Alfa Romeo Milano Verde Part 3: Rebuild

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I get the idea that foreign or classic car owners on the coasts often have “a guy” to help them out of trouble when things start to fall apart.  For instance, my dad, when he was piecing together his 1973 3.0 CS, had most of the work done at shops within a 15 mile radius of our house in York, PA.  To have the carbs tuned, he sent the car down the road to the shop with plenty of Alfas out front.  For upholstery, he commissioned a shop downtown with a slew of Grand Wagoneers in the lot, and, at one point etched into my memory, a Watusi bull in various stages of meat grinding inside the shop.  To get the brakes ready for inspection, he dropped the car off behind a trailer park, close to the river.  He kept the car in shape without ever leaving York County.

Living in Columbus, IN, undertaking an Alfa V6 rebuild posed some geographical challenges.  The only European shop in the county was the local Import Auto shop, where I buy all of my VW and BMW parts.  So, for ignition and fuel system components, I had the convenience of stopping by after work to pick up parts.  I asked around for recommendations on local machine shops, and drove south to Jackson County, where I found a shop for head work, and a shop to take care of the bottom end. 

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Mini Cooper Coupe JCW: Brad revisits his youth

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This post comes to us from Brad, a friend of the Blythbros!

It’s 2001, I’m 14 and sitting in the driver’s seat of the “New” MINI at the Boston car expo.  Up to this point, the only car I have driven involves pedals, a lever that applies a metal rod to one of the rear wheels for “Braking”, and is badged “KETTLER”.  But in my mind and dreams, I have driven across the country a hundred times.  I picture myself driving this MINI, I depress the clutch and pull the gear lever into second *CLUNK*, then into third *CLUNK*, it feels like a straighter path into third than it should be.  I like it.  I reach for the center console where my eyes have caught sight of the gleaming row of toggle switches.  Tales of my father’s Jaguar XKE wash over me and my heart races as I flip them up and down.  The battery is disconnected so nothing happens but that’s not the point, the simple mechanical click is reward enough.  Then I hear my father’s voice, it is 10pm on a school night and we have to leave.  As we walk away I glance back and know that someday I’ll get to experience the vehicle that closest resembles my beloved KETTCAR.

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Lift-throttle Redemption: Mini Cooper Coupe JCW and Ford Fiesta ST

Cab drivers are known for their tenacious ability to navigate their city’s streets.  Similarly, FWD turbo hatch drivers can recall every cloverleaf on/off-ramp and traffic circle in their state.  Brad and I exchanged hatches for a beer and ice cream run, where we were able to open up the boosted 1.6 liters.  No driving photos this round – just stills of some angry turbo shafts.

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Cosworth to Canada

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Hopefully it’s not too apparent that every trip featured  so far on BlythBros. has been conceived and attempted by engineers. And, hopefully, the traits commonly associated with engineers – being logical, rational, analytical, and concrete – haven’t surfaced too often in the pages of the blog. Really, it doesn’t take an engineering degree to be able to drain the pleasure from activities, road trips included. Our goal for this trip was simply to drive to Canada.

Realizing that my big trip for the year would have to wait until later in the summer, I mentioned the idea of doing a quick loop of Quebec to Taylor. I was enjoying a stint of voluntary funemployment, so the most important element of my daily routine was walking the Dachshunds with my mom. After days of discussion and planning, we decided that my mom would walk the Dachsunds by herself – 2 to the human, that is. I was good to go. As for Taylor? He codes tools for numerical analysis of various nuclear processes, or something like that. Sounds independent enough, as far as work goes, so I’m assuming that he set up a Bueller-style snoring figure in his grad school office to take Friday off. I didn’t ask. Either way, we were staring down the barrel of a hair-triggered 3-day weekend, and we were hungry for the Great White North.

Before I get any further, I owe the reader a quick background on the etymology of Canada. Back before the time of Mounties, Poutine, and even hockey, two great Canadian pioneers sought to name the vast tract of land that would later insulation to the United States as America’s hat. From a real hat, likely furry and extravagant, the pioneers blindly chose 3 letters. “C, eh? N, eh? D, eh?” Later Americanized, the land became known as “Canada”.

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Buying sight-unseen from New Mexico: 1991 BMW 318is

 

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Old cars: buy the best example that you can afford, right? Unless you’re actively seeking a project, that’s the convention. So, imagine a listing for the car you want, at the price you like, where the only needs listed are “a wash and wax”. I found that car last summer.

I’d been driving a 91 318is as a sort of winter and minor project car up until that point. I bought that thing for $1,500 and slowly worked through it to get it into shape. I swapped in a set of matching M3 seats, replaced the cracked dash, fixed the odometer, installed a headliner, and resealed all of the oil leaks – except for one. The rear main seal leaked oil onto the clutch periodically, and that caused some bothersome slipping. It may have been a worn clutch (I had a spare clutch and flywheel), but either way, I was going to have to pull the transmission, which takes a weekend of concerted effort. Factor in some heinous oil consumption through other avenues – valve stem seals, worn rings – and the car was starting to feel like a money sink. An Indiana and Chicago car for all of its life, rust and urban parking had taken their toll on the bodywork beyond the point where I was willing to hit the car with any sort of money hammer. I figured that it would be cheaper to just sell that car and find one with fewer and less severe needs.

A serious constraint on the purchasing timeline was my goal to take a 6,000 mile trip to Seattle and back with my girlfriend about a month later. I wanted a well-sorted 318is with A/C to take us across the country and back.  Even on my rougher 318is, I was seeing 32mpg highway on premium fuel – decent for a 1991 car with that much character.

Last Joust in Germany

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Full confession, first.  I called them Freedom Fries.  At West Point, we giggled at the Maginot Line’s bureaucracy-bred haplessness.  I too-often insert an ungainly Honnhh Honnnhhh Honnnnhhhh when a social situation calls for a Frenchman’s laugh [c’mon – don’t we all encounter such scenarios?].  But that’s all a form of betrayal, as our Peugeot 205 GTI was a French jewel among the the myriad, multi-cultured automotive gems that sparkled throughout our three year tour in Germany.  I’ll even go on record as naming it as our all-time favorite car.  Thus, whatever we may think we think of the French, my opinion shall forever hold a very large asterisk because of our excellent Peugeot period.

The gem’s cave was our nearby Peugeot-Talbot dealer in Bremen-Lesum, Autohaus Manfred Haensch.  Looking back, Herr Haensch’s sometimes-gruff countenance may have reflected how many, uh, berets he wore.  He sold us the car, then handled all of the tax-exempt paperwork.  He was the service advisor and cashier, and probably even did some wrenching.  It all added up to multi-tasking, before such was invented.  And blessedly, Googling the dealership reveals a still-active store, giving hope that a small dealer can still exist in today’s increasingly mega-dealer world.

Second-to-Last Tango on Autobahn 27

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My two sensations from this drive were not post-worthy in the classic sense.  One involved an uncomfortable tilt.  The other was an engine’s song at sustained high speed – on second thought, maybe that second part belongs after all!

It was May 1988, within a month of our return to the U.S. following a three-year U.S. Army tour, and time to drive my 3.0 CS to Bremerhaven.  There, shipment awaited to a grey-market conversion shop near Philly.  Hey, a 3.0 CS!  That sets the stage for future postings about that Karmann-sourced sireen, no?  No.  Let’s just say that most parts of my subsequent 15-year association with this big galumph of a Coupe was regrettable, and actually dulled my older-car enthusiasm for years.  So this isn’t some dreamy BMW blogger waxing about his timeless classic.

Spotted in Philly

On a recent trip to Philly for Ande’s art show, I engaged full dork mode and carried my camera around my neck.  I caught a trio of blue hatchbacks, a Defender 90, a 300 TE, a 524td, and a 164B.

The best part was waiting in the parking lot to spot the 164 driver.  I wouldn’t normally do that in Indiana, but I figured that someone in Philly would be acclimated to, you know, meeting new people.  The occupants of the Alfa turned out to be a small gray-hair in a suit, joined by a similarly-clad but 110% scale partner.

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Porsche 911 Turbo: Owning an 80s Icon Part 1

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Guest post from Shannon at The Crashing Door

Day One (28 miles)

So the first 24hrs of 911 Turbo ownership….let’s first assess the current status. It’s 8:30pm, I am still at work, I am covered in oil, I smell like a I just crawled out of a catalytic converter and I’m soaked. Well, how did we get here (thank you David Byrne)?

So when I test drove the car in question (a 1986 911 Turbo aka 930) the owner mentioned that the oil level gauge was inconsistent and often wrong. I think OK, no problem, always manually check oil and get gauge fixed at the first service. Yesterday I note that the gauge reads at about a third. I get in the car this morning and spot a dollar coin size puddle of oil underneath the sump tank, I am slightly annoyed but I think to myself, “Self, you own a 911 now, this is part of the charm”. During the drive to work the gauge is reading lower than yesterday.  I am not alarmed but concerned. I decide to turn down any requests for rides and resolve to check the dipstick before I leave.

At 6pm I go down to the dark basement of the parking garage for the 5th time today to stare at the car. I say, “hey self, let’s check that ol’ dipstick before the ride home”. Consult the manual just to be sure and discover that you should check the oil with the engine running. Never heard of that before but hey, it’s part of the charm. Fire up the car, let it warm for a minute or two and consult again where the manual says the level should be. Remove oil cap, withdraw dipstick and oh ****. Oil is just barely on the tip. Put dipstick back in quickly and….!!!! The dipstick dodges its little guide and into the bowls of the oil tank it goes. AAAHHHH!

Temperature Taming

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Remember Cuxhaven, a/k/a the end of Germany?  Well, Lieutenant Moore didn’t own the franchise for post-worthy tales emanating from that fair North Sea city.  It was another Saturday, and my wife and I felt the beach calling.  Given our location, Cuxhaven was our only way to answer.  Yes, there was a beach – think Corona commercial, minus roughly fifty degrees.  But our version indeed had sand, and Hacke Beck and Jever were readily available, so it was our go-to strand at least once per summer.

I’ve forgotten any of the topless tales (think George Castanza), but the drive back served up an unexpected brew.  Right behind us on the Einfahrt to A-27 was another 205 GTI, and luckily it was also a 1.6 model.  Had it been a 1.9, this posting would not exist, unless I were to carry on about how abundant armpit hair seemed to be one way for the North Sea fraueleins to keep warm.

This was not a race, but more of a Gallic fist-bump.  It started at a steady 160 kph, but we seemed to ratchet up at 5 kph increments (slowly achieved) until we hit near-maximum velocity in the 193 kph range, where we remained, side-by-side, for a few minutes.  Grinning foolishly while gripping the wheel prudently, my occasional glances at the IP soon revealed an oil temp that was creeping into Ted Cruz territory, that is, quite to the right.

My newfound friend either didn’t bother looking down, or he had more faith in his oil and/or aluminum block.  Thus, he continued zipping along after I dropped back to a steady 140 or so, which allowed the oil temp to return to normal.  Yes, I had experienced a temporary red mist, but memories of a prior French fog ruled the day.  Even with the premature ending to the Gallic gallop, the chance to run flat-out, side-by-side, with our car’s twin was a unique thrill that we only experienced that one beachy day.

Badge Engineering: Saab 9-7X travels the Natchez Trace

 

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Winter 2013-2014 has been the 100 proof sort of winter that can impair one’s judgement; the sort of winter that requires so many layers of pants to perform a timing belt replacement on your 24V Alfa Romeo V6 outdoors, that you start to question your homo erectus ancestors’ choices in mates – you couldn’t find someone with hairier legs?

In fact, this winter has been so bitter that I agreed to fly to Texas to help my friend Andrew drive his recently purchased Saab 9-7x back to Indiana. Yes, I agreed to a 1,000 mile drudge in an SUV designed to stuff GM’s koffers while providing Midwesterners the ability to travel excessive distances by themselves to pick up some Chik-Fil-A, load up their cargo hatches with Duck Dynasty apparel at Wal-Mart, and make it home in time to inhale hours of cable television. Or with the addition of the Saab badge, a Swedish shuttle designed to traverse snowy roads to fish markets, load up on furniture at IKEA, and make it home in time to watch 12 hours of a log burning on television.

Hyperbole aside, I had a few substantial reasons to look forward to the trip. First, the obvious weather relief, and the chance to visit Andrew’s family in Houston. Second, we planned on driving up the Natchez Trace Parkway, a scenic path connecting Natchez, MS to Nashville, TN. And finally, because I have a soft spot for the GMT360 platform. Our friend Malhon has a Trailblazer, with which I’ve gradually bonded each time I’ve summoned it to tow one of my disabled cars – the GTI when the alternator failed on I-70, the Milano when it threw a rod 300 miles from home, and the 164LS when it spun a rod bearing. Of course, it’s an irrational bond, as really most vehicles made of metal could tow my cars. Even a Saturn could.  Suffice to say, I’ve found the platform (and Malhon) to be dependable when my cars are not.

16V vs. 16V … Was Moore the Merrier?

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Nostalgia, Autobahn Style was an earlier posting in my Autobahn 27 series, and described an encounter that led to wishing for Interstates instead of Autobahnen.  To cast aside such twisted, fleeting blasphemy, this story aims to reinforce the best of Autobahn driving.

This vignette began in decidedly proletarian fashion, but evolved into a legendary drive that the author experienced vicariously.  Things started one late-spring Saturday morning in Bremen. Out of nowhere, my wife expressed a hankering for that little-known Northern German specialty, the “Patty Melt with Fries”, best found at the Bremerhaven bowling alley.  So darn, the only solution was to drive up A-27 to the U.S. Army garrison to our north.  Double darn!  Would an amazing encounter erupt, with our Peugeot 205 GTI being lured into a dice with a wanton pack of 911’s?  Hardly.  In fact, the drive of the day / month / three-year tour belonged to a Benzin-happy, Bondurant-schooled U.S. Army lieutenant, Ralph Moore.