Winter on I-90

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This post and photos come from fellow Alfisti, Fred Russell.

The drive from the biggest city in Montana, Billings, to the small town of Sheridan Wyoming is about 120 miles. In the summer, traffic along I-90 usually flows at a little over 80 MPH. On the one sunny day between two good snow storms, was my choice to drive the route. The traffic was light and I assumed they’d be a little slower than the summer speeds. Most were… except for one knucklehead from the Seattle area doing 80 MPH. This highway heads through the Big Horn Valley crossing over the Little Bighorn River numerous times as it goes. I doubt very many members of the 7th Cavelry sent many postcards home when they passed through here in the summer of 1876.

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Those of us living in a coastal city may forget how critical the railroads are to industry. With the huge ships quietly coming and going at the port, usually far removed from our daily lives. That isn’t an option inland. The railroads are the heavy workers in places like the coal fields of Wyoming. (I watched 4 long coal trains go past in 4 hours this day.) With the Bighorn Moutains creating both a backdrop and a wind break, a train carries new American cars to points westward. Inside may be any number of cars built on these shores from BMW, Dodge, Jeep, Ford, Honda, Mercedes Benz, and more. I imagined the railcars were actually filled with Chevy trucks and that somehow they could sense they were passing an elderly cousin resting in the snow on that sunny day in Wyoming. That 1958 Cameo sat proudly with all of its trim, glass, and pieces showing just about the right amount of age, but not any abuse.

Ferrari 456

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Ah, the transaxle, master of delayed gratification.  The engine has no problem warming up – this particular car even had a second set of owner-installed radiator fans to deal with its thermal output – it’s the transaxle that takes time.  I planned on eventually shifting out of first gear, so with Mark, the owner, sitting passenger, we took a tepid parade lap through a typical Houston neighborhood of ranch houses.

Mark instructed me to take advantage of the stretch of beltway ahead of us.

“It’s your license.”

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Picking up the ‘new old’ GTI

1984 VW GTI

The ‘new old’ 1984 GTI

I really had nothing to do with any of the work that goes into buying and licensing a car. I just remember receiving a package in the mail which contained a license plate and my dad calling me with directions to an import dealer in Albany, NY. I had just finished finals at school and had a week or so to kill before graduation so I was more than willing to drive the 3 hours each way to pick up my brother’s ‘new’ 1984 VW GTI. The only tough part was finding someone who was willing to tag along and then drive my car back.

We arrived at the shop in Albany (after a lunch break at a scary McDonald’s) and I walked inside and told them I was there to pick up the white GTI. They then handed me the keys. That was it. Really? I had brought my passport in order to prove my identity and had figured that they would be unwilling to release the car to someone other than its registered owner. Oh well. After a quick ocular pat-down on the car I noticed nothing troubling other than the fact that it needed some air in its tires. The car started right up and sounded like it had enough power under the hood to propel the small box to highway speeds. After affixing the license plate I thanked the dealers and left.

Stoic Trees

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Other than consideration of the speeds involved, the primary fear while driving along Autobahn 27 north of Bremen was glute-grinding gusts of wind.  They came without warning, and at speeds above 140 kph or so, our cars had no answer other than darting sideways, often well into the adjacent lane or shoulder.  The 205 GTI corrected relatively easily, but the MR2 reacted indignantly.  With nominal weight on the front wheels and fairly flat flanks, we sounded many a startled screech over the din of Herr Zwo’s shrill 1.6 liters (he was German-spec with 124 PS).  Thankfully, we never left the road completely or angled into an adjacent vehicle.

After the initial few months of such occurrences, it dawned on us that the surrounding scenery never gave explicit warning.  Instead was implicit evidence; namely, in the marshy plains that spread southward from the North Sea, numerous windmills (think Don Quixote, not Cape Cod) dotted the landscape, testament to the area’s windiness.  But on A-27 itself, every klick or so we would whiz past a clump of trees that did not sway to betray the breezes.  So these trees were not allies, unlike our Northern Army Group comrades –  Germans, Dutch, Belgians, French, and English.  Perhaps the trees were tweeting their topiary truculence at such a troubling troupe – historically, anyway.

French Fog

image2014-03-05-155245-2This occurrence began in typical, innocent, Autobahn 27 fashion.  I had been in Bremerhaven for work purposes, and now faced the drudgery of the roughly 50 km of Autobahn that separates Bremerhaven and our Bremen-Nord exit (Ausfahrt).  The expectation was for a relaxed drive, maybe in the 140 – 150 kph range that the Peugeot 205 GTI seemed to enjoy.  At those speeds, the 1.6 liter SOHC 8-valver and the Conti’s hummed contentedly, and the notorious sidewinds (I’ll try to establish their notoriety in an upcoming post, anyway) didn’t affect stability too badly.

So there I was, minding my business, probably listening to Armed Forces Network (AFN), a Sting cassette, or maybe even  local media beamed from the Bremen Funkturm.  Even in this placid mode, A-27demanded full attention to windows, mirrors, and instruments.  Similar to NASCAR’s tiny oval in Bristol, TN, Autobahn hazards come from any direction: inattentive passers ahead; left lane lords behind; ramp racers drifting from the sides; even  leghorn-worthy fog dropped from above – and can cause sudden driver input to the steering wheel, pedals, and shifter.

DIYAutoFTW founder Steve on his e28 BMW M5

This repost comes from Steve, the founder of DIYautoFTW  – more on that in the footer.

Sold my GTI and weighed my options. Picked the irresponsible one.

Although it served me faithfully for four years it was time for me to part ways with my 07 GTI. It was extremely versatile, I moved four times and it readily hauled surprising amounts of my stuff, covering hundreds of trips between Detroit, Flint, Milwaukee, and other faraway places in all types of weather with nary a stumble. It could also be very fun, although I hooned around a bit it always handled predictably and I never hit its limits. The only surprises came from the speeds I could go around corners with out drama. Yet after 70,000 miles it had grown boring and I had to change things up.

I was looking at a broad range of cars. I needed something fun and didn’t want a car payment. I don’t have a problem with getting my hands dirty once in a while to keep things running as well (happens when you own a 43 year old British car). I was looking at anything from swapped 2.5 RSs to E36 M3s. The sensible part of me wanted to forget all the potential problems of a used car and get a pre-owned WRX or G8 and be done with it. A warranty, less maintenance and hassle, no risk of being stranded on the side of the road. However after the passing of CosmicTDI and other life events I realized I wouldn’t be at this point in my life again. I’m engaged with no kids on the horizon for a little while but in 3 or 5 years my auto needs would change and would probably be less easy to rationalize. As an enthusiast I felt the need to get something I would really like while I could, even if it wasn‘t the most practical or “smart“ thing to get. Life is short and all that. So my search focused on cars I always wanted and knew would be a blast and interesting to own. I wasn’t thinking reliability be dammed but it wasn’t as high on my list anymore. I ended up finding the perfect car.

Audi S4 + Snow

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Phil is braver than most.  Those who have shopped for B6 or B7 Audi S4s know the wallet-slimming  propensity of the V8 models – reason enough to look elsewhere for transportation.  Seriously, timing chains on the rear of engines should be reserved for disposable cars, NVH benefits aside.  In spite of this, Phil remains confident in the condition of his S4.  I’m glad that capable DIY mechanics like Phil are around to enjoy these exceptional vehicles.

I nearly purchased an S4 Avant a few years ago.  Emotionally, I was fighting a losing battle, as the seller had equipped the car with an exhaust system that amplified the staccato bark of the 4.2L V8 to the acme of tasteful volume.  Driving the car, I struggled to coax air around the lump of endearment lodged in my throat.  My spine tingled, and perhaps the pollen irritated my eyes, because they struggled to contain their natural moisture.  I don’t really remember how it handled, or how the steering felt, or how the ride was.  I just remember the exotic burble, and the hyena cackle on overrun.

Thwarted by that S4’s Carfax, I wisely bought two Alfas.  Bullet: dodged.  Oh wait.

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Nostalgia, Autobahn Style (a/k/a Highway Song?)

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Not everyone gets the opportunity to spend extended time on the Autobahnen, or even drive them at all.  So to many, it may seem odd that a blast down A-27 – or any highway, really – could warrant a post about Autobahn-induced spousal homesickness.  But this involved a coincidental encounter that completely justified her pinings for native grounds.

Our marriage was less than a month old, and save for the brief honeymoon at a SC beach, our time together was all in Germany.  The immersion tracked with the expatriation paradigm, with wonderful newness soon replaced by noticing how different Germany can be compared with, well, anywhere.  C’mon – stores not open past noon on Saturdays (except for one Langer Samstag per month that granted a whopping four hour extension) and heavens-no on Sunday?  Throw in parsimonious smiles, warmth, English, etc. from the very formal Northern Germans; a two-week summer courtesy of the North Sea’s proximity; etc., and you get the picture:  honeymoon over.

Alfa Romeo Milano Verde Part 2: Disassembly and Diagnosis

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Continued from Alfa Romeo Milano Verde Part 1: Introduction

Understanding why the Milano’s engine had seized so suddenly and ruinously on I-70 required minimal disassembly.  The first bolt revealed metallic sheen of the oil – not good.  17 bolts later, I was staring at a mangled connecting rod cap sitting in a rubble of rod bearing annihilation – oh no, crank is bad.  Then I noticed the coolant lingering in the lower oil pan, and started feeling better knowing that at this point, at least I’d get to meet another Alfisti, because the block was toast.

Now, the root cause of the spun rod bearing and subsequent destruction is more difficult to establish. 10 minutes prior to the excitement, I had checked the oil level, so oil was available, at least to the oil pump. The oil pump seemed to be working too, since the low oil pressure light never came on, and the oil pressure gauge never dropped.  Some cavitation damage was present on the oil pump rotor, but given the adequate oil pressure, not enough to blame for loss of oil film.  The oil itself was in good shape, having been changed 700 miles ago.

Autobahn 27: Seven Fables for Six More Weeks of Winter

The title implies a series.  And a series can imply greatness, say, when it involves Homer (the Greek or the Simpson),  Stephen King, or DTM.  In certain portions of York County, PA, the title could conjure up the storied Seven Gates of Hell, behind which lurked, predictably, an evil insane asylum.  The myth has been proven false, but that didn’t keep York down too long, as our infamous Intelligent Design scrap rode the charts the whole way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Where does the Elfer enter this tale?  Well, it doesn’t.  First off, I didn’t buy the Elfer as garage royalty.  But between a heavy workload and the Polar Vortex’s fluffy fallout, I haven’t driven the car since early December.  Beyond being borderline criminal, that leaves nothing worthy of posting.  After all, a Porsche not in motion still holds beauty, but musings about indulgent haunches belong in other blogs, perhaps of the agrarian variety.

The solution:  Return to the memory banks, all the way to – you got it – my three years in Germany!  Bremen isn’t a customary tourist destination for Americans, but its blessed proximity to both Autobahn 1 and the playground known as Autobahn 27 allowed me to assemble a bevy of memorable tomes.  So please feel free to ride on, unless the Gates of Hell reference (hey, they even named a craft beer after it!) wasn’t too wretched.

Installments (click on photo or title to read each):

Part 1: Nostalgia, Autobahn Style (a/k/a Highway Song?)

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Part 2: French Fog

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Part 3: Stoic Trees

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Part 4: 16V vs. 16V … Was Moore the Merrier?

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Part 5: Temperature Taming

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Part 6: Second to last Tango on Autobahn 27

image2014-02-15-174805-2Part 7:  Last Joust in Germany

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Alfa Romeo Milano Verde Part 1: Introduction

Typical position

I can blame my middle school bus route past the import auto shop for the recent deluge of Alfa in my life.  Our dad‘s 73 BMW 3.0 CS sometimes sat outside of the shop there, so in between sightings of the classic E9 coupe began a steady exposure to Alfa Romeo.  It’s necessary to note that the school bus never broke down, which at that point would have been the only opportunity, short of breaking down in an Alfa, for me to associate Alfas with a disregard for forward progress.

One Saturday in 2004, we stopped at the import shop  to check out a meet-up underway.  Some classic British, BMW M, and other Euro noteworthies occupied the lot out front.  Taylor and I made our way to the Alfas near the fence and made the following observations:

1. The Spider shift lever position is exceptional
2. The 164 dash is a vast expanse of buttons
3. The Milano Verde has the coolest seats on earth

Cabin fever: Andrew on autocrossing his E34 BMW 535i (on ice)

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From Andrew:

As part of my New Year’s resolution, I said that I would try to be more organized. I set out in my quest by clearing the clutter off of my computer’s imaginary desktop and shuttling files into various folders with the hope that I can find them later down the road.The usual result is that I come across some folder that I hid away long ago and my productivity jumps off the proverbial cliff in a nostalgic haze.

Today’s efforts resulted landed me within a folder containing pictures from my first winter in the Land of Lincoln. That winter, in an effort to soothe my inner gear head, I registered for a BMWCCA autocross. Let it be known, I have a bad habit of autocrossing cars that have absolutely no place slicing and dicing through bright orange cones at speed, let alone in a competitive manner. My Saab 9000 does one of four things when driven on one of these tortuous parking lot courses: List to port, list to starboard, plow gravel with its front bumper, or frivolously spin away 400Nm of torque through its open differential and one 205 section tire when the turbo comes on cue. Then there is the other car currently in my garage.

Behold! A BMW!

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