Challenger
My high school algebra teacher would usually start class with a joke. 20 years ago today, he walked into class looking very grim and said, "Did you hear that the Space Shuttle blew up?"
We responded, "No! Tell us about the Space Shuttle blowing up!"
We thought it was a joke, but it wasn't. Our teacher brought in a television set and we spent the class watching the news.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Rebuilding an Engine, Part One
There are a few things I learned during my dating years. One of them was never date an alcoholic. And another was never rescue an alcoholic. I did both. This is the "dating" part of the story versus the "rescue" part of the story.
One of my boyfriends owned a late 1960's mustang fastback. I'm likely to get lynched for saying this, but I really don't remember what year it was. It was shiny and black and had a honeycomb grille. Anyway; the first time he went out racing in his new/old muscle car, he blew the engine. So I got to hang out at his house and watch him rebuild an engine. I thought it would take him a week or so. He had all the parts. He had all the tools. It should have taken a week. It took him the better part of 3 months.
Now, to be fair; he usually worked on his car over the weekends. It's not like he could quit his job to spend a week rebuilding an engine. And he had to have the job to pay for the pretty chrome parts he kept attaching to his car that didn't run.
I wanted to help. I'd spent a lot of time around street racers, and knew exactly how to take an engine apart and put it back together again. The only part I didn't know was how to connect the engine to the transmission, and what the thingie* that made the pistons move looked like. *see glossary for "thingie"
The fact that my classic car ran, and his classic car did not wasn't enough proof that I could help. I had to stand in front of the engine and use a lot of technical non-thingie speech while pointing to the various parts before he would accept that I might know what I'm talking about. Even so, all I was allowed to do was clean engine parts. But that came later; after he had actually stripped the engine down to the block.
Prior to that glorious day, I would come over to his house and we would spend an hour talking about how pretty the car was. Then his friend would show up with a case of beer. The two of them would drink a beer and talk about what they were going to do that day. I would drink a Pepsi that I had purchased with my own money.
They would stare at the engine and debate what could have caused it to lock up, while drinking another round of beer. I guess they needed the beer to build up the courage to use tools or something, because after a pair of beer apiece; they would start "working" on the car. Generally, this involved pulling the valve covers and hoses, getting greasy, putting everything back on, and polishing chrome. And of course, drinking a lot of beer.
There are a few things I learned during my dating years. One of them was never date an alcoholic. And another was never rescue an alcoholic. I did both. This is the "dating" part of the story versus the "rescue" part of the story.
One of my boyfriends owned a late 1960's mustang fastback. I'm likely to get lynched for saying this, but I really don't remember what year it was. It was shiny and black and had a honeycomb grille. Anyway; the first time he went out racing in his new/old muscle car, he blew the engine. So I got to hang out at his house and watch him rebuild an engine. I thought it would take him a week or so. He had all the parts. He had all the tools. It should have taken a week. It took him the better part of 3 months.
Now, to be fair; he usually worked on his car over the weekends. It's not like he could quit his job to spend a week rebuilding an engine. And he had to have the job to pay for the pretty chrome parts he kept attaching to his car that didn't run.
I wanted to help. I'd spent a lot of time around street racers, and knew exactly how to take an engine apart and put it back together again. The only part I didn't know was how to connect the engine to the transmission, and what the thingie* that made the pistons move looked like. *see glossary for "thingie"
The fact that my classic car ran, and his classic car did not wasn't enough proof that I could help. I had to stand in front of the engine and use a lot of technical non-thingie speech while pointing to the various parts before he would accept that I might know what I'm talking about. Even so, all I was allowed to do was clean engine parts. But that came later; after he had actually stripped the engine down to the block.
Prior to that glorious day, I would come over to his house and we would spend an hour talking about how pretty the car was. Then his friend would show up with a case of beer. The two of them would drink a beer and talk about what they were going to do that day. I would drink a Pepsi that I had purchased with my own money.
They would stare at the engine and debate what could have caused it to lock up, while drinking another round of beer. I guess they needed the beer to build up the courage to use tools or something, because after a pair of beer apiece; they would start "working" on the car. Generally, this involved pulling the valve covers and hoses, getting greasy, putting everything back on, and polishing chrome. And of course, drinking a lot of beer.
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