“Humility” thy name is “working on an old car.”
I have long believed that those who don’t make mistakes probably aren’t doing anything, or at least anything interesting. In my case, as a registered professional mechanical engineer in two western states (Idaho and California) – which means I’m legally licensed to use a pocket protector and tell bad jokes (we won’t get into log-log-duplex-decitrig slide rule use) – it’s sometimes hard to believe that I’ve made any mistakes while working on Model A’s. However, after much soul-searching (and several pointed reminders from my wife) I do recall a couple of instances – some 33 years apart (which points to a VERY slow learning curve) – that I suppose could be considered “mistakes,” so here goes:
After I had to leave my 1931 standard coupe in storage in San Diego because of a transfer back to Idaho, I found that I missed driving an A more than I thought I would. In February 1977, I found a quasi-assembled basket-case 1930 coupe sitting outside a sheep rancher’s trailer outside Idaho Falls. Ignorance and a healthy does of hubris led me to the classic “hey-how-hard-can-this-be-I’ll-just-tear-it-completely-down-and-rebuild-it” approach. Fast-forward to May 1979. Facing another transfer back to California in three months, I pretty much had everything reworked, replaced, repainted and/or reassembled. Three friends, two six-packs, a couple of 4x4’s and all the spare towels I could lay my hands on proved that in fact you could reinstall a freshly painted coupe body on a shiny frame without too much trouble (until my wife found out about the towels, that is). A couple of more all-nighters and I was ready for a test drive. Starting up the highly polished, fully-assembled (more or less) coupe I carefully backed straight out the garage onto our driveway and thence onto the street. Straightening up the wheels to point the car in the right direction, I was pleasantly surprised at how effortlessly the steering was. I carefully shifted into first, let out the clutch, pressed down on the accelerator and watched – horrified – as the car drove into the curb, despite my frantic efforts to steer the other way. Fortunately, all this took place late at night, so none of the neighbors could see that I had left the bolt securing the pitman arm to the steering sector shaft lying on my workbench.
Earlier this year, our car club got together over several weekends to make a concerted effort to get one of our member’s Model A back on the road. The work list included rectifying a hydraulic brake conversion gone bad and numerous other items, among which was a chewed up and virtually useless crankshaft (ratchet) nut, so badly mangled that the engine could not be turned by hand using the lug/crank starting wrench. Lacking any experience in hydraulic brake conversion repairs (and being an engineer, which does not garner the respect I expected from the other – all much older and experienced – club members) I was relegated to replacing the crank nut. On the workbench, as evidence of much preparation and forethought – were three brand new and two very serviceable used crank nuts, along with an array of the proper tools. To aid things, the radiator had earlier been removed, so I envisioned a relatively straightforward swap-out-the-nut-and-get-on-with-it task. Taking the lead (did I mention I’m a mechanical engineer?) I removed the chewed up crank nut, handed it to someone, and – noticing a large chunk missing from the two-piece crank pulley – set about replacing that. Having done so, and being bent over the front of the engine, I called for the crank nut which I thereupon reinstalled. We had just enough time to reinstall the fan belt, radiator, hoses and support rods before lunch. After lunch, we reassembled in the shop, whereupon someone commented that “Hey, I thought we replaced the chewed up crank nut!”
Sure enough, would you believe it? During lunch, someone had snuck back into the shop, drained and removed the radiator, taken off the hoses and support rods, and replaced the new crank nut with the old chewed up one!
Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it, despite continued, repeated (and increasingly embellished) ribbing by the other club members. And I keep the chewed-up crank nut, now mounted on a walnut plaque, on my workbench as a reminder…
