Tales of the Washed

Making It

Somehow, this was suppose to be the tales of the washed, those that tasted the great satisfaction of racing. Somewhere, I got off once in awhile, to the point that very few really were tales of my racing. So with this one, I return to the great adventure of motor racing.

After having done some bodily harm to the Corvette at Sebring, which in Corvette circles is famous for doing bodily harm to Corvettes, I had to spend many more hours repairing the body than I wanted to, especially since the bodily harm as done at an obscure corner of no real significance rather than the famous Corvette-eating Hairpin. At least if I had to smash it, I could have smashed it where everyone famous does.

The engine had also at that race informed me it was retiring from the racing scene. I could rebuild it, replace it, or whatever else I felt so inclined to do, but race, it would not. So it was time for the new motor. I decided to build a complete new one, as the cost of rebuilding the old one was about the same and I would still have the old one, rather than the firebreather I wanted. After all, 402 cubic inches in a big block is not exactly the things that legends were written about. So the new 427 block laying in the shadows under the workbench was dragged forth into the light and sent off to be prepared. I began gathering all the items I needed, rods, pistons, crank, and so on. From the middle of March when I decided to do it until the first of May when it was done, my life became a mess of catalogs, magazines, and swap meets, all for the intent of obtaining the needed parts for my motor with my budget.

The new 427 looked like it should. It sounded like it should. It cost more than my first Corvette, my second Corvette, my last Corvette, and a few others I have slipped in between. Darn, it had better be good.

So the motor is in the Corvette and running. Things seem to be working.

It is amazing how so many little things can pile up to stop something so instoppable. There was very little to do to get the car out to the track. I had to tune the engine - adjust valves, set timing, adjust carb. I had to align the front suspension. I had to change the oil filter and connect the Accusump. I had to put the front end on and pop rivet a couple of Dzus fasteners into it. I got done, car in the trailer, by noon Saturday, but then I still had to get the tools and spares loaded, take a shower (was I ever filthy and greasy), pack my suit and clothes, and drive to Moroso (1 hour drive with the trailer) by 1 o'clock. Since everything had worked so smoothly (mountain of sarcasm here), I figured the handwriting was on the wall and it was just so big, I was having problems reading the twelve foot high letters that said "Forget it!".

It seems that Will has graciously permitted Carl (a story in himself) a couple bays down to use the MIG anytime he needs it when we are there so Carl comes down to use it Friday. For 5 minutes and leaves. Since it is in my way, I put it up. 15 minutes later, Carl's back. Repeat this scenario about 6 times as I'm too tired to retype it each time for effect.

Oh, yes, I forgot to say this is while I'm under the car adjusting the tranny linkage. Maybe that is why we didn't have third gear in the race.

Now add the background of "The Neighborhood Kids". Will made friends with these kids in the neighborhood to avoid the problems normally associated with the neighborhood we are in. Unfortunately, they can become a nuisance as they immediately pick up everything not nailed down and place it elsewhere. Not stealing, just playing with it until tired (20 seconds) and then set it elsewhere. Or else picking up tools to fix their bikes.

So I'm under the car aligning the front suspension and each time I reach for my wrenches, they are gone. Guess who has them?

After a couple of strong lectures (Touch them again and I'll break your arm off) and I somewhat regain control of the garage. Actually, it goes over a rather long period until I blow up and throw them all out and chase them off down the block.

Then I discover the part about pick it up and move it, the new game they invented. It takes forever to find all the items needed to put all back together, like the hood pins left on the dash which now interlocked in pairs and one pair is on the work bench behind the small tool box and the other pair is in the box of parts for the new engine.

I also discovered that the one kid who keeps coming around wanting to use an Allen wrench to adjust his bike has obviously found them, but since he has no idea of the size except it should be "a 6 mm Allen wrench", far too small for the bolt, he has taken each one and tried it, until I am unable to find but three wrenches out of a chain of ten. Luckily, I find an Allen wrench of the proper size buried in the rust at the bottom of the tool box, that region no man ever goes because the smell is so bad, and now I can unlock the rockers and adjust the valves. Heck of a deal.

So in total frustration, I sit, sip a cold Pepsi, and decide how I should slowly and joyfully kill and mangle the next person to walk in that door. Then I unload the car, since there are a few things that need to be done for Sebring.

I decide the place HAS to be cleaned and sorted some to get an order back and have been doing this some when Mitch shows up hours later. I look at him coming across the lot and tell him, don't say a thing. It has been a really lousey day, both of them, and I'm sorry I didn't make it but it has been really bad.

Then Mitch tells me just how bad the day has been. A driver died in one of the races.

Save the Wave,

The Doctor