ope. You got a bad valve." I got the jack under
the tranny support and started pumping. "Which
ain't my fault, by the way. I built this engine
nearly thirty years ago. You've gotten your
money's worth and then some." I got the jackstands
under the torsion bar housing, went around and
chocked the front wheels.
"I wasn't complaining? " he began.
"Well I was," I shut him off. Veedub valves don't
last thirty years, especially when they're pushing
a van around.
"It always ran perfectly." His tone was placating.
And it was Christmas Eve. Or rather, 00:15
Christmas Day. "And it never gets driven very
much, or so I was told." I gave a snort of
disgust. Thirty years is thirty years and every
salesman always sez the thing was only used to
take the family to church on Sundays. I got a tarp
and my small tool bag, rolled the tarp out under
the back of the high-roof, dug out my head lamp,
checked the batteries. Dead, of course. Began
taking the battery case apart.
"Need some batteries?" He was right there,
offering me a 4-pak of new Ray-O- Vac's. Right
size, too. I put the thing back together, tested
it. "What are you doing, exactly."
"Swapping engines," I grunted. I handed him a
ratchet with a 13mm socket and pointed at the rear
apron bolts. "Whip'em outta there. And don't lose
the washers."
I skivvied under and got the surprise of my life.
The thing was CLEAN. As in showroom new. No road
rash. No oily residue. Original factory axle boots
so clean and new they gave a tiny squeak when I
touched them. But no heater ducts. In fact, no
heat exchangers, which explained why the guy was
wearing a snowsuit.
"Does this mean I can finish my route?" He was
bent over, peering at me upside down.
"Not unless you get those damn bolts out, it
don't." I was running my hand over the paintwork.
It had been treated with some sort of surfactant.
It felt oily smooth but left no residue on my
fingers and didn't seem to attract dirt. There
were steel rails re-enforcing the frame on each
side. They ran as far aft as the bumper mount. I
couldn't tell how far forward they went. "You do
all this?" I shouted as I crimped-off the fuel
line. The breast tin had one of my early bulkhead
fittings, the ones I made out of brass before
discovering lamp parts worked just as well. I
popped off the hose. No dribble but I plugged it
anyway.
"I don't maintain the vehicle," the fellow shouted
back. "They do all that at headquarters. What
should I do with the bolts?"
"Put them in your pocket." I skivvied back out,
popped loose the battery ground strap, removed the
rear apron, disconnected the electrics and removed
the barrel nut holding the accelerator wire. I
gave it to him. "Keep this with them." I put the
little plywood pallet on the floor jack, got it
positioned under the engine, jacked it up and
pulled that puppy outta there.
Fred Dremmer was impressed. He even told me so.
"I'm impressed," he said. Then he said "Happy
Christmas." It was 00:30 and I was tired. "Balance
that," I told him, tapping the top of the blower
housing. I grabbed the handle of the jack and used
it as a trolley to pull the engine into the shop.
He stood looking around while I dug the spare
engine out from under the bench. It was already on
a scooter. "What happened?" he asked softly.
"Look down," I snarled. "You'll figure it out."
Continue to
...
|