Captainkirk's Duster project
Chapter 9
But I'm getting ahead of myself
..We've jumped ahead to '79 now, and the dial of the Wayback machine is still set for 1978. Come along Sherman, and follow Mr. Peabody back where we're supposed to be
...the fall of '78.
You know this had to bug me; having a potent, yet oil-guzzling motor under the hood, while the heart and soul of the Red Rocket lay slumbering quietly in a storage unit. Yeah, it did. But I needed my car on a daily basis and with the new factory job I was working Saturdays as well. One-day engine swaps were not my forte.
So I, Dr. Frankenstein, carefully crafted a plan. I would have Dad drive down at Christmas break with the Jimmy and we'd haul the sleeping dragon back home with us; carefully, so as not to wake it.
I'd have 2 weeks to make the transition.
One of my teacher's favorite sayings was "Plan your work, then work your plan."
That's how I planned it; that's what I did.
But nothing ever goes quite the way you planned, does it?
All went well the first leg of the trip. We stopped in near St. Louis to see my uncle and stayed the night. Next morning, bright and early, we hit the road again. About two hours out of Chicago we ran into snow flurries, which began to get heavier and wetter as we approached the city bypass. Darkness was coming on early, aided by the heavy clouds and falling snow blocking out the sun like a dark cloak. By the time we'd passed the city it was coming down hard; wipers and defrost on HIGH. It was about then during one of my scans I noticed the ammeter needle on the wrong side of the gauge.
Crap, I thought; less than an hour from home and I'm shedding electrons like a dog shedding fleas in a bathtub. I'll cross my fingers, and maybe I can make it home
..
No such luck, Bonzo.
First the wipers went; slowing down to the point where I just shut 'em off. Then the defrost blower went. So, now I'm driving through heavy, wet snow with no wipers or defrost, trying to follow Richard Petty in the GMC. I rolled down the window and was using my gloves inside and out to try to keep the snow off the outside and the fog off the inside
while driving. I made a valiant stab at it for a couple miles, but when the headlights started to go, I knew I was beaten.
Fortunately for me, Richard Petty noticed the headlights.
We were now about 45 minutes from being home free. Dad pulled off at the Lake Forest Oasis and parked. I pulled up next to him and the engine gave one last shuddering sigh, and then gave up the ghost, as the final electron in my ignition unit left the building.
There wasn't much I could do. At least the car was in a well-lit parking lot off the highway. I grabbed a crescent wrench from the glove box, popped the hood, and yanked the battery. I figured if I charged it all night, I could probably make it home tomorrow without wipers or blower. I locked the doors and we drove on home. Besides, my fingers were totally wet, frozen' and numb from wiper duty.
I was right, but just barely. The next day the front had passed, and it was brilliantly bright, without a cloud in the sky, and colder than a witches t*t. The car fired right up, all perky and rarin' to go, and after about 2 miles I was beginning to feel like a Pop-Sicle. I didn't dare run the heater blower, and without the fan, let me tell you, the heater in an A-body ain't diddly-squat! I was actually sore from shivering. The car finally died at a stop sign two blocks from the house. Dad gave me a jump and I made it home; finally!
Dad had a spot cleaned out for me in the garage; the same spot where just a few months (seemed like an eternity) earlier, we'd survived Red WalrusFest/ Pearl Harbor. I would've liked to go visit some of my friends and all, but there was work to be done
I knew the drill. The 4 X 4s went in their usual place, and the Zebco 404 Drop-A-Motor winch was hanging from the chain. I think I had the motor out in less than two hours. I set it on a little four-wheeled dolly and wheeled it off into a corner like a dead man on a gurney, on his way to the morgue. I didn't have a sheet to cover it's face. The alternator was, of course, toast. I had to search high and low to find a rebuilt; all the local auto parts stores could order them, but had none in stock. There was a Farm & Fleet about 20 miles away that finally told me they had one over the phone
. Road trip! By the time I got back, it was cold, dark, and I wanted to see my girl. That was enough monkey business for my first day of vacation.
The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, the Frankenstein Motor was perched in it's new home long before the sun had hit its zenith. I left the mounts loose for the exhaust; what to do about the exhaust? I wasn't about to bolt up the HiPo manifolds to this motor!
But I was in sort of a pickle; I'd spent more than I'd planned on gas and that darn alternator. I still had Christmas shopping to do for my family, and for my girl as well. Headers weren't really in the budget. And the Hedman's I'd had previously had gone up in price considerably.
I sure as heck didn't want to ask Mom; I hadn't paid back the money I'd borrowed for the car yet. And Dad had spent a lot on gas, driving down to haul my motor up, and besides, it was Christmas. I told my sweetie that night on the phone about my concerns; she said not to worry; that I would figure something out; I always did.
Well, who should show up next morning but Santa, looking suspiciously like the girl I'd spoken to the night before
...Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!
... with a plain, unmarked box full of
...HEADERS!
She'd gone up to World Of Speed and knowing nothing other than '72 Duster and 340, had picked me up a set of Doug Thorley's. Now, that's the kind of girl you hang on to! (I did.)
I marked the duals where the collectors would go and sawed em off with a hacksaw, and bolted up the collectors; temporarily tying it all together with muffler clamps. Things were looking up.
The next ugly little problem to rear its head involved the radiator; remember, though this was a 72 Duster, I had determined the motor to be of an earlier vintage. It was. And most of you who know Mopars know one of the changes instituted in '72 was a higher-flow water pump with the hose on the other side, which required a different timing cover, and
...you know where this is going, right? I thought so.
So, you're thinking, just swap the timing cover and damper and water pump and be on your way
.
Right.
I started doing this. I had the timing cover off the Valiant Little 318 That Could and on the 340 before I had time to think about it. Easier done than said. I was getting set to bolt up the damper from the 318 when I saw the ominous mystic heiroglyphics scribed on the front of my 340 damper
. "FOR USE WITH CAST 340 CRANK ONLY!!!!!" This was not a kindly advisory or caution note; it meant business. What it meant, in a nutshell, was ONLY the damper from FrankenDuster could be used on the FrankenDuster motor. And the timing mark was in the wrong spot for this timing cover/water pump combo. Now I was stumped. Either go out and buy a different radiator
or
...
I love mechanical problems. Especially when they kick your ***. You're beaten, humiliated, and sent home in shame. And then you turn the tables
..
Such was the case. What if,
I thought,
I reinstall the cast crank damper and realign the timing marks to the old-style timing cover using timing tape?
Worked like a charm. Score one for the Captain.
The only issue left to deal with was the spark-box. I mentioned that the Mallory had been sent to the scrap heap by the accident. The 340 I'd just removed had a points-type distributor. The Valiant Little 318 That Could also had a points-type distributor. But I still had the original Chrysler electronic ignition from the Red Rocket when I'd installed the Mallory. On it went. This was too easy
.
Time for the moment of truth. I'd burned up my first week of vacation and was into the second. I filled the pan with oil, the radiator with Prestone, crossed my fingers, and thumbed the key
..
As with the first time, it lit immediately.
Hello Old Friend, its really good to see you once again
..
Eric Clapton
Cold or not, I was in ecstasy. A few quick adjustments to timing, recheck the float height on the Holley, and we were ready for a test-hop. Though it was cold with snow on the ground, the roads were clear and the sun was out. I slid in behind the wheel and eased her out of the garage and backed slowly into the street.
It was immediately apparent that there had been some changes. Gone was the plays-well-with-others friendly idle. Gone was the sloppy factory tranny linkage. Gone was the pleasant exhaust rumble, exchanged for a mean, lopey growl. The transplant was a success; Dr. Frankenstein was now an evil genius pariah, forever shunned by the world, and the long-slumbering beast was awake
and voraciously hungry. I motored casually through town, past the outskirts and out onto the open road.
Psssst
.pssst! (in my ear)
..wanna play around?
It was the ghost of that pesky lil red minx
..a phantom voice echoing from the past: a voice that had been eerily silent these past few months.
Go away.
She'd gotten me in enough trouble for one lifetime. Besides, this car didn't seem, well, minx-y
Yet, there it was.
I suppose I should tell you I behaved myself, driving like an elderly English gentleman out for a morning jaunt in his motorcar down by the white cliffs of Dover. What a great ending for a story, especially one to tell your children at bedtime! Bad boy builds fast car. Bad boy crashes fast car. Bad boy learns his lesson and drives like granny, until he's as old as granny!
Get real.
I will admit my enthusiasm was, and remains, tempered by the Jibber-Jabber shaking I'd gotten about the time the li'l red minx made her untimely exit. Let's just say I looked further down the road and was a bit more careful about where, when, and why. But you dont keep a quarter horse locked in a petting zoo. And like the punk said to Clint Eastwood, when asked the eternal question
Do I feel lucky today? Well
...do ya
..punk?
I gots ta know!
I found out. Real quick.
There was something different about this car, though. It was more of a
...gunslinger, for lack of a better word.
It didn't scream Race me..I'm fast! like the Red Rocket had.
It didn't holler Sheriff; I'm-a callin you out!
No fancy cowhide vest with twin cross-draw holsters snuggling up to ornately engraved nickel plated .45s with pearl handles, hundred-dollar boots with jangly silver spurs.
No, just an ordinary dusty cowhand with his well-worn holster, lackluster wood-handled .45 with the bluing worn down to shiny metal in all the right places. One who doesn't talk much.
Ordinary.
But deadly.
And as I put my foot into it, I realized this one would put a bullet smack between your surprised, wide-as-saucer eyes before your fancy custom cross-draw muzzles ever cleared leather.
The Man who shot Liberty Valance
..John Wayne! I was driving John Wayne!