, my buddy and co-worker told the officer that he really appreciated how reasonable the state of Tennessee was, and in order to save the state some time and trouble for the nice gentlemanly troopers in that state........offered him a ten spot (you could pay the trooper and get a receipt).....with the remark...."We'll be coming back this way on Tuesday."
Luckily, the trooper had a sense of humor.

A real lemon
Jason Gray (submitted 1/19/01)

Worst experience I ever had with a car was a white '71 SAAB 99 that I bought for $100 the year I graduated from High School. The price seemed right and though it was a cool vintage car. I "lost"  the car the fist day I brought it home. I live up on a steep hill and after I had parked and gone inside, apparently the parking brake didn't hold and the SAAB rolled away and down a 10' embankment. I came back out and it was missing, took me about 5 minutes of panic searching to even find where it had rolled out into the woods. I had a friend with a Chevy 4X4 and we eventually got it winched back up the embankment. (hydraulic clutch also failed at same time, making self-powered removal more difficult).

Soon after, a broken motor mount allowed the torque of the engine to "tip" and pulled a CV joint apart, sending a shower of needle bearings scattering across the driveway. (had to buy another CV joint). Engine was always running poor, it was a British-Leyland built motor reportedly of tractor origins. Primitive Bosch D-tronic EFI that was always troublesome and I had no skill for diagnosing or fixing electronics. Soon after getting it running, it blew a head gasket so required that I tear into the engine. Found that the reason the oil pressure was so low was due to terribly worn rod and main bearings. I think I spent something like $500 having the crank turned and balanced for oversize bearing (hard earned money for a 18 year old). I rebuilt the rest of the engine myself, what a piece of junk- trouble prone coolant pump that leaked coolant into the engine, wimpy single row timing chain at back of the engine that was prone to failure. (Triumph actually used the same engine later in the TR-7.)

By the end of the summer, I had sunk well over $1000 into the $100 SAAB and I was determined to drive it 3000 miles from Alaska to Colorado where I was going to collage. With the help of a friend, we made the first 1000 miles in two days before hitting serious trouble in the middle of Canada's Yukon Territory. Voltage regulator died and fried the battery. Replaced battery, but no replacement VR was available in the boonies. Limped along the next 1000 miles to Edmonton (first sizeable city) but it took us 1 week of constant breakdowns to cover the distance. Has to rely on having the battery re-charged at nights and then only driving in the day without benefit of a functioning alternator. During this same time, had to replace the front brakes, Constantly fiddle with the EFI (usually flooded the engine every time we stopped, unable to re-start until engine cooled). Consumed massive quantities of gas (10MPG). Gas tank developed a dripping leak. Tires were rotten and began to disintegrate. Rear suspension began to separate from the body. Once we got to Edmonton, another weird SAAB quirk finally overwhelmed my mechanical talents and patience. Seems that the transmission SAAB was using was a recycled design from the days of their 2-stroke engines. The tranny incorporated a "freewheel" mechanism that allowed the drive wheels "uncouple" with the tranny and allow the car to coast downhill without the engine drag (2-strokes don't work well the engine breaking). The freewheel mechanism got wrecked and disintegrated, preventing transmission of any power. I had no means to fix it myself and didn't have the time to wait to have it fixed (late getting to start of collage). We had to abandon the SAAB and completely extinguished my interest in working on old cars for a long time. It wasn't until 7 years later (without vintage cars) that I bought my white '71 510 and it has never left me completely stranded.

Details, details....
Kelvin Dietz (submitted 2/01/01)

I had the most interesting experience in my enthusiastic driving career a few years ago.  I had SID (my EP autocross/hillclimb 510) up on blocks for a couple days putting a wrench on every nut and bolt.  Just to make sure everything was secure and that none of the meticulous welding that Cary had done on the new rear suspension was coming loose. A hillclimb the following weekend was the reason for this care.  I'd hate for something to break at 60mph with nothing but trees to stop me.  The only thing I found loose was
the exhaust.  No surprises there.

I also built a brace for the carbs to try and improve a foaming problem they've been having. I needed to make sure it hadn't exacerbated the problem, so after refitting the BFG Comp T/As for a street run I went for a little drive on some of the local backroads.

I was going to run down to my favorite test loop, a large cul-de-sac arrangement in an unfinished industrial park, but first I needed to warm him up a bit.  On the way back from the warm-up cycle, I come to one of my favorite straights, ending in a 25mph left-hand curve.  A great place to test the brakes.  There's a woman walking on the side of the road, so I didn't blast into this turn like I normally would.  Gotta keep the locals happy.  Sort of. 

Anyway, the entry speed was down.  Maybe 80mph at the fastest.  And it was a good thing, too, because when I went for the brakes THERE WEREN'T ANY!!!! None.   Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  Right to the floor. 

At this point the mind clicks into hyper mode.

"Grab the e-brake!".  SHIT, this is a racecar, there ISN'T an e-brake!
"Maybe you got the wrong pedal, try the other one!".  Nope.  Feels like a
clutch.  Which, unfortunately, is what the brake pedal STILL feels like.
"DOWNSHIFT!!!"  Right.  "Well, THAT didn't help much..."
"Gee, I'm glad I took the time to put the shoulder belts on.  There's some
really hard stuff on the outside of this turn"
"Man, this is really gonna fuck up the weekend.  I wonder if they'll give me
my entry fee back?"
"How fast am I going?"  No speedo, Dipstick!  Besides, IT'S TOO DAMN FAST!!!
"Drive it off and get it stopped . . .?"  NO, DAMMIT, I'm going to MAKE
IT!!!

All this in three to four seconds, mind you...

At this point I CAREFULLY dive into the other lane and hold on.  The car actually sticks for a moment before the back starts to come out.  I dial in a little opposite lock.  Then a little more.  Then a LOT!  And then I'm finally out of the corner.  Unfortunately, we aren't done yet.  When the SID starts to come back he does it with a vengeance.  And now I'm whipping the wheel the other way as fast as I can.  Then we go back again.  And AGAIN. AND AGAIN!!!  The automotive equivalent of a "tank slapper".  Normally you can use your throttle to provide a little control, but I certainly didn't want to go any faster.  What I needed was faster steering!

I finally get him under control, after at least 3 near spins, and coast to the stop sign about 1/4 mile away.  I take the right and head for home using the tranny to slow and stop me because there still isn't a hint of brakes. I can't believe how calm I seem to be.   I've got less adrenaline going than a hillclimb usually supplies.  Or an autocross, for that matter.  Of course, I didn't have to step on the brakes, or that right leg might have proven a little shaky.

A cursory examination in the driveway proves the master cylinders full of fluid.  No broken or loose lines I guess.  What could have caused this?  Uh . . . how 'bout the pedal?  Yep, the little pin that attaches the pedal to the master cylinder pushrod has fallen out.  I find the pin, but not the washer or cotter pin.  No cotter pin because we'd replaced it with a "hairpin" style clip instead and it had fallen out.  NOT the answer in this case... [this was the dumb part ya'll have been looking for - kd]

I wonder how long that pin had been hanging there? How many autocrosses, where I was aimed at a crowd?  How many finish lines with curbs and hard bits just waiting to chew me up?  Kinda makes you think, doesn't it.  I know that I'M going to be a bit more picky about how we set our autocross courses from now on.

Mustang's, uh...RULE!
Chris Saulnier (submitted 1/19/01)

I'm full of boneheaded tales.

Many moons ago, my older brother Joe owned a '65 Mustang convertible.  He had done some work to it, headers, a 4:11 rear, some other minor mods.  It was a 289ci four speed car.  He decided to get married, and left on a week long honeymoon across Canada by rail.  Enter one young budding drag racing lover, brother Chris.   Chris figured since mom and dad wouldn't let him buy a car yet (he was only 14) he would make some performance and appearance modifications to brother Joe's car for a wedding gift.

The first step was to trash that useless Ford carburetor for the Holley one that had been stripped from an abandoned full size Mopar.   Bolt that sucker on, and move on and up to the hood area.  Now we all know that cool air is better than hot air right?  Several hours and a few dozen blades later a 8" X 12" opening appeared in the hood.  It would have taken less time, but cutting through the cross bracing took a long time.  Top it off with a reverse teardrop fiberglass hoodscoop, screwed down with several various sized sheet metal and wood screws.  Now this looked pretty ratty, so the obvious solution was to apply some bondo.  Buy a quart and mix
it all together, then start spreading it on... Wow! this stuff hardens fast.  That's OK we can just sand it off later.

Did I mention I hate sanding things?   After some token sanding I figured it would be easier to just hide it under some paint.  Old drag racers will remember the Bardahl Camaros of the late '60's.   Cool black paint schemes with yellow paneled trim... yea, that's the ticket. Now spray paint was way to expensive, so I just bought a quart of gloss black and started painting away under the pine tree.  Soon the quart ran out, so I finished the job with whatever blacks we had laying around the house, both liquid and spray.  I finished my masterpiece by hand fogging a "chrome in a can" outline around all the body lines, just like the Bardahl job.

Time to fire it up and check out the new performance upgrade eh?  Pump, pump, crank, crank and she fired up, and up, and up...   I tried to get my foot under the gas pedal but couldn't, and the motor was approaching valve float induced redline!  What to do?  For some reason the obvious "turn off the key" never occurred to me.  Now what would a drag racer do?   In an instant I depressed the clutch, threw the Hurst into first, stood on the brake and dumped the clutch. Moments later, when the dust stopped settling on the still tacky paint and the gravel in the driveway stopped flying around, I exited the cockpit to discover the to inspect the scene.  The
rear tires had excavated two deep furrows in the driveway, almost high-centering on the rear axle, but the motor had stopped.  I found the throttle return spring and hooked it up, and carefully refired the beast, which started and responded to my rocking and revving until it was back on level ground.  Mission accomplished!

The fact that I am now writing this story is a testament to the brotherly love that I enjoy with Joe.  Had the roles been reversed, Chris may have been dead.  The Mustang was sold a year or so later, and I moved on to modifying my own cars, first a Renault R10, then... my first 510.

Bad throw
Chris Saulnier (submitted 10/24/00)

January morning, late for work, I slide into the cold hard interior of my '65 Nova wagon with the pushrod 200ci straight six. Crank, crank, crank, pump pump, pump, more choke, less choke, no start, probably flooded it.   Ten minutes later I'm really steamed, but the motor fires up in the 20 degree air and starts running on 2 1/2 cylinders like a popcorn machine. Throw it in gear and try to start off, and of course it stalls. I finally get it going again, and say "screw this" and just hold it to the boards.... "I'll clean this puppy out" I mutter. I hold it down and the rpm fights it's way up to valve float like a cheap rev limiter, then BOOM followed by complete silence. NOW what!!????. I pop the hood and there is antifreeze everywhere. Blew a hose? Why did it stop so fast? Why are all the freeze plugs laying on the intake????

It turns out I broke a rod bolt and threw a rod on the exhaust stroke. The piston hit the head so hard it cracked the cast iron, and blew out all the freeze plugs. The piston face was mashed so bad I couldn't rotate it or remove it from the cylinder. Being a true car geek, the mangled rod bearings still proundly sit on my trophy shelf, a testament to my stupidity.

Mike Spreadbury (submitted 10/24/00)
Steering wheels go 'round and...OUCH!

Shortly after acquiring my first 510 at the age of 15, I decided to replace the stock 17” steering wheel with an aftermarket Grant unit. The stock horn pad was rotten from the sun and disintegrated in my hands as I tried to figure out how it attached to the wheel itself. Finally, after honking several times, I freed the horn cover to discover the large nut securing the steering wheel to the column shaft.

I used my trusty socket wrench to remove the nut, and washer from the threaded shaft. I put both hands on the steering wheel and gave it a tug. Nothing. Hmmm. I pulled a little harder, not knowing that a steering wheel puller would be the prudent way to remove the stubborn wheel.

I pulled harder. Nothing. Hmmm. I checked to see there was nothing else holding the steering wheel to the shaft and could not see anything that would prevent me from removing the wheel.

I decided to give the old, hard steering wheel one last tug. Bracing my feet on the brake pedal, and pulling with all my might I gave it a mighty heave. A very bad idea…

I don’t know how long I was knocked out, but I awoke laying on the passenger seat with a steering wheel in one hand, a splitting headache, and a red welt across my forehead. These days I am very careful when it comes to removing steering wheels….

A life lesson learned…

Mark Warner (submitted 8/3/00)
Wild pigs ate my Webers

Okay, Dave. You asked for it:

Here’s a warning to all of you car nuts who live in the rural parts of America:

Before I start, it’s important to note that my wife and I reside on a couple of acres on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona. Our property abuts a 2000+acre wildlife/natural preserve. Consequently, we have a lot of wildlife (deer, fox, coyote, javelina, etc) that visit on a regular basis. Living on the edge town also means that nobody ever bothers us, and I can leave cars unlocked and parts sitting outside without any fear of vandals or thieves.

Anyway, after pulling the carbs, manifold and header from my poorly-running L18, I started looking everything over a bit more closely. My dual Weber DCOE’s were seeping a fair bit of gas from around the bottom and top seals. Not a big deal-- I figured I would just disassemble the carbs and then replace all the gaskets and seals sometime later in the week. I got them all apart, but then the wife began complaining about the smell of gasoline wafting its way up from the garage into the house. Okay, dear, I'll just stick all the miscellaneous parts outside the garage on a small bench and let the sun "dry out" the gas smell.

Well, some household honey-do stuff got in the way of further progress, and then the wife said she wanted to go out for dinner. Sounded fine to me, so I closed the garage door and we headed out. One thing lead to another and it was fairly late by the time we got back. I forgot completely about the disassembled carbs sitting outside until the next morning....

Was anyone else on the list aware of the fact that wild javelina equate gas-soaked gaskets with succulent cacti parts? No? Well, obviously, neither did I.

We had heard a large pack of wild pigs come through around midnight, but we didn't give it much further thought. Javelina are fairly common in these parts, and normally we just have to worry about potted plants and such being devoured by the omnivorous beasts. Hey, by now we were old pro’s at this country living stuff. Our suburban “ranch” was as pig-proof as possible, as far as we were concerned.

Big mistake.

These pigs were ruthless. The next morning when I went out to get the paper, I found half of my carb parts missing-- completely consumed, in other words. ALL of the gaskets were gone, and I was missing most of the smaller parts, such as the jets, chokes, and venturis. One carburetor body was discovered more than fifty feet away in the desert underneath a creosote bush. The Javelina even passed up a normally very desirable bird-feed block sitting right next to the carbs in favor of Weber's choicest. Arghghgh! If the whole thing hadn’t pissed me off so much, I think I would have been laughing. Or crying. Arghghghg.

Fortunately, I had lots of spare parts for the rebuilds. Plus I had some small measure of satisfaction thinking about the status of the marauding pack the next day. Traveling around with a bunch of other smelly pigs farting REAL gas couldn’t have been very pleasant.

-Mark in wildlife-rich Tucson

Chris Saulnier (submitted 8/2/00)
AW NUTS! (as in LUG)

This past spring I picked up a set of 14" steelies for the Junkbox wagon to help complete the bare bones military look. I had scoured the JY and scored some mid '60's rims from a Ford Falcon with the correct backspacing and lug pattern. I cleaned them up, got the ancient dryrot bias plys peeled off 'em and repainted them camo to match the car. Mounted up some 215/75's and bolted them onto the car.

Fast forward two months... The wife and I are going to a conference and I notice a light clicking noise from the rear end of the car. Those of you who follow the history of the Junkbox know that for just over two years I was running a badly worn ring and pinion set (now repaired), which would whine under load and howl at 65mph on the highway. I noticed the clicking would diminish off throttle, and be more pronounced on throttle and thought that maybe I had broken a tooth on the ring gear or something. I made a mental note to really get that rear fixed.

When we got to the conference I checked under the car, no leaks coming from the rear, good. We came out mid-afternoon and decided to take the long way home, enjoying the country. I soon noticed the clicking was growing in intensity, and was less related to throttle position than before. Hmmm... interesting, maybe it wasn't the rear, maybe it was an axel bearing. I once had a '64 Buick wagon that spun a rear axel bearing and cracked the outer race, and it had sounded the same way... yea, that must be it a cracked wheel bearing!!! Gotta get back home, so I figure I'll take it easy, after all I'm not on the highway, and I start mentally figuring out how to order a new bearing and juggle family cars to get the repairs done.

About 10 miles from the house the angle of the road crown really started effecting the rear end noise, and I found as long as I kept the right rear loaded towards the car center the noise wasn't as loud. If the road was flat I started getting vibrations over 30mph too, so I kept the speed down and pressed on regardless. I just had tunnel vision at this point, I gotta get this puppy home, without it breaking on the road. Five miles from home the car started to rear steer and I thought man that bearing must just be eating itself up!!! I sure hope I don't loose an axel! Come on driveway.... gotta get home! I still can't figure out why I didn't stop to check the situation out, I just didn't.

Finally made it home and got out of the car. Drivers side looks ok, look under the car and the backing plates are nice and dry, and I'm thinking no way, with a bearing that shot, this thing should be leaking like a sieve! I walk around to the passenger's side and am struck with relief and an overcoming wave of stupidity. Relief that I don't have a wheel bearing and axel rebuild ahead of me, stupidity at the sight of the four quarter sized holes where the lugnut tapers used to be. The nuts had worked loose and the clicking was play that turned into PLAY that just butchered the wheel holes. All the lugs had stayed on, and the stud damage was minimal, but I'll bet another mile and that wheel would have exited right over the lug nuts. I don't know why it took two months for the problem to develop, and I
still wonder why I didn't just pull over and check the nuts to begin with , it would have solved the whole thing.

Sebastian Hill (submitted 8/1/00)
Them's the brakes...

Not to long ago (oh, about 3-4 months ago) I decided that I was time to replace the rubber shift boot on the wagon. No problem! Grabbed the spare boot from my parts stash and went out to the wagon. Hmmm... I guess I should move the shift boot mounting plate a bit forward so the boot won't  rip so easily with the dog-leg tranny... Removed the carpet, unscrewed the plate and proceeded to drill a few new holes about a 1/4"  forward.  Re-mounted the plate, replaced the carpet and put the new boot  on. Job done....

Fast forward about a week....  Decided to drive the wagon into work. Hop  in, starts right up and as I start to back up from the driveway I noticed  the brakes feel funny. Pop the hood and discover that one of the reservoirs is empty. No problem, I'll just add new fluid and bleed the brakes...add   more fluid... bleed... more fluid... bleed... repeat for about 5-10 minutes... Kinda notice there isn't much fluid in my catch can... Hmmm... Get in the car and the brakes still feel funny...  Look under the car to discover a huge puddle of brake fluid.... DOH!!! F*#$!!!

As you might have guessed by now (or sooner) I had drilled through the brake line when relocating the shift boot...

Dave Lum (submitted 7/11/00)
Ya lug nut!

I'm driving my 510 home, with fuel delivery problems. At constant throttle, it was fine, but as soon as I gassed it, it surged. The problem got worse as the fuel level got lower. I decided to swap the return and feed lines to the fuel pump.

I got the fuel lines swapped at abut 10:30pm, and just pulling out of our  driveway I could tell I fixed the problem. As we turn on another street, and I hear this 'cling clang ting ting' and think, 'what the hell was that?', but I figure I ran over something. We take off down this street, I get into the throttle, and OHH YEAH the power is back! Then there's a THUMP, a big scraping sound and the steering goes numb, and then I see something pass me on the left - HEY THAT'S MY FRONT WHEEL GOING DOWN THE STREET!'.... It was the drivers' side wheel taking itself out for a spin! This seems to be an unsatisfactory way to reduce unsprung weight.

The car slides some 30 feet or so in three-wheel mode, coming to a relatively safe stop still mostly in the road. My 15" swastika wheel continues to outrun the car, and heads toward the highway, at the last
moment deciding to make a right turn into the ditch just short of the highway.

What had happened is that I had removed the passenger front wheel and loosened the drivers' front so Sara could polish the wheels. Once I got the fuel lines swapped, I put the passenger one back on, but neglected to tighten the drivers' side. Oops! The noise I had heard was the first of the four lug nuts popping off.

This is why I don't do cosmetic work on my cars! It usually bites me in the arse!

Mark Warner (submitted 3/9/00)
I'll take the ticket, thanks!

It's time for my own tale of youthful stupidity.   I've got to start this story by mentioning the fact that my Dad was a federal DEA agent at the time.  He personally knew all the police and most of county sheriffs by name.  In fact, about a week or so earlier, he and my mom had just thrown a dinner at our house for ten or so of his closest sheriff friends.  Why is this important?   You'll see.  Okay, now on to the stupidity:

When I was 16, my next-door neighbor friend John (also 16) and I decided to build a sand rail.  But we didn't have any money.

No problem.

John had a friend who was giving away a recently wrecked VW bug, I had access to an abandoned sand rail frame kit that was rusting away in a big crate, and we had a whole summer in front of us.  We started off by making friends with a local machine shop.  The owner loaned us an old AC buzz-box welder.  We assured him that we were expert welders and could be trusted with his equipment.  In reality, neither one of us even knew where the ground lead was supposed to be hooked up, let alone how to lay a bead. Compounding the problem was the fact that we couldn't afford to even rent welding helmets, much less purchase them.

No problem.

We had plenty of time to learn.  Plus we had really dark sunglasses. That's right: we didn't need no stinking welding helmets!  We started about five in the afternoon, alternating between us: "Your turn to hold the part and look the other direction while I squint and weld."  After one hour of trying, we ended up with a grand total of 6 inches of weld that looked like something a seagull crapped out of its butt.  This is harder than it looks, we both observed sagely.   Plus, it was getting too dark to see.

No problem.

We'll just pick up in the morning and try again.  Went home, ate a nice dinner, watched some TV and went to bed.  Then 2:00am rolls around and I wake up screaming.  Felt exactly like sandpaper being rubbed across my open eyeballs.  Mom took me to the emergency room, where we met John and his mother coming out.  John's eyes were bandaged up and he was whimpering like a baby.  After a couple of hours of my own painful flushing and ointment applications, they bandaged me up and sent me home too, whimpering like a baby.  Good news is that we didn't do any permanent damage.  Bad news is that mom banned us from welding until we learned what the hell we were doing.

No problem.

We'll get another friend to finish the welds.  This new cohort assured us that he was an expert welder, and his beads certainly did look better than ours did, so he was included in the project.  Two days later we sort of had what sort of looked like a sand rail frame.  Sort of.   Except we couldn't figure out where a couple of the frame tubes were supposed to go.

No problem.

It already LOOKS like a sand rail.  Who needs all these extra, stinking parts, anyway?  It was high time to start transferring all the running gear from the VW bug to the rail.  Well, not all the running gear, just some of it.   Okay, I'll admit, we actually put very little of the bug parts on the rail.  Youthful impatience, perhaps.  For instance, the front brakes were totally rusted away on the donor bug.

No problem.

We don't need no stinking front brakes!  Volkswagen put the front and rear brakes on separate lines for redundancy, right?  The rears will be good enough for our use, right?  And who needs a muffler?  We'll only be driving it off-road anyway, and it'll give us extra power!  And who needs seatbelts?   We'll just jump out if we're going to crash.  Lights, turn-signals, and horn?   Come on, this is lightweight, off-road racing machine.  And so it went, until we got to the point where we wanted to start the engine.  "Uh, John, we don't have a gas tank," I observed, sagely.  "Or a fuel pump, Mark," was John's own wise observation.

No problem.

We can simply duct-tape a 5-gallon plastic gas can to the top of the rear roll-bar hoop, and gravity feed the one-barrel carb.  Hey, I know what you're thinking, honest.  But standing back about twenty or thirty feet, and viewing it through squinted, burnt corneas, it actually didn't look too bad.  Honest.   And now we were really ready to go. Except for the fact that the local off-road moto-cross place (a ten-acre plot of desert that we wanted to drive the car on) was more than two miles away.  That was two miles of fairly busy residential streets and a short section of two-lane highway.

No problem.

We'll take the out-of-date license plate off the VW donor and wire it on to the rear of the rail.  That makes us street legal, right?  Hell, we're only going to be on the roads for a couple of miles.  Let's go! This is the part where the problems actually started.

About half a mile from the off-road desert area. you guessed it... we passed a sheriff parked on the side of the road.  Fortunately, I wasn't driving.  Unfortunately, I suggested that we could hurry up and get off into the desert before he caught up.  "Floor it, John!" I shouted, sagely.

To make an already-too-long story short, we ended up making it into the desert, and actually proceeded at least thirty feet into the rough.  But then our expertly-welded steering box bracket broke off.  This was followed by a large Mesquite tree directly in our path.  This was, in turn, followed by a crash, which was followed by the gas can breaking loose from its moorings, followed by the engine coughing and sputtering to death.  And there we sat, dazed and motionless, as the sheriff approached with gun drawn.  I think the only reason he put the revolver away was that we must have looked like Jed Clampett meets Mario Andretti.  Pity, perhaps, crossed his mind.  Or maybe not, because I distinctly remember laughing. 

Lots of it.

He started with John, the driver: No license, no registration, no insurance, no lights, turn-signals or horn.  Oh, and I see you have illegal plates.  And no seatbelts.  And so the list went on.  I forget how many moving violations John got, but it was more than five.  Then the officer comes around to my side of the rail.  He looks down an me and shakes his head.  Yes, this particular officer of the peace had eaten dinner at my house just a week or so earlier.  "Mark," he says after a long, painful pause, "would you prefer a ticket for abetting your friend here?  Or would you rather I call your Dad on the radio?"

Uh, that ticket really won't be a problem, sir.

Jim Steuerlein (submitted 1/28/00)
The tiny Datsun that could

My sister bought a brush painted 411 wagon   ($150) in the late seventies.  With already over 100,000 miles it then lasted her several years and many more miles.  One Christmas she and her husband used this 411 to retrieve a free LARGE CEDAR cut for holiday use.  They fearlessly put it on top of the tiny Datsun, tree trunk facing forward tied to the front bumper,  top of the tree just barely dragging along behind.  The little blue car was almost completely obscured.  They trimmed a few branches from the windshield and off they went at a cautious 45 mph, truly resembling a runaway   arboretum monster.  Bit of blue-gray smoke behind but no brake lights visible,  this cedarbeast made all 25 miles without incident.

From Robin Mach (submitted 1/2/00)
Blower Blues Brothers

OK, as every junior speed freak knows, getting more horses from any internal combustion engine pretty much comes down to getting more air ( and therefor more gas ) into and out of the motor. Now, keeping in mind that this was all happening about two cases into the night, the train of thought went along the lines of "well, all a Paxton super charger is, is a box with the carb in it and a big fan to stuff air into it". Accordingly, with some thermactor duct and the heater blower motor from a spare Ford, a half a roll of duct tape, and several more beers we wind up with a "blown" B210. A few more beers for the road and we're off to test this masterwork on the back roads. (kids, don't try this trick at home. We was certified beer drinkers, perfessionals you might say. Would you believe blindingly stupid?)

We get to rolling along about 35 MPH and hit the switch. The motor almost instantly dies. Cause of death? We didn't pressurize the carb bowl vent and when we hit the switch all the gas got blown out of the vent. Back to the ranch for more duct tape and beer and hey presto! we fix this engineering oversight.

Back out on the road again, rolling along at about 35 or 40 MPH, hit the switch and floor it for a second and man, just that quick we're doing 55 MPH. Amazing! It actually works! We turn around and come back for a second pass and hit the switch at about 20 MPH this time. The engine sounds rather "boggy" from too much to soon. Shut the blower off and let the motor catch up with itself until we get back up around 35 MPH. This time we're at the head of an absolutely beautiful straight stretch so we're gonna give it everything we have. Hit the switch, nail the throttle to the floor and again, just that quick we're doing 55 MPH The blower is running, I'm trying to shove the pedal through the floor and will ya look at that, we're all the way up to the blistering speed of about 57MPH. We still got straight stretch left to  play with so I bravely keep the throttle wide open and now we're up to almost 60 MPH...63 MPH...closing in on the unreal speed of almost 65 MPH!!

Even in our beer fuddled condition we're clever enough to figure out that something just wasn't quite what we had in mind but we were in no condition to figure it out at this point.

Next day rolls around and we're up bright and early at the crack of 2:00 PM to finish this off. Finally figured out that the fan, the wired-for-single-speed-fan, was very neatly restricting the air flow above about 58 or 60 MPH. Hit about 57 or 58 MPH and you could see the manifold vacuum start to rise in a big way. Thus was the demise of the blown B210 project.

From: "Rex"
Superman!

Before the 510, I owned a Renault, one with the engine in the rear. It  had a 2 barrel progressive carb, and I felt that the secondary barrel wasn't opening under hard acceleration. So ... I talked a friend into standing on the rear bumper (with the hood open), and staring down the carb barrels as I accelerated up a road.   Then, as if that wasn't crazy enough, it was a one-way road, and we were foolishly headed in the wrong direction. Sure enough, just after we launched, a car motored down the hill in the *right* direction, and I had to swerve to avoid it. That threw my friend off the bumper and onto the pavement. Luckily, he suffered no injuries.

From: "Michael S. Burke
Strong heads don't mean strong minds

One hot summer day many years ago in Ramona Ca, my friend Tim bribes me with some beer to help change the clutch on his 69' Dime. So we place the car up on jackstands in front of his barn and remove the P-brake cable, no problem. The next challenge is trying to remove the four bolts connecting the drive shaft yoke to the front of the diff. Two snapped bolts and 3 hours later we remove the last remaining bolts. Tim is laying directly under the car,....left hand supporting the drive shaft, small plastic mallet in his right. He smacks the shit out of the flange trying to separate the two surfaces,....nothing happens. I suggest to Tim that he sprays some of this Rust Buster 2000 stuff on there while I go retrieve a prybar from the barn. Tim applies the stuff and lays there under the car, arms folded, staring solemnly at the stubborn union. Just as I'm about to hand him the prybar,...the combination of shock, Rustbuster 2000, and gravity comes into full effect.     The driveshaft breaks free of its own accord and smacks Tim right dead in the center of his forehead... BONK!" Sounded like an aluminum baseball bat hitting a softball." Anyway I gingerly remove the driveshaft flange from his bleeding forehead,  grab his feet and drag his semiconscious   6'0" 265lb fat ass out from under the car,... trying not to giggle too hard as I pour a Coors light over his face to help  revive him. The knot on his forehead had swollen to golf ball size in just a few minutes. I knew he wasn't hurt very badly .... he chased me around the farm for about fifteen minutes after that trying to kill me because I couldn't stop laughing.

But eventually we finished the job, and he's still my friend today.