Filthy, filthy hands

Gertrude has been my daily driver for a couple of weeks now.  I am getting used to honks, smiles and waves as I am out and about.  I hope that as I continue to fix up the Fairmont both mechanically and aesthetically, these reactions will tend more towards "that's a cool vintage wagon" and less towards "uh, is that an actual Pinto?"  (Finding replacement badges has become a priority.)

You see, I'm still working on convincing folks that Gertrude and me are a good idea.  Mom and hubby and Sam all see the logic in a user-serviceable vehicle; hubby says his boss took some convincing but after financial analysis sees the practicality of the Ford Fairmont.  We're still working on some of our Ham radio friends.

For Gertrude is practical to a fault.  No frills.  No radio, manual windows, and as I discovered today, conical wheel bearings that do not require a hub puller to be serviced.  You just...pop 'em out.

Photo by Chris McClenney.  Another big shout-out to Sam for walking me through the process!

Packing wheel bearings has got to be the greasiest automotive activity you can do.  I haven't done it in sixteen years but it's just like I remembered.  My cuticles are soft and supple, and Gertrude's handling is much improved to boot.  I hadn't thought new wheel bearings and brake pads would make that much difference, but they did, and now my brakes are quiet as mice.  A pea-sized hole in the exhaust pipe directly under the driver's seat gives me a pleasant rumble to listen to, so radio or no, Gertrude is making beautiful music of her own.

I have a kit to patch the exhaust pinhole, but I really like the sound.  It won't wake the neighbors, and reminds me I am driving one of the last "real" cars ever made.

On the road!

FIRST A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR

This blog was made possible by teenagers texting and driving.
Remember that, kids!

Gertrude and me are good for each other.  I've been dragging myself out of bed extra-early (for those of you who don't know me, this is unheard of) to accomplish Fairmont-related tasks.  Friday morning (the day after Sam) I popped up at 7:00 A.M. to get tags taken care of.  Unfortunately, I got a clerk who was lazy, incompetent, or both--with only a cursory glance at the title, he told me my paperwork was incomplete.  After a passel of phone calls, I determined that the paperwork was complete, but by that time I had to report to work.  I spent the warm, sunny weekend watching every classic car, every motorcycle, and every hot rod in Kansas City come out of winter storage and play.

This morning I got a competent, engaged, and downright cheerful clerk at the DMV who obligingly took my money and issued me antique tags for my (only just) antique car.  People smiled at me in the parking lot as I affixed the new plate.  I took her to the car wash; the handful of singles I fed into the bill changer representing what was left over from the $500 I had put aside for sales tax--with less than $100 in the bank, I'm living on the edge!  The car wash attendant came over for a look-see and thanked me for buying American.  I didn't have the heart to tell him that the Ford Motor Company saw its last profit on this car in 1979.  I drove Gertrude to work and back, including a thrilling stint at 55 miles per hour.  Both windows down.  I got lots of grins from my fellow motorists.  Stopping for a gaggle of kids with a lemonade stand, I was complimented first on my hat and goggles, then my cool car.

For lack of a more relevant image, enjoy these spark plugs, which I removed last week.

I haven't been able to wipe the grin off my face all day.  After work, I hand waxed her 'till my arms fell off.

Gertrude still needs some work.  Her front brakes. standing at about 30%, screech.  The parking brake needs replacing, and I'm just paranoid enough to carry a chock.  I think she's running a bit lean, but...carburetor.  And while I'm at the brakes, I'd like to replace the wheel bearings--at $5 a wheel, the repack vs. replace argument isn't much of an argument.  And check and clean the EGR valve, backflush the cooling system, replace the lower radiator hose, and see if I can't figure out why the gas gauge doesn't work.  Perhaps most importantly (and strangely), Ford recommends adjusting the automatic transmission bands with each oil change, and due to the lack of a torque wrench, I have not yet performed this simple-looking yet heretofore unheard-of operation.

As much as it might sound like a pain to some (most, all) of you reading this, I can't wait to get my hands greasy.

Agony and victory

You'll remember the fuel filter from my last post.  Well, turns out, the fuel filter screws into something of a shutoff valve.  When I attempted to change the fuel filter, I accidentally fiddled with this shutoff valve and--you guessed it--shut off the fuel to my carburetor.

I figured the above as the most likely explanation, as the Fairmont had spark and would stumble along on starting fluid, but my husband cautioned me not to touch anything, and to get someone over here who knows carburetors.  "Carburetors are voodoo knowledge," he informed me, and I'd have to agree.  I never knew much about them, and it's all gone now.  I recognize the barrel, and I know the word "Venturi" is associated somehow.  I know there is a choke and what it does--but not how it does it.  So when hubby suggested recruiting someone capable of working this black magic, he of course meant Sam.

Behold!  The Holley 1946 1-bbl carburetor.  See that horizontal brass cylinder on the left?  That was the culprit.
(Photo courtesy of Amazon.com)

Our friend Sam is a hardworking American who can take apart anything and reassemble it better than it was before.  He works dawn to well after nightfall pretty much every day of the week, doing everything from remodeling buildings to fueling airplanes.  He knows engines from Weed-Eaters to bulldozers.  He'd give you the shirt off his back, and perhaps more significantly, let you use his tools.

No, you can't have him.

See, I'm reluctant to call upon Sam for precisely this reason.  Sam is such a capable fellow, there isn't really anything anyone can offer in return--he just keeps giving.  We've been taking the cars to garages you pay for for a couple years now, just so we don't bother the poor guy.  But due to a one-two punch of a $1200 repair to hubby's Yukon last month and the expense of getting a new car (and insurance, and taxes) worked into the household, we're pretty broke until the Fairmont is going as my daily driver and the old minivan is sold off.

OK, this isn't actually a picture of Sam.  I don't know if Sam wants to be on the Internet.  This guy is almost as epic as Sam.
(photo courtesy of Pintrest)

So I called Sam.  And Sam obligingly came by at 10:30 P.M., after his fourteen-hour workday, and let me show him what I'd done.  He tested the fuel pump, inspected the new and old fuel filters, and found the culprit--the infinitesimally tiny metal washer I'd thought for sure I'd gotten back onto the shutoff valve screw.  Its hair's-breadth thickness meant the difference between gas and no gas.  After a jump-start and much engine cranking, (shrieking and, I am ashamed to say, head-clutching on my part) Gertrude started to purr just as she had before "the fuel filter fiasco."  All in all, it took Sam less than half an hour to diagnose and treat my mistake, inform me which hoses needed to be replaced, and compliment me both on my purchase and on the work I'd done so far.

God bless ya, Sam.

Down to Business

The Fairmont had arrived, but I would have a while to wait for the title to arrive by mail.  Perfect time to take stock and get under the hood.  I did a walk-around, test runs and drives, assembled to-do and shopping lists, and took the latter to the store.

I got to know my new old car as I changed the oil and oil filter, replaced the oil filler cap gasket, replaced the wiper blades, filled the washer fluid, lubricated the door hinges and hood catches and shift linkages with household oil, lubricated the door locks and strikers with graphite, replaced the PCV valve and grommet and a piece of tubing attached to it which was completely blocked and had the consistency of taffy. I replaced the main and crankcase air filters, pulled the spark plugs, and replaced them with brand-new ones, set to .049" on one end and well-greased on the other.  I replaced the dome light bulb, lubricated the front ball joints, checked and topped off the transmission fluid, and checked the brake fluid.  I did a cursory check for vacuum leaks and didn't find anything major; the Fairmont has run better and better as the fresh fluids get worked in and the bad gas gets worked out.

I had found the power steering fluid to be full, but dark gray in color, so I emptied the reservoir, refilled it with fresh Type F transmission fluid as specified in the manual, and circulated the fluid.  Then I shut the car off and did it again.  And again.  And again.  Six flushes later, the fluid is still dark, but the texture seems better, with much less particulate matter.

Grease monkey

There were failures, too, and in the interest of documenting my experience with the car completely, I will list them here.  The power steering flushes remain an unknown quantity; Fairmonts are known for their sloppy steering so I don't know what to expect here.  In attempting to align the front passenger door, I succeeded only in chipping the 'wood paneling' applique at the edge of the door, although the blue paint underneath remains intact.  Should have left this to a body shop.  In fact, I suspect it's the striker plate that's causing the door to rattle and not the door alignment at all. The dome light still doesn't work, even with a new bulb; the wires and mounts are loose.  I attempted to lubricate the seized-up parking brake lever and cable, but it's too far gone and will need replacement.

Perhaps most significantly, this afternoon I removed what I thought was the fuel filter from the carburetor, found it was not the fuel filter, and screwed it back on.  Since then the car will not run for more than a few seconds.  Searching the Internet for information on the Holley 1946 single-barrel carb, I suspect it was the needle and seat that I removed, which is responsible for determining how much fuel gets dumped into the bowl that feeds the cylinders gasoline.  I theorize that I screwed it in too tightly, setting the float too low and starving the engine of gas.  I'd go out and test that theory right now if it wasn't raining cats and dogs.  I can't find anything under the hood that looks like the fuel filter that everyone swears up and down fits my car.  The Haynes manual's first instruction was to remove the air cleaner from the carburetor, so I find it reasonable to assume that's where the filter is located.  It doesn't look like it belongs on top of the fuel pump, either.  I'm mystified.  Not baffled, though.  That's reserved for modern cars.

Anybody know where this actually goes?

All in all, I am delighted to report that for the work I have done so far, total parts cost has been $141.61.  Once I have flushed the coolant, adjusted the transmission bands, and inspected and cleaned the EGR valve, I will have accomplished every single maintenance point in the manual.  Even I decide to replace the EGR valve rather than spend an hour reaming out the carbon, it's a $30 part, keeping the total price tag still well under $200 (considering I've somehow accumulated ten gallons of antifreeze in storage).

That sort of money wouldn't buy you spark plug service on a modern car.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it.  My Fairmont's name is Gertrude and she's a fun gal and a cheap date to boot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ADDENDUM: Ha, I'm an idiot.  I had removed both the fuel filter and the brass block the fuel filter screws into.  I have now replaced the fuel filter, and realized the reason the car won't run: At some point during my exuberant wrench-swinging, I broke the distributor cap.  Yeah, that'll do 'er.  For my carelessness I pay a fine of $25.  $30 if you count the rotor I'm throwing in for good measure.

Wouldn't you know that the title arrived today, and due to a dentist cancellation I thought for sure I had time to get her tagged.  Then this snafu.  *sigh*  It's supposed to rain all week.

Leap Day: A Look Around

The cars I've owned go like this: 1984, 1979, 1976, 1988, 1989, 1996, 2005.  Around the 1996 mark, I lost the ability to do much of my own work, even with the Torx bit set I'd purchased for the purpose.  I still doggedly changed my own oil, and could locate the distributor and spark plugs, but the engine rested under some very fancy-looking cowling, making it in essence a black box.  Unable to perform much maintenance myself, nor afford to have it done by a shop, I drove a car that I really liked into the ground.  A 2005 model replaced it, and when I had to reference the 250-page owner's manual in order to jump start the battery, I knew I'd be doing the same within a condensed time frame.

In other words, I realized it's been a while.

A decade and a half ago, I had perma-grease under my nails, and most of my fellow high school students likely associated me with the unmistakable smell of gear lube.  As I got behind the wheel of my 1979 Ford Fairmont for the first time, surrounded by the heady aroma of old car, I wondered if I still had it in me.  A nail-biting moment ensued as I turned the key and listened to the engine crank--then a shudder, and the inline six caught.  She stumbled regularly, but ran.  The fuel gauge read empty.  Selecting a gear took some forearm strength, and putting her into "drive" produced a loud bang.  The single-finger steering, sloppy as I remembered, proved the antithesis to steering a minivan. I limped her to the nearest gas station and opened the fuel door, finding she lacked a gas cap as well.  Undaunted, I filled her up with fresh midgrade.  The fuel gauge still read empty.  No bother, she already ran better with some fresh gasoline.  (Later calculations estimate she'd have had six gallons in her; it was likely very old gas).

The first of what I knew would become many trips to O'Reilly garnered the Fairmont a new gas cap ($7.50) and a bottle of Chevron/Techron fuel system cleaner, on sale ($4).  The parts store is mercifully located just around the corner of our block, and I cheerfully informed the employees that we'd soon be on a first-name basis.  We added the fuel cleaner and gas cap right there.  When I brought her around the corner into our apartment parking lot and backed her up to park on the rather steep incline, I discovered that the parking brake mechanism was completely seized up.  Thankfully, the parking spots have concrete berms, and I chocked her rear tires right up against one of these.  The Fairmont's long legs made this operation a breeze.

Having worked late that night, I used a flashlight to check the oil, finding it full but dark, and the coolant, which was full and green (at least on top).  I noted the washer fluid was empty and the wiper blades were shot, adding these items to a mental shopping list.  My friend Adam, an appreciator of old cars, stopped by and we sat in the front seat, savoring the feel and smell of my new old car.  We popped the hood, listened to the engine run, and revved it by manipulating the throttle lever inside the engine compartment.  We tweaked spark plug wires, examined engine mounts, and speculated on the idle speed.  And I remembered something:

This is a hell of a lot of fun, and I've missed it.

Adventures half-remembered (Preface)

I can't truthfully say that a Ford Fairmont was my first car.  Actually, I've never technically owned one before.  (My first car was a 1984 Chrysler LeBaron convertible, possibly the only car that gets a bigger laugh in Auto Tech class.)   But my high school sweetheart bought one, and we worked out an agreement--he'd pay the taxes and insurance and I'd keep the tank full and do all the maintenance.

Imagine this, 20 years later, after a few wrecks.
from www.oldcarbrochures.com

The Fairmont wasn't much to look at--in fact, it was hideous.  A '79 model purchased thirdhand from somebody's grandmother, its pukey green paint faded to an evenly matte finish, dingy orange Naugahyde interior, and the poop-brown fenders it eventually sported after an unfriendly encounter with a stone wall made it a laughingstock among my gear-head friends.

Cut to 15 years later, I'm driving a 2005 Honda minivan.  It is a luxurious, yet utterly baffling conveyance.  The car knows when I have failed to tighten the gas cap the correct number of clicks, and gently reminds me when I have done so.  Operating the car's many comfort and convenience systems requires patience, dexterity, and multitasking skills that likely exceed what my tiny lizard brain can safely handle while operating a motor vehicle.  Adding transmission fluid requires a 36" flexible ratchet extension, an inspection mirror, and a flashlight.

I've never been one much for sentimentality, but over the last year or so I've been reminiscing on that old, pukey '79 Fairmont.  I had a real bond with that car, an understanding I took for granted back then.  I remember the kind of carefree joyrides that only high schoolers are capable of, gunning the sluggish 85-horsepower engine at every occupied stop light, and the one time we got beat--by a Mazda MX5.  I remember the great ice storm of '02 that left parts of Kansas City without power for weeks.  It struck when my high-school sweetheart and I were downtown, and he had to get me back home to the suburbs.  We hadn't even put a sandbag in the trunk yet, but I remember us trucking surefootedly up an ice-covered hill past beached SUVs, making it safely home in a car that had no business getting us there.  I remember the Fairmont's mysterious, insatiable appetite for starter solenoids--but at $3 a pop and two screws to replace, we just kept a few extras in the glove box.  It was a simple, unpretentious car, easy to work on, good on gas, and forgiving.

You know how you torture yourself on the Internet?  Maybe it's looking at all the puppies and kittens you can't take home on Petfinder, or the charming houses you can't afford on Zillow.  Well, I started doing that to myself with Ford Fairmonts.  My masochism directed me to a wonderful blog I'd love to give a shout-out to.  Paul Niedermeyer authors a piece on the Ford Fairmont that is thoughtful, humorous, and to me, touching.  You can find it here.  That blog sealed the deal for me; the Ford Fairmont became my dream car.  I've been a fan of station wagons since owning a Volvo, and I watched a gorgeous 1979 woody that listed for several years on eBay.  California car, V-6, no rust, cherry.  The fact that such a well-preserved vehicle listed for only $3500 and took so long to sell still did not put it within my grasp.  I couldn't afford the next major service interval for my Honda, comparably priced.

The one that got away

My lusting after a vintage grocery-go-getter was boosted from idle fancy and into the real world when I got rear-ended last fall.  I saw the driver coming, prepared sufficiently, took the cash option, and found I had a decision to make.  After some soul-searching and a lot of rationalization, I found I didn't much feel like spending $4000 on a new liftgate.  It's the principle of the thing--a liftgate costing as much as a whole station wagon.  Thus, feeling a little insane, I called after the California woody--the car was gone.  So I looked elsewhere--but kept on coming up with the same scenario.  All the Ford Fairmont station wagons on the market had close to 200,000 miles on the clock, which spells overhaul.  I know how to rebuild an engine, but as an apartment dweller, I don't have a place to do it.

Then I saw it.

The asking price was close to what I had, and the car was in Portland, Oregon.  Hat in hand, I asked the salesman if he would consider taking a down payment and holding the car for a few months while I came up with the money for shipping and taxes.  For this man possessed a time capsule.

Stone stock with 56K miles on the clock, I realized that this was quite possibly the only Ford Fairmont station wagon left in the world that wasn't in need of major repairs.  When the seller said he'd be willing to work with me, I had it checked by an independent garage in the area.  The folks there reported brakes, shocks and belts nearing the end of their usefulness, slight play in the wheel bearings, and a few minor oil leaks.  I found these faults to be acceptable and put a deposit on my dream car.

Several months later, on Leap Day 2016, after a flurry of phone calls, emails, trips to banks and notaries, and faxes, my 1979 Ford Fairmont Country Squire station wagon, "Medium Light Blue" with fake wood paneling, bench seats, a 3.3L inline six and three on the tree, arrived on the back of a semi truck.

So ends this preface and begins the adventure.