Mopars, more cars and flying aces

Ever since the Mustang passed its MoT, against all expectations, it's been pretty busy. I had a week off work, so decided to do some work on the Midget. An hour to remove one sodding brake drum was an indicator of things to come. While the back end was hoisted up in the air I thought I'd take a wire brush to the boot floor. The inside had been patched up a few times, and looked like it may have been involved in a rear end shunt at one point, but from this angle you can clearly see that the rear valance is a panel of filler with a thin skim of metal in it. It's in excess of an inch thick in places.

Jeezus. The boot floor was made up of patches on patches on patches, and in places was so thin that I couldn't set the welder low enough to weld to it without just burning holes. It's a 100-amp hobby MIG, for God's sake, and almost as shonky as the cars I weld with it. At one point, after trying to weld a patch on using a line of weld that looked like a dirty protest in a chicken coop, I found myself wondering why God had equipped every human with ears that serve as perfect funnels for catching weld splatter whilst lying on the floor, when the welder pulled a new trick. The wire welded itself to the tip - again - and when I pressed the trigger, the whole neck came out and the wire then welded itself to the INSIDE of the trigger.

Oh, how I laughed as I dismantled the bloody thing again. Then, while using the flapwheel on the grinder to grind away the abysmal welding, I considered the idea of safety goggles. You put them on, then your dust mask, then your leather gloves, and by the time you've got all that crap on your goggles have steamed up and you can't see what you're doing with the violent power tool about nine inches from your face. What's safe about that?

Then I went along to the Mopar Euronationals. James and I had decided that, just for once, we were going to arrive in daylight, and should therefore meet at his gaff around 7pm. I had arranged to borrow a towing dolly, as I'd bought a nice, rust-free bare Fox shell from a guy in Stevenage and needed to collect it. As Santa Pod is already two thirds of the way to Stevenage, I thought I'd save fuel and collect it Sunday evening. So, having picked the towing dolly up at around 6.30, I was already late to meet James. That's when I discovered that the inch-thick pivot bar on the dolly was actually held in place with a rusty quarter-inch bonnet pin.

So, at 10pm that evening, we're in James's workshop and he's making a 70mm washer out of bar stock on a lathe. So much for "daylight"... We finally got to Santa Pod just as the band finished and the bar shut, and everyone went to bed.

The following day, after casually leaning against the wheel of the dolly, I noticed that the bearings in it were ... what's the word? Oh yeah, fucked. The left-hand outer one was bloody rusty. Having blagged some grease from Martin, I spent the next hour rebuilding the bearings on the trailer.

We had some rain on Saturday evening, but that didn't bother anyone much under the big canopy outside the beer tent. Later that night, I went back to my tent, sent the missus a "goodnight" text and put the phone down. In a puddle. In my tent. Bugger. That's my phone knackered then.

The rest of the weekend was tremendous, and at 5pm on the Sunday, I set out to get the shell. Aside from the fact that the shell had spacesaver spares on the back axle requiring a swift tyre rotation, and the bolts holding the rear axle on were just thumbed into the holes, requiring a spot of nut-searching and tightening, it went on really easily.

Then, as I was driving home, it occurred to me that the gaffer of the farm where my workshop is would be locking the gates .... erm, right about now, while I was still two counties away. I'll phone him and ask him not to. Well, pack my fudge and call me Thorntons, his number's in my phone and that's dead. So I find my work phone and call James - "Do you have Andy's number?" (I share the workshop with Andy). No, but he gives me Wacky's number. I call Wacky - he doesn't have Andy's number but Big Al will know it so he gives me Al's number, Al finally gives me Andy's number, I call Andy and he drives a mile up the road to ask the gaffer not to lock the gate.

Simple, eh? Now I have a gorgeous rust-free shell that's been dry-stored for ten years ... outside in the rain because there's a feckin' Midget taking up space in the unit.

Eugene

Faulty Towers

It's that time of year again, when the Mustang goes for the MoT test. I did all the preparation work - I checked that all the lights work, counted the wheels, made sure that the registration plate on the front matched the one on the back* etc - and went through all the usual procedure at the test centre - crossing my fingers, praying to any deity I could think of for leniency, shouting "My God, isn't that Linzi Dawn Mackenzie?!" and pointing across the yard whenever the tester got near a bit I knew to be marginal. It didn't work.

The tester was a friendly and very reasonable chap. There were a few minor faults; for instance, one of the two bulbs in the third-eye brake light was bust, which apparently should be a fail. He told me that the car was old enough not to require a third-eye, so if I disconnected the light it would pass, but if only one of the two bulbs lights it should be a fail. Go figure. There was a clunk from the offside front wheel, but as three of us spent 15 minutes trying to figure out what was causing it and failed, I got an advisory for a wheel bearing. One of the plastic headlamp lenses had gone all cloudy and wasn't casting the proper pattern. The hydrocarbons at idle were outrageous to begin with... 2000ppm, that shouldn't happen, but it cleared later.

Then he looked underneath. 

It was all going okay, he pointed out a patch under the back seat that would need addressing sooner rather than later, but when he looked under the front and went "Oh, dear Christ," I started sweating like Abu Qatada's Jordanian defence lawyer. Then when he looked under the other side and said, "For fuck's sake, Dave, have you seen this?!" I knew things weren't going terribly well. 

This was the nearside problem. Well, this was it later, down at the workshop, when I'd removed the master cylinder and balance block from in front of it, and poked at it with a screwdriver. Okay, maybe the tester had a point. This is the base of the front shock turret, around the area where the subframe bolts on, so I suppose you could call it structural.... 

Some of the metal in this area is quadruple skinned, and it's also the nearest point to the exhaust headers, so it's a common rot-spot. The rusty metal had gone like chunks of slate, that you could just break into pieces. James came over, and we started cutting plates, and hopefully we'll be welding tomorrow... Wish us luck.

* - I remember the works truck when I worked in Manchester actually failing an MoT for this....

Eugene

Need a brake...

Earlier, I was lying on my back in a pile of filth and shite and those bits of wire that spit from the zip disc and get lodged in your clothes so they can stab you later when they feel more like it, considering the issues of sexual inequality.

This was brought about as I was trying to remove a brake flare nut from an ancient, seized wheel cylinder on an MG Midget that hasn't seen the road this century. I considered that the brake flare nut is called the 'male' fitting, and the wheel cylinder the 'female' fitting. I further deduced that this is because the flare nut is a complete prick, and the wheel cylinder is a twat that doesn't do any work.

The main issue wasn't getting the flare nut out of the cylinder; rather it was getting the nut to release its grip on the copper brake pipe within without corkscrewing it. So I dosed it liberally with PlusGas, which didn't do much at all. Then I tried the blowtorch. All this achieved was setting fire to the puddle of PlusGas inside the brake drum. So, you see a fire, your first reaction is to put it out, so ... I blew on it, the result of which was that I blew the PlusGas - still burning - onto my arm and the blanket I was lying on. I think I put the fire out by sheer force of swearing.

Another volley of cursing and mighty oaths actually freed the brake pipe from the union, so I unscrewed it and left it all and went home before I did some proper damage. It does seem that cursing the bejesus out of old British brake parts does help. Not pleading, not cajoling, but some genuine, force 10 profanity that turns the air so blue you could knock a nail into it. Worth a try. I could bottle it and call it CussGas.

As an aside, I noticed another sexual inequality today whilst driving around. In this current spell of glorious weather, a woman can put on a summer dress and look cool, comfortable and glamorous. A man will put on shorts and a vest top and look an absolute bell-end. It's not fair. Likewise, a woman can put on a school uniform and blokes will steam at the earholes and drool uncontrollably. A bloke puts on a school uniform and looks like a steaming retard. Sorry, even if your name is Angus, you still look like a fuckwit.

I'm not sure where the last bit came from. Probably best not to lean on that door...

Eugene

Flaming June. And July

It's been a while since I put anything here, and a lot's happened. Aside from anything else, it's suddenly got sunny! Hurrah!
After the last debacle with the Bedford, I checked the documents and found that the MoT was due to expire on the 3rd of July. Damn. The thing was pretty mangy, and while I could have spent a day or two adding yet more patch panels to hold the cab together, it would still be the same old shower of shite, but with a new MoT. It was still running rough, the brakes were still poo and the winch hadn't miraculously begun working. Plus the tax was due at the end of the month, and the Mustang's MoT is due in a week or two, so it was time to cut my losses and put it up for sale. I put it up for £500, which is a good deal less than half what I'd put into it, but I could either sell it or leave it hanging around waiting for me to find the time to work on it properly. And if there's one thing I'm not keen on having, it's another project.

I put it on Facebook, Rods'n'Sods and RetroRides, and it was via the latter that I got a call from someone who lives less than a mile from where it's stored. I was dead straight with him about it, and he still wanted to take a look, so he came around and had a look. Turns out he has a MkII Granada with a BOA Cossie V6 in. Nice.

Anyway, despite having looked at it first, he still wanted to buy it. "It's okay," he said, "my brother will help me out with it." "Is he a welder?" I asked. "No, he's an MoT tester..." Enough said, so if you see a bright orange CF transporter in your immediate vicinity, keep out of its way, don't cause it to brake suddenly or run over any bumps in the road that might cause parts to fall off.

I also finally put a few more hours into the MG Midget that's cluttering up the unit. It was brought in as a quick project as a favour to a friend. That was nearly four years ago. I expect I can remember where most of the bits are... I started wire brushing the boot floor and the inside of the rear wings. There's lots of welding been done on this car over the years, and so far it had all been done to a fairly high standard. By the time they got to the boot they were clearly pissed off with the job and did the "cut a plate, twat it to fit and weld where it touches" method. Bollocks to ripping it out and starting again, I'll just make the best of it. I also removed the fuel tank and emptied the 10-year-old fuel into the Mustang. It didn't seem to mind. Then I gave the tank a good going-over with the wire knot brush in the angle grinder, right up until I uncovered a nice rust hole in the top. Right, we'll put the nice, sparky power tools away and get the QuikSteel out... When it was all cleaned down, I gave it a good coat of Zinc 182, and thought a nice, thick Hammerite would work well. I checked through my old paint tins and found a tin of gold Hammerite. That'll do... I gave it a good coating and it looked like something that wouldn't look out of place on the parcel shelf of a minicab. Oh well, nobody'll see it.

And so to the Mustang. In preparation for the coming MoT, I thought I'd better give it its annual hoovering. Aside from the crusty sills, crispy A-pillars, crapulous strut towers and rapidly diminishing lower rear quarters, I found something else intriguing - the forward end of the towbar has almost pulled through the metal of the spare wheel well, causing it to split for about 7 or 8 inches. Arse. The list of possible MoT failure points goes on and on. If, by miracle, bribery or hard work (or combination thereof) this car gets another year's ticket, I think the coming winter will finish it off. Let's see...

On Saturday night I went up to York Raceway for the Sunday Super Stock, and as I was only racing in A/SS, there are no sign-on fees - bargain. It was a glorious drive up, windows open all the way, which is good - if the windows are closed, above 60mph the sunroof lifts about half an inch off its seal and whistles like the proverbial whore with a glass eye ... In fact, the shell is now getting so out-of-shape, very few things fit in their intended orifices any more but the exhaust fumes getting in around the bootlid stop you worrying about that. Or anything, for that matter. I arrived, the bar was closed! Good job I'd bought a couple of beers with me. Then I slept in the car. Or, rather, I didn't sleep in the car. I tried to sleep in the car, but really should know better at my age.

Sunday was an absolutely corking day, but in qualifying I struggled to a 15.1 then a 15.4 on a 14.9 dial-in. Damn. The transmission is beginning to pick its own shift points at random, even shifting manually, coupled with the fact that being more than 0.1 of a second off your dial wouldn't have got you inside the top 12 meant I was way down the field - the top half of the ladder was tighter than a bullfrog's bunghole. Then, in the first round, in the sweltering heat, the car pulled a 14.80 out of its arse and put me straight out! I didn't know whether to smile or spit - it was a NPB. Determined to make the most of it, I went out with the RWYBers and managed to get it down to 14.78. Tremendous.

In the event of the Mustang not passing its MoT in the next 10 days, I'm going to be on the lookout for a cheapo daily, ideally something that I can put on classic insurance, for just a couple of hundred quid. You know my penchant for the weird and unlovable, so any Yugos, Ladas, whatever... I've really got my dick out for a TR7 at the moment, and the feeling's not showing any signs of going away, either, so if you know of a TR7 that's on the road or not far off, let me know!

Eugene.