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July 29, 2003
The phone rang at 7:30 am Sunday morning "I'm stranded in Angles Camp, Jr.
died," Jr. the name he gave the 63 Midget I sold him. "I just need a around
town car." He said when he bought it. He had owned a Midget before and I was
confidant I was not selling to an innocent in the ways of classic British
cars. I had made clear that since I retrieved it from a carpentry work shop
where it sat on blocks for twenty years and brought it back to life that I
had not driven it over five miles on the freeways . . . Angles Camp is 137
miles west of Berkeley in the California foothills at about 2,000 foot
elevation now experiencing triple digit temperatures. Between here and
there one has to cross Altamont Pass with a long grade that will kill cars
half the age of a forty year old Midget particularly in 100 degree plus
temperatures. "just around town" Sure. . .
The car had started sputtering and died on a desolate stretch of road on
their return trip from Sonora. Several migrate farm workers in a pick up saw
them, stopped and gave them a ride into Angles Camp, language was a bit of a
problem but was surmounted. A tow truck was arranged to go retrieve the
Midget. Angles Camp, once a gold rush town is little more than a collection
of boutiques and cute B and B's but . . . had a Kragan Auto which had a
solid state fuel pump which he installed before spending the night in a
hotel, I'm sure it was cute and expensive and most likely a cheap bordello
in the gold rush days.
The next morning Jr. died again three blocks out of town. The Sunday morning
call came from a phone booth across the street from Kragan Auto not open
yet. "A good fuel pump does not die in three blocks, must have been a bad
one, exchange it." was about the only long distance advice I had for him. He
did, called me from the freeway, thanked me all excited that they were on
their way home.
10:30 am . . . "The car started sputtering again and died. We are along
side the freeway outside of Livermore waiting for a tow truck." At least tha
t was 100 miles of progress, from cute gold rush towns to Atomic research
facilities, but still 37 miles from home, at least digital cell phone
signals were present. I drove out and brought them home. It was too hot to
deal with a dead Midget and if brought alive to follow it for 37 miles on
hot freeways in Sunday afternoon traffic. We left it at the filling station
for the night. The type that don't do mechanical but will sell you about any
food fast food item you need to guzzle down with Red Bull . . . 18
tablespoons of sugar in one of those things and enough caffeine to wire a
horse.
Monday, an early start to beat the heat. A fresh battery to put in the place
of the one he had run down trying to start it . . . If at first it does not
start keep trying until the battery is stone dead. After a fresh battery it
ran fine and off he drives with me following. First freeway off ramp he
pulls off, stuttering and losing power again. Next freeway ramp . . . off,
Next freeway ramp off. Each time it seemed to correct itself. Forth time . .
. off into a shopping center parking lot . . . I had brought a spare SU
fuel pump, installed it and it came to life in a big way. Ecstatic we hit
the freeway for home . . . a few miles down the road I saw him pull to the
side of the road under an underpass. Sixteen wheelers buffeting the wee one
back and forth as they sped pass inches away at 70 plus miles an hour.
Tapped on the fuel pump it springs back to life, smug for having the
knowledge you can hit a SU fuel pump with a hammer and make it run again we
are off and running again, now we are where we can take some off freeway
roads, about ten blocks in town I see him coasting into shopping center
parking lot . . . Jr is dead again.
I had checked the fuel supply to the carbs before and it seemed fine, I had
ruled out fuel line clogging from the tank. I had disconnected the fuel line
from the pump and it had plenty of volume. Had no container so used a
plastic zip lock sandwich bag . . . what do you do with a zip lock bag full
of gas ? Nothing was going to grow there anyway. The fuel pump was working,
time to check the floats . . . took the lids off, every thing looked clean .
. . I blew on the inputs and raised and lowered the floats . . . the needle
valves worked fine. . . but on the front pump where there is another outlet
to feed the back float bowl it took a lot of pressure to blow through the y
pipe. Raise the float and lowered it again now it seems ok. Then again and
it is not. The gross valves should not have anything to do with a simple
flow through connection from one carb to another. I do not have my portable
air tank so I blow through it until I am dizzy, do not have carb cleaner
with me so spray in some starter fluid and blow it out until I see little
stars, re-install the float lids, start it up and it runs great . . . The
lesson learned . . . it only takes small particle of rust or debris to set
into motion a chain of events that lasted several days. Two break downs in
the middle of nowhere on the freeways, two tow truck trips, one hotel for
the night, two fuel pumps, two 75 mile round trips one to pick them up, one
to go retrieve the Midget, six engine failures on the way home . . . a
grain of sand, how it can change your life experience.
In retrospect it all makes sense. A small particle had found its way to the
junction of the pipes that feed the two SUs and most likely the way it
happened to turn now and then would restrict the fuel supply to the rear or
front carburetor. At higher speeds above 55 it was restricting enough all
the time even with gas flowing to both carbs.
You never know. He swears he will never take long trips out of town again .
. . he would not lie to me . . . but I have a gut level feeling he will
change his mind. Something very Buddhist about it all . . . a grain of sand
grasshopper and you can move a mountain . . . or kill a Midget.
Don
"Don May" < may.d@... > 23899
Posted on July 29, 2003 04:55 PM
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