Pablo window diagram

How and Where to test a Starting System

Mechanic On Duty

It was a dark and stormy night and the rain beat hard against the shop roll-up door. My shop assistant, who I called “Chief”, and I were working late on an engine transplant. There had been problems with the first short block and now the job was a week overdue. So, we were playing late night ketchup.



Over the storm's din, I thought I heard a car pull up. I looked up at the shop rollup door and saw car headlights shining through the window. Then a horn honked. I walked over to the door and I peered out. The car’s headlights and grille were square. A Volvo? Just then lightning flashed across the sky and I could clearly see a Volvo wagon parked in the shop drive.



I didn’t recognize the car. I know, I can’t remember a person’s name worth a hoot. I have a little better luck at recognizing people’s faces. But, you bet that I know the face on every car that we service. I may not recognize the owner, but I really know my customer’s cars. And this wasn’t one that had been in my shop.



I said, “Who in the name of Pete could that be? Get the door!” I yelled to Chief. He grabbed the pull chain and began yanking on it furiously. It made a loud metallic sound as the door slid upward. When the door was high enough for me to lean out of the shop light into the darkness, I could see a figure waving at me from inside the car. It was hard to make out who it was because the rain was beating so hard against the windshield. I still didn't notice the wipers weren't working.



That was my first clue as to why this late night visitor was at my shop door. And I didn't even catch it! I couldn’t see the person inside because the wipers weren’t moving. Maybe it was the confusion of the moment, maybe my tiredness from keeping late night hours. Or maybe that horrible distant memory—the memory that I tried to forget—that kept me from noticing what was such an obvious problem.



There I stood, trying as hard as I could, to see who was inside the car. It looked like a female and a small child. It made sense that they were here at my door because of some kind of car trouble. But I still didn't see the wipers not working. You’d probably say, “Duh!”



Chief motioned for her to pull forward into the shop as the rain blew in reaching almost to the first repair bay. I could see her nodding head as she put the car in gear and inched forward. As the windshield cleared the door and the rain concentrated its efforts on the back of the car, I could barely make out her face. I didn't recognize her. But I did recognize the look of fear on her face.



She opened the window and gasped at the same time. The first words out of her mouth were, “Please, you've got to help me.” Then it hit me like a flash of lightning. I was instantly thrown back into those horrible memories. It had been more than a decade, but I remembered it like yesterday. Chief and I, a late night job just like this one. A car pulled up in the rain. A woman was in the car. She rolled down the window...



“Please... you've got to help me. He's got a gun and he's after me.” The woman had a look of terror on her face that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I motioned her to pull into the shop and quickly closed and bolted the door. When she got out I saw she was soaking wet.



“What's going on, Miss? What’s wrong?” She blurted out, “It's my boyfriend. He's going to kill me!” Then I noticed the nasty bump on the side of her pretty face. And her make-up was smeared.



“Should I call the police?” “No, they'll never believe me. You will never believe me. Oh dear...” Then she broke into sobbing, covering her face with her hands.



Just then I decided to take a look outside and see if there was anyone was lurking out there. I thought I saw a dark figure dart around the side of the building. Or was it just my imagination playing tricks on me? A shudder of fear ran down my spine.



As I walked over toward the sobbing woman I thought I heard a sound coming from the shop back door. In a dead panic, I quickly ran to the back of the shop—just in time to see the door being pried open. Someone really was trying to break into the shop! I stood there frozen as shivers of terror went up and down my spine.



I ran to the front of the shop and joined the woman and Chief in the front office. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, telling the operator that someone was trying to break in the door. We stood there in silence looking out the window into the empty street outside. It seemed like forever before the police arrived. I saw two cops get out and split up, one going each way around the building. Then I heard gunshots...



The sound of the door slamming shut brought me back into the present. I had been daydreaming again. It was another flashback. But, this wasn't the same. She wasn't drenched with rain. Just a motorist needing late night help with a car problem. I took a deep breath, calmed my voice as I asked, “What's the matter Miss?” The young woman replied, “My wipers stopped working. You were the only place open. I have to drive to Atlanta tonight. Can you please help me? Can you get them working again?” “Sure.” I said, breathing a big sigh.



Chief ushered her and the sleepy little boy that she held in her arms into the office. I decided to start with a quick fuse check. As my luck would have it, or lack of luck, the fuses were okay. At that point, I suspected the wiper motor was fried—something that I wouldn't be able to fix at this time of night. Just then I remembered somewhere back in my memory about something with the Volvo grounds, about a bad grounding problem for the electric wiper motor. On this wild hunch, I decided to check and see.



First, I disassembled the cowl to get at the wiper motor. Using a jumper wire, I clipped one end on the mounting stud for the motor and the other end to the chassis. The motor whirred instantly to life. “Bad ground” I announced to the cars sitting silently as my audience in the shop. Grabbing a portable drill and drill bits from my toolbox bottom drawer, I drilled a new hole so I could establish a better ground for the wiper motor. Using a little piece of wire, two wire terminals and a small bolt, I repaired it in a total of ten minutes.



When I explained what I did to fix the wiper problem, the look on my midnight visitor's face was worth a thousand thank-you’s. “You are ever so kind! Most places would take advantage of a stranded woman like me.” she exclaimed. “How can I ever repay you for your inconvenience and wonderful talent?” “Don’t worry about it. It’s all about the job we do. After all, the sign out front says “Mechanic on Duty.’ Joking I said, “We’re the 24-hour-toolbox. We never close!”



After she paid her bill, which came to a whopping $21.75, I told Chief to call it a night and go home. And by the next day I had completely forgotten about the incident.

But, she didn’t. About a week later she dropped by with a homemade peach pie. Even more so, I loved the feeling it left me with—an alternative and a happy ending to what had been a midnight mechanic's nightmare that happened to me once before. That nightmare I'll never forget. But that's another story.

1970 Mercedes Pagoda Diagram

The Salesman and his Magic Beans

Many things have shaped my career as a mechanic. I remember when I took a
job in the only sports car shop in town because I was tired of turning a wrench
on ordinary cars. Or maybe it was because I had fallen in love with a '58
Afla-Romeo-Giuliette-Sprint-Veloce and my Bertone-bodied mistress lured me into
the world of exotic cars. Anyway, this is a university town and there are plenty
of rich kids with sports cars. And a large number of tweedy college professors
who bought weird cars in Europe and shopped them home. I was challenged by the
Alfas, Austin Healys, MGs, Jags and all the rest. It seemed pretty classy to a
twenty-year-old used to working on 36 HP Beetles for $3 an hour.

I still remember that rainy, damp, bone-chilling morning. The weather was giving
me a real feeling of what it must be like to live in England. I struggled to get
the engine and tranny out of a Sprite in order to change a 2-dollar carbon T/O
bearing, when a 50's Port Hole Buick honked its horn to enter the shop.

Little did I know that my whole life was about to change. When I opened the
door, the mist and fog swirled around the old Buick as it rolled inside. The
driver was a little old man with skin so yellow and thin you could almost see
inside him. He reminded me of one of those visible anatomy plastic models.
Barely taller than the rear-view mirror, he couldn't have weighed more than a
hundred and ten pounds--but he had the loose of a salesman.

"Hiya, boys!" he said as he plucked a cigar as big as a grease gun from his
mouth. "I wanna show you boys a few products that are gonna make you some
money." Oh no! He was a salesman, and I had let him in! Dave, Carl, and Don
walked over to stand beside me, all of us instantly mesmerized by the appearance
of this little man.

"I was a mechanic myself once," he said as he tossed a yellow plastic thing with
wires toward us. I instinctively moved to one side as Dave picked it out of the
air. It looked like one of those Mausers that all the bad guys carry in old
movies.

It was shaped like a pistol, with a trigger, a couple of switches, and some wires
with alligator clips on the ends. It was the kind of thing that would get you
thrown in jail if you took it through airport security. The little guy reached
back into the old Buick and brought out a small plywood box. He walked around
front and placed it by the right wheel. In a flash, he was on top of the box
with the hood up. Then he snapped his fingers twice. Crack-Crack! The sharp
reports rattled off the shop roof like shots from a .38!

The strange yellow device flew past my face again, this time headed in the
direction of the old guy. He caught it in his left hand, and in one fluid
motion the alligator clips popped out between the bony fingers of his right
hand. It was like watching a magician. "This boys, is a Snappy--a patented and
registered trademark. I invented it. Now I'm going to teach you how to make
money with this indispensable and highly scientific diagnostic instrument.
This is a tool no mechanic can do without."

"The red and black leads are connected to any 6 or 12 volt battery--red to
positive and black to ground--except for old Fords and English cars. The
orange clip goes on the solenoid feed wire."

"On GM cars it's the purple wire that runs across the firewall. My special
wire-piercing device on the clip allows you to connect it without crawling
under the dash. The green lead goes to the coil primary. In a minute, I'm going
to show you how to check coil polarity using my Snappy and an ordinary pencil."

He went on for more than an hour as we learned how to test for bad grounds,
locate opens, check fuses, and bulbs. It was strange, because none of us had
said a single word since he and his old Buick rolled through the door.

"Since you guys have been such good listeners, I'm going to make you a special
deal." Four left hands reached for their wallets. "No! I don't want your
money...not until I show you my newest invention, he said as he puffed his
cigar--which was now so short he had to spit it from his lips. "Sorry!" he said
as he ground out the butt with his black and white oxford.

"After many years of experimenting--Ya know, I worked for the War Department
during the big one, I have finally perfected a chemical method of replenishing
the metal that wears from the piston rings and cylinder walls of internal
combustion engines."

His eyes began to bug out, and the veins stood out in his neck. He talked faster
and faster with his arms waving as he told us the details. It seemed that the
oil companies were out to get him. They were trying to steal his invention
before he could get a patent on it. From the cavernous trunk of the Buick, he
produced a small cardboard box. It was filled with five small flat brown
cardboard packages that looked like patent medicine boxes. He slid open one of
the packages and in it were twelve big, round, bean-like capsules. They looked
like worm pills you might give a horse.

"Got an oil burner?" he asked. "A real smoker?!" I opened my mouth for the first
time in more than an hour. "The Vauxhall," I blurted.

Dave shot me a threatening glance and Carl's eyes rolled back in his head. We
all knew the Vauxhall had been run out of the water and ruined the rings on a
couple of pistons. This little 4-door car parked in a back corner of the shop
had a forlorn look about it, its narrow fenders appeared kind of hunched around
the grill--reminding me of a cowering dog.

"Start it up!" he commanded. I jump in it. It cranked real fast for a long time
before catching, and then billowed heavy blue smoke from the tailpipe. The smoke
hung heavy in the air, drifting up towards the shop roof, giving the place the
air of a Civil War battlefield. The Vauxhall panted and shivered as it idled on
two cylinders.

The little man had a smile on his face, as if he knew something we didn't. He
let it run for a minute and then instructed me to shut it off and remove the
spark plug. He saw oil fouling on #3 and #4 and shoved one of his beans into
each spark plug hole. He then asked me to start the engine. The longer it ran,
the smoother it idled, and smoke stopped coming from the tailpipe.

"The Snappys are five bucks each," he said as he threw us each one. "I'll be
back through from Chicago in a month. Try the Beans...and we'll settle up then."
He jammed another cigar in his face, jumped into the Buick and slammed the door.
I could see him stretch to reach the pedals. The starter cranked a half-turn and
the straight-eight ticked over almost silently. As he backed out into the fog, the
Buick disappeared like the Titanic, without a sound. I'll never forget that day,
March 20, 1964. A month passed. Then summer came and went. So did Vietnam. But
the little old man never came back. For the longest time I expected to see him,
just barely peering over the steering wheel, every time I saw an oval-port
Buick.

The years drifted by. Recently, I thought I saw him driving a new Park Avenue.
Have you ever noticed that when you owe someone money, you think about them? I
mean, it's unfinished business. Maybe the oil companies DID get him or was it
the cigars? I've still got my Snappy as a reminder that it wasn't just a dream.
Oh, and those magic beans? But, that's another story.

Pats Perspective 155 - Saving a daughter life

Shiny Disasters

Pats Perspective 154 " Chip Blues"

Throttle control motor part 2

Throttle control motor part 1

Help with an A/C problem

Pats Perspective 153 "Slip Sliding Away"

The Mac Attacked

Dudley was never really sure of himself. He probably should have been an accountant because of his meticulous attention to detail. Perhaps this was because he was always afraid of making a mistake. Dudley would double check every step and recheck his work again and again, just in case he missed something. While he was as slow as molasses on a winter day, he always did the job right the first time and never had any comebacks. The other mechanics had nicknamed him "Dudly Do Right."



Because Dudley was very small and had tiny hands, he became really good at doing dashboard work. The foreman saved all of this type of work for Dudley because he knew that Dudley would be able to snake his little hands up inside the dash with ease and repair many types of problems that required removal of the entire dash. Especially when dealing with dash rattles, Dudley was a champ.



Dash work is a special type of mechanical repair. It really requires a high degree of fastidiousness. Removal and disassembly of the dash is a complicated task involving many small steps. There are a multitude of clips and fasteners involved and if even one is omitted, the dash will buzz or rattle to beat the band. Many dashboards have small pieces of sound deadener affixed to their innermost recesses. Failure to reinstall a small piece of foam in a certain place can result in a squeak or chirping noise that will leave the owner thinking a pack of mice had moved into the instrument panel.



Dudley liked dash work because it was clean work and didn't require a great deal of strength. The only thing he didn't like about it was the sharp edges of the metal panels inside the dash. He often wore multiple bandages on his hands after he finished a job -- from being sliced and diced by a particular job. He had taken to wearing tight-fitting leather cloves to protect his hands.



Dudley liked dash work because it also involved a great deal of expertise in electronics. As cars became more and more sophisticated, he was required to use more and more electronic test equipment in order to find the faulty control module or ambient air temperature sensor. Wiring problems fascinated him and he took a home study course in electronics in order to excel in this new realm of electronics.



Today he was chasing after a problem with a radio antenna that would go up and down by itself. The owner was complaining that the electric antenna seemed to have a mind of its own. He said that it had really embarrassed him recently when he was sitting at a red light and the antenna kept going up and down. A very pretty woman was stopped at the light next to him and saw the antenna doing its thing. She thought he was being crude by making lewd suggestions with the antenna. She even shouted at him, "pervert!" as she roared away from the red light.



Dudley was going to troubleshoot the problem with a test light. But first, he carefully plugged his auxiliary power source into the cigarette lighter to keep the radio powered up. Then he disconnected the car battery and let the car stand for a few minutes in order to deplete the electrical charge from the airbag system. He knew that if he failed to disarm the airbag system, it might deploy unexpectedly. As usual, he was being careful.



Dudley also liked to improvise. He took pride in making special homemade tools. In this case, he was using a tool he called his "power-upper." It consisted of a small motorcycle battery that was connected to a plug that fit the cigarette lighter. When he plugged it into the cigarette lighter, it would provide an alternate source of power for the accessories. This allowed Dudley to do dash work while the vehicle's battery was disconnected.



Now, with his "power-upper" connected to the car and the car battery safely disconnected, Dudley set out to find the intermittent problem with the car antenna. The only problem was, he couldn't see the antenna operate from under the dash. He decided to get the car owner to lend his assistance and watch for the antenna to move as Dudley checked the connections under the dash.



He went to the waiting room and found the owner sitting there eating his lunch.



"Would you please come sit in the car and watch for the antenna to move while I work under the dash?" Dudley asked the customer. "Sure. But do you mind if I bring along my lunch? I don't want it to get cold while I wait."



With the customer sitting in the driver's seat, Dudley worked under the dash with his test light. He methodically wiggled and probed the various connectors to find the problem. The "Power-upper' provided the electricity for Dudley to use to check the circuit and his test light showed that electrical energy was getting to the radio just fine. The customer was sitting there eating a Big Mac when Dudley happened to probe a bright yellow connector.



Suddenly, there was a loud explosion. The customer’s head was immediately encapsulated in a huge beach ball. The Big Mac splatted everywhere covering the customer's face with pieces of the Big Mac—giving him an instant hamburger facial.

Bits of catsup, mayonnaise, and lettuce were hanging from his eyebrows. Part of the hamburger had been crammed into the customer's mouth making him look like he had the mumps. He had no idea what had hit him and sat there wondering, "What the hell did they put in this hamburger!?!"



Dudley was in big trouble. All the men in the repair bays came running over to see what had happened. When they saw the customer with the Big Mac splattered on his face, they started to laugh. Through the ringing in his ears Dudley could hear the howls of laughter as he climbed out from under the dash.



The men were holding their sides and falling on the ground in hysterics. Then one of mechanics started clapping and shouted "Do it again, Dudley. Do it again!" The others immediately joined in with the chant. From that day on, Dudley had a new nickname:

"Do it again Dudley."

INTAKE MANIFOLD PROBLEMS

Perspective 152 Closer to Eternity

ABS WOES

trailwinds

Even mechanics get ripped off. I was under my Jeep again today. More exhaust leaks. What’s with all the exhaust leaks? Bad design for the exhaust system? I guess. Oh yeah. There’s clamps that don’t hold, hangers that bend easily. Then there’s the debacle over my manifold. I’ll beat that one up soon, but today I was after a leak around the catalytic converter. To gain access to the “cat” I had to drop the crossmember for the transfer case. That’s when all hell broke loose. Again.



Why does the worst nightmare happen on my own vehicle? Why me? Two of the six crossmember bolts snapped right off. And in order to save the other four, I had to use a torch. Just though I’d add this wrinkle to this story. I live in the salty North. We’re always having to deal with bolts that are major rusty.



But the thing that really bugs me is the last guy. He’s the last to take off the crossmember. And boy, how he really screwed me over. Staring at the broken bolts, memories of the incident came flooding into my already upset thoughts. It was maybe three years back when that dealer tech dealt this blow to me. And I’m just now discovering it.



The memories of what happened at that time started coming back to me I recalled that experience. When the tech put it back together, he was in too big a hurry. He botched the job. He over tightened these bolts, and left another fastener completely loose. And to add insult to injury, he didn’t bother and put anti-seize on the bolts. Then, he nailed them down with several hundred pounds of torque. Thanks. Jerk.

While I was drilling and trying my best to extract those damned broken bolts, I began thinking about how unnecessary this whole ordeal was. None of this had to happen. If he had only taken a minute to pay respect to the future. Only a small step to make life easier for someone else. One minute of his all-too-precious time to think ahead. To plan for the future—when those bolts had to come back out again.



Oh, what I would have given for just a little of that wonderful silver stuff on those bolts! I began thinking about how rude and stupid that guy was. Then I began to process my thought about why mechanics rip off other mechanics. Why do they?

Surely by now, you, Mr. or Mrs. John Q. Public, have lived long enough to have your very own horror story. A not-so-happy experience with an auto repair shop. And by now you’ve heard your share of other people telling their horror stories too. Right? And then there’s been plenty of horror stories in print—or on the 6 o’clock news. Right?



But what about when the situation does a turn about? What happens when it goes the other way? I mean, what about horror stories where the mechanic gets screwed on his own car repair? Funny, you don’t ever hear mechanics complaining about another mechanics, right? Ever wonder why? I was wondering why. It seems like I’ve had my share. I dunno. Maybe there’s something valuable to learn from these experiences. What da ya think?



First off, I’ll tell you what. Just because we mechanics work on our own cars, it usually doesn’t happen to us. If I screw up on my car, I only have myself to blame. Can it all be that simple? Well, actually, not really. There comes a time in many people’s life when they up and decide to buy a new car. Then, before you know it, you’ve gotta’ turn it in for warranty work, right? Now don’t you just know how that creates a situation where the tech could gets screwed. Like me.



Only difference, I’m here talking about it. Most don’t. Kind of a trade thing. Like doctors ratting on other doctors, and such. Most tech are too busy or just plain lack the interest to pursue the wrongdoings of another. And then, we move around a whole bunch too. Kinda like a moving target. I heard somewhere that the average mechanic changes his job four times a year. Wow. It’s no wonder they put wheels on toolboxes. Just to make it easier to roll them out one shop and right into another.



It’s warranty work and safety recalls that make me shudder. Don’t you know that’s when many people are forced to subject their cars to a dealer. And even if they don’t like it. Sure. Maybe that explains why only like-twenty-percent ever go back and get the warranty work done. Just plain scared to go. The others are too busy and just blow it off.



Safety recalls are just about the only time a mechanic will let someone else near his car. And that’s when I got screwed over. And not just one time, either. And I’m here to tell you about it, just to prove that no one’s immune to car repair problems. Even some of us mechanics get burned. To me, that is to say, from my viewpoint, this kind of experience represents the ultimate mechanic’s nightmare. It’s the kind where one mechanic does a number on another mechanic.



The question is, did he do it purposely? Or just fail to do the job properly on another mechanic’s car? Funny, if he knew I was a mechanic, would there be intent to put the screws to someone else? Maybe working at a competing shop?  You know that he’s gotta’ figure you’re gonna’ find out sooner or later anyway. Right? And what then? When his screw up rears its ugly head, does he think I’m blind and not see what’s happening?



Well I saw. I’m staring at it right now. Here I am, three years later, standing under my jeep, drilling out the broken bolts. Needlessly. All the while I’m thinking about man’s inhumanity to man. About the uncalled for harm created by mechanics. I mean the ones who just don’t give a damn. The word “quality” has no meaning to them. Nor does “respect.”



I’m thinking back to the incident that caused my present snafu. I’m remembering the details about the situation. It was when I lived near Pittsburgh. While doing a routine inspection of my new Jeep. I was looking over the driveline when I noticed one of the bolts missing. It was one going through the transmission into the bellhousing. Missing. I remember how when I probed the hole with a pick, the remains of the broken bolt were still there.



Removal of that broken bolt would require a whole bunch. Time. Lots’a time. How about removal of the drive shaft, the transmission, and the transfer case? We’re talking major hassle here. The good news was the Jeep was still under warranty. The bad news was, I decided to take it to the dealership. Should have fixed it myself. Damn. That’s when all this started in the first place. With that damned Jeep dealership.



I just want to tell you something about myself. This is important. I’m not a lazy person. It’s just that at the time, I had a lot on my plate. I remember the circumstances. I was busier than a bee on a warm spring day, and I decided to get my problem fixed under warranty. But! I did promise myself that I would take some time out and carefully inspect it afterward. That way, I could rest assured that my Jeep didn’t get botched up. And, you guessed it. He botched it. Big time.



It all happened at the Jeep dealership in Butler, just North of Pittsburgh. You probably don’t know it, but this just happens where the Jeep first started—back during World War Two. You’d think that the dealership in the town where all Jeeps come from would surely be proud of their work. Right? You’d think they’d be reputable. Right? And maybe if asked to meet the tech who’s working on it—and tell him I’m also a tech—he’d be extra careful. Right?





Wrong. When I got my Jeep back, I found the first of his screw-ups. I found the bad news he left behind. But! I was in no way aware of the worst part—which wouldn’t rear its ugly head until now, three years later. I was remembering how when I inspected his work, I saw the new bolt he installed. But there’s this RTV silicone form-a-gasket slathered all over the place. Why? Didn’t he use thread locker, like what’s called for, instead of RTV? Was all of this blue goo that I saw oozing out from under the bolt head and aluminum housing a bad sign?



You bet! It was a clear foreboding. And I remember how it left me with a very uneasy feeling. This tech is messy, and in a hurry, I thought. And sloppy too. How sloppy? I wondered if he managed to get some silicone RTV on the inside the tranny. I thought, “Oh man, I hope not!” Now I was really suspicious about the quality of his work, so I looked around at the rest of it. And it’s a good thing I did. There was the shifter linkage nut. Loose as a goose. The jerk was in such a big hurry, he didn’t tighten the shifter linkage for the transfer case. Dummy.



The nut [shown by the arrow] was finger tight. It would’ve been just a matter of a few hundred miles, and it would have worked its way off. I had caught it in the nick of time. I remember clearly the tale the sloppy mechanic left behind. He was in such a big hurry, he didn’t check his work. Remember, this happened at the Jeep dealership in the town where Jeeps come from. Wouldn’t you think they’d take more pride in their work?



Yeah. When I found the legacy left behind by “Mr. Big Hurry”, you can bet I was angry. He was just slamming out his warranty work. Just like all of the rest of his sloppy work. He slopped the RTV all over the tranny. He didn’t remember to tighten the shift linkage. Jerk. But that’s not all. Now, here I am three years later finding out what else he did. Or should I say, “Didn’t do!” He was in such a big damn hurry, he didn’t bother to throw a little lube on the sorry-ass bolts.



I found myself thinking about the flat-rate system. Again. Being a tech, I think about it a lot. It really sucks.



It’s a double edge sword. That’s what it is. To a shop owner, It’s good. Flat-rate keeps away the lazy techs. Makes efficiency. But to the tech, it’s a drag. Here’s a guy who’s already being paid less time than he actually works. Because a job is under warranty, he’s paid less than it takes to do it. There’s a built in incentive to hurry. Factory paid work is a rip.



Now here’s the tech who’s working at the dealership, cranking. He’s already underpaid. Do you really think that tech really isn’t likely to take the time to walk over to his toolbox, grab the bottle of anti-seize compound, and slap some on those bolts he’s about to reinstall? No way!



Why should he? The flat rate book doesn’t pay him to! It would only take pride in his work—and good work habits—that would have made this tech take a few seconds extra and lube the bolts. And he clearly lacked both. See for yourself.



As I looked over the damage caused by rust on the frame and bolt area, I started thinking about those of us who’re unfortunate enough to work in the North. Salt belt states, they call us. Hey, anyone working where the rust-monster lurks is well aware of the consequences. Salt is corrosive. Big time. You know! And you use anti-sieze on ANY undercarriage bolt. But then there’s this jerk. Someone who works in the North and knows better. Who knows those bolts are going to rust in place. And knows he’s working on another tech’s car. And he blows it. Totally. Bangs out another job! Bang. Bang.



May a silver hammer come down on his head! You gotta’ wonder what must have been going through his mind. Sure, any job can fail. But! He KNEW he might be the one. He knew he might wind up doing the job over again. A comeback. The bolt could break again. And—or any number of other things could cause the job to bite him. In self-defense, you ALWAYS plan ahead. Just because it might be you taking it apart again some time down the road.



But NOOooo! This jackass doesn’t care. No. He didn’t even think about the tech in the future. Me. And now here I stand cursing at him for this mess he left behind. His legacy. Overtorqued bolts. They’re so tight, their threads are stretched. They are totally jammed in place. Totally seizing. Stuck.

“Let’s see here. I’ll just nail a bolt in place with my impact. Then, we’ll let the DOT add a little salt for seasoning. Now, I’ve got the perfect recipe for disaster. I know. I work here in the north.” I tried to picture in my head what he must have been thinking. This picture tries to show the disaster. This is the best shot I could get. The bolt threads stretch. The threaded hole becomes distorted. The salt welds it all together.



The hole that you see here? That hole contains my broken reverse drill bit drill. It’s buried deep down inside there. And I did everything I could. I still lost. Big time. I used the torch. I used reverse-fluted extractor drill bits. But those threads were too distorted. That bolt was totally jammed into the hole. It refused to come. Then, my drill bit broke instead. Man! Now I’m really pissed-off!!





Once the bit broke off, it left me with no choice. That broken bit would prevent any further effort on my part at drilling. So I had to take another tact. I tried using the torch heat and cool the broken bolt. Sometimes this will get it loose.



No such luck. I wound up having to burn out the remains of the bolt. And as I was, I got hit by another surprise. The threaded mounting boss came away from the rusted-out frame. I didn’t think it was that badly rusted. But it was. I found out. And when it busted loose, the stripped out mounting boss that is—it dropped back out of sight. It now lives—along with my broken bit—back in the dark recesses of my frame. Now it’s a new rattle inside the frame of my car. It shall forever remain reminder to me of this day’s incident.



At any rate, I had to try and salvage the mount. After all, this was a critical rear corner. And this is my own vehicle. So, I don’t much care about cosmetics. Hell, I could’ve just cut out the bad section. Just welded in a whole new mounting boss. Too much trouble. I just grabbed another stud and welded it in place. Right over where the original was. It might not look so pretty, but it’d work.





Here you see it just before I welded it. And that turned out to be a pretty tricky job. The rusty frame metal wanted to disintegrate. I’d be welding along and it would disappear right before my eyes. I had to build up the surrounding area to get a good hold. It took numerous passes. And multiple heat settings. It was like I was welding along and suddenly a huge hole would appear. By the time I was done. I had a real blob weld!






loose pulleys



A 1992 Buick LeSabre 3.8l engine has a rattling sound that gets louder when the A/C is engaged. Sam uses a long screwdriver on the compressor to feel it and hear the rattling sound. Guillermo removes the belt, is able to wiggle the slightly loose compressor pulley, and runs the engine. The total lack of noise at this point convinces Sam and me to go ahead and find a compressor from the boneyard. I wiggle the pulley on the replacement compressor - also slightly loose. I think, "If it rattles, I'll just send it back."



Guillermo changes it out but wants to run the engine with the serpentine belt on before mounting the refrigerant pipes.



 "It rattles, boss" said Guillermo. He takes it off, puts the other compressor back on, and we send it back. Good thing he didn't mount the refrigerant pipes.

 Back to square one. I decide this time to listen to the alternator, the steering pump, the water pump, and the idler pulley through a 3-foot length of heater hose for a stethoscope. Sure 'nuf I hear it the loudest at the idler pulley. I take the belt off and find a slightly wobbly idler pulley. I put the idler pulley around my finger and spin it. It feels and sounds worn out. I replace the $22 part. Same noise!



While I'm gone to the parts store, Sam inspects the other components and finds excessive end play in the steering pump as well as looseness in the water pump. He spins the alternator with the cordless drill and finds it to be quiet and smooth. He goes and brings back new replacement pump units. He replaces the steering pump. The engine still rattles. He replaces the water pump.



The rattling noise won't go away! This car's killing me, man!



 Now we have two parts replacers scratching their heads cussing and discussing what to ass-u-me next.

 "I'm not replacing that alternator!" said Sam. "You didn't even find the noise anywhere up there with your rubber hose!"



 Guessing wrong and chewing up the customer's meager funds is one thing but eating a $200 alternator is quite another!



 While Guillermo is doing a post-installation under-car inspection for leaks at the pump fittings, he notices the harmonic balancer has lost large chunks of rubber. He grabs it. He yells, "Boss! I found another loose pulley!"



 What did we learn? Beware of the guy who has the solution before he understands the problem.



 Product knowledge: Unlike the Mitsubishi crankshaft pulley which completely falls apart and loses the drive belts, this LeSabre pulley has interlocking 3-pronged failsafe that, in this case, failed to make noise until its pulley was driving the accessories. This would explain why parts closest to the crankshaft were condemned by Sam and me. The problem ended up solved by an enthusiastic trainee named Guillermo.

HVAC SYSTEMS

PAT'S PERSPECTIVE 148 "A PARTS NIGHTMARE"

Ford Dash Lights Stay On. part 2