Getting Home

One trouble when you leave your beater at your day 4 hotel: you still have to get home from New Orleans. Solution? Buy another team’s car! Team #33, appropriately named Rumspringa, had planned all along to fly home to Pennsylvania. Their 1995 Subaru Impreza coupe’s owner, Rachel, offered the car up for $50. I offered $100 just on principle, and we drove it home without incident on Sunday after a relaxing day and a half in New Orleans with good friends of mine who live there.

The car, named CJ (Cesar Junior!), gets 32 mpg and has no exhaust system after the catalytic convertor, so it’s quite loud. Upon further inspection, it looks like the exhaust is all there, it’s just been disconnected at the cat. Not sure if that’s from general vibration or if it was intention, but I’ll probably get that fixed before selling it. It’s tempting to keep it, but I don’t really need a car with no A/C… Except maybe to sell to a future, foreign BABE Rally team in need.

Or I could rallycross it…

As for next year, I might be in the middle of a five-week internship as the final step in my Motorcycle Service Technology degree. But something tells me I’ll be awfully tempted to jump into the BABE Rally fray again, one way or another. It’s just stupid, addictive fun for car nerd/greasemonkey weirdos.

La Fin de la Stanzawagon

As I write this, I’m sitting in the back of Grumpy, a Chevy Astro AWD van driven by Aaron, one of this year’s rally marshalls, towards New Orleans. It’s a pretty comfortable ride. I’ve got my Acer netbook tethered to the Droid giving a solid 3G data feed, much as I have on previous days when Simon was driving the Stanzawagon.

Stanzawagon is past tense, now. Last night, it took three tries to get it started to drive from the rally hotel to our hotel. I thought little of it. This morning, it cranked and cranked but wouldn’t start.

Diagnosis this time: no fuel. Reason: electrical fault within the fuel pump. I could measure 12 volts at the fuel pump with the key in the “on” position, so it was reasonable to assume the pump was to blame. So we bought a pump, $116 with tax at Napa Auto Parts in Gadsden, Alabama.

With the new pump hooked up (it’s an externally-mounted pump, not so bad to deal with), we tried again, and… nothing. So we hot-wired the pump. Positive lead to the always-on lead that the non-existent radio would have used, negative lead to a cigarette lighter plug. This gave us a 5 amp fuse plus a way to turn the pump off (pull the plug).

Even with the pump running and fuel definitely making it up to the fuel rail, it still wouldn’t start. I was disheartened to say the least, and it was 2:00pm and we were keeping Aaron and his dad (Jim) from New Orleans.

“We did everything within our power to resuscitate the patient, but she did not survive the ordeal. Our thoughts are with your family.”

(Aside: We just now passed another beige Stanzawagon dead on the side of the road. I think they’re all dying this week.)

I informed the hotel of my plans to salvage the car responsibly, and the guy at the desk said it would be okay. I’ve made two calls to local salvage yards to come get it; they’ve both said “we’ll call you back if we’re interested.”

There’s the story. RIP Nissan Stanza wagon, beige, FWD, automatic, 1986-2010. She didn’t even make it to antique status.

Breakdown!

Day 4 started like any other: We drive the car, the left CV joint makes a horrible and loud noise against the A-arm (or something like that) anytime we’re pressing the throttle.

After running down some really twisty roads that would be fun with many vehicles but not this one, the engine just sort of quit. It tends to be worse when a car dies while you’re driving it than if it just doesn’t start the next time you need it.

With the assistance of several other BABE teams who stopped to help, we tested a few theories:

• No spark: Tested by removing a spark plug wire and hold against a ground. We had spark.
• No fuel: Tested by spraying brake cleaner into the intake (beyond the filter) and cranking. No effect, ergo probably not a fuel problem.
• No fuel: Tested again by disconnecting fuel lines and turning the car on to see if fuel was making it past the fuel filter and then back again from the fuel rail. Yep, no problems.
• Timing: Inspected by looking at the timing marks on the camshaft sprocket and crankshaft pulley. No problem.
• Timing: Tried adjusting the timing by rotating the distributor. No effect.
• Timing: Finally, Gary from Team Fugawi asked if anyone had looked at the distributor. No… So I removed the distributor cap. And the rotor was completely loose. Turns out the screw that holds it to the shaft had come completely out and had lodged elsewhere in the distributor.

We put the screw back where it belonged, tightened it well, and put everything else back together. Following yesterday’s form, a storm started blowing through right as we finished putting everything away. Within one mile, we were driving in very heavy rain.

Other things probably happened, but the important one is that we broke down, fixed it (with lots of help), and made it to Gadsden to have dinner and a parking lot beer or two with the other teams.

Tomorrow: New Orleans!

Day 3

Day 3 should have been easy. The challenge was “Don’t Be an Idiot.” We drove the Stanzawagon anyway, so I guess we failed the challenge.

We learned that in a tall car with questionable handling to begin with, it is even less fun to drive twisty roads when the power steering doesn’t work. I continue to rue my loss of the bolt at home that would make this not a problem. (Seriously. No power steering because I lost one stupid, special bolt. Oops.)

Right after we made it through Gatlinburg’s constant traffic jam, there was trouble. Turns out, despite that no idiot light came on to warn us, the alternator hadn’t been charging for quite a while. We found a spot to pull off, and I tightened the alternator/water pump belt, which has been making a nice burned rubber smell. (Assumption: belt started slipping, heated up, melted a bit, stretched, slipped more, etc. Never made a noise, though.)

At this point we needed a jump start, so I fished for one by standing next to the car while dangling our jumper cables into the road. Snagged a big Dodge Ram within 30 seconds! Jump start succeeded, and the multimeter said we were charging the battery again.

This lasted at least two or three miles. We pulled over again, and this time I replaced the belt with the spare that came with the car. The team in the Escort ZX3 helped with the jump start this time (thanks, guys!) and although the belt started shrieking later (only when accelerating from a stop), it worked fine.

In a theme to be carried forward on Day 4, it started raining right as the repair was being finished up, and it was raining hard not one mile later.

Lucky 13

I find the belief in lucky/unlucky numbers to be amusing, if not downright foolish. That said, perhaps our team number will give those folks one more supporting anecdote.

As I mentioned last time, we replaced the nasty old CV joint with a sparkly new one from Advance Auto. Once everything was back together, we were tired, and it was 9:30pm and time for dinner and beer. Perhaps we should has tested it after dinner, though.

This morning I ran the engine to warm things up, and the transmission started leaking quite a bit of fluid. I drove back to Advance Auto to get fluid to replace what got dumped last night. Ended up adding two full quarts until I was happy with the fluid level.

Alarmingly, there was a new metal-on-metal ugly sound. Better yet, on our way to I-81 from the second Advance Auto visit of the morning, I heard a piece of metal whack the bottom of the car. Assumption: The car is falling apart and will kill us any second now.

I actually found the shiny bolt that hit us, but we figured out (after disassembling and inspecting things) that the bolt must have just been in the road and I drove over it without seeing it ahead of time. In fact, the nasty metal-on-metal sound is probably the A-arm of the suspension hitting the inboard side of the CV joint, which presumably is a tiny bit larger than the old one. (Score -1 for remanufactured parts.)

Oh, and that interference also killed the strap that held the inboard CV boot in place, which means our brand-new CV joint is already being exposed to the elements. Whee!

We’ve got about 140 miles behind us now, and with the addition of some Lucas Stop Slip mooched from the team in the Chevy Celebrity, things seem to have tapered off. The engine has also stopped consuming any oil whatsoever, courtesy of the full bottle of CD2 “engine honey” we squeezed into it yesterday.

Lessons for the day:

• Sometimes the dirty fix (e.g. what Justin suggested in an earlier comment) is the best way to go, not just the cheapest way.
• All that crap at the parts store designed to fix leaks is really great stuff for nursing a crap car a little farther down the road.

One big repair for Stanzawagon, one small step backwards for the environment

The front left CV joint (“constant velocity” joint, aka axle, aka propshaft, aka halfshaft) was replaced last night. This is good, because it was sounding really quite nasty, and every time the transmission downshifted going up a hill, I worried that would be the last time before something broke.

Here's what we replaced. It has been argued we could have kept going on the old one. It could be argued the mental stress of wondering when it would break was enough to justify the $60 expense.

Pro tip: When you pull the transmission-side CV joint, have a bucket ready to catch the ATF (automatic transmission fluid) that will dump out. Or maybe drain the ATF beforehand, but that’s extra work, so I like the bucket way.

Side note: I like the smell of hot ATF. Reminds me of my automotive gasket designing years.

Today is costume day. Theme is Wizard of Oz. Every car has to have (at least) one Dorothy in it. Yes, there will be photos.

Day 0

In theory, today should have been pretty easy. Wake up 20 miles from the TN/VA border, drive a bunch of miles to Philadelphia.

In practice,  it would have been that easy, except right after getting onto the Washington DC beltway, I decided to start worrying about the nasty, creaky noise the front-left axle was making. I had noticed only 15 minutes earlier (while parked) that the CV boots were both damaged, so in fact the joint had been exposed to the elements for quite some time.

The good thing about a CV joint (aka front axle) failure is that nothing bad happens other than that the car will no longer be able to propel itself. No sudden steering problems, no crashes, no big deal.

We stopped at my friend John’s house north of DC (just off the beltway) to seek his advice on the axle problem. While I was looking at ways to get a replacement part lined up, he partially disassembled the joint to look for other problems and to make sure we’d be able to fix it in a parking lot after getting the new part.

So that’s all lined up, and what we’ll probably do is wait for the axle to fail completely, then repair it roadside. Basically just to see how nasty the thing can get before it actually breaks. (Don’t tell my mechanic!)

Long story short on the Day 0 parking lot party: Lots of good folks, lots of crappy cars. I took lead on explaining the rally to the police officer who drove by and asked “What is all this?”, and he seemed to be happy (amused) with the response. One team even had a brochure printed up to give to the officer.

This will be a fun week. More photos tomorrow…

Repair backstory for BABE 2010

In the summer of 2008, I bought my car for the 2009 BABE Rally: a 1986 Nissan Stanza wagon with an automatic transmission. I agreed that the automatic made it crappier than it would have been with a manual transmission, and thus more appropriate for the BABE Rally. Also appropriate: In Canada, the car was known as the Nissan Multi. In Japan? Nissan Prairie Joy. It practically screams BABE Rally. It might also be the spiritual successor to the AMC Pacer, in that it looks not unlike a pregnant rollerskate. Others have said it looks like a cardboard milk carton.

Unfortunately I was unable to make it to the rally for 2009, so the car, unrepaired, sat in the backyard. My friend Jason said yesterday that it looked like it had been setting in a field for a year; he wasn’t far off.

When I bought the car, it was sold a a running car that simply wouldn’t pass emissions. Technically true. The owner also said it had “low compression” in one cylinder. In fact it had zero compression. Eventually (four days ago/Wednesday) I got the cylinder head separated from the block, and in fact that cylinder’s exhaust valve was burned out. (Photos to come.)

I convinced my regular mechanic to fix just that one valve, against his recommendation that engine was going to burn gallons of oil because of the condition of the cylinders — basically the black char on the cylinder head told him what (else) was wrong with the engine.

I got the head back from him Friday noon (two days ago) and by Saturday 4:15pm I had by some miracle reassembled everything and brought the car back to life. This is impressive only because I had disassembled most of it a year and a half earlier. This is less impressive because I had a fistful of “where did this one go?” nuts and bolts leftover. And I’d lost a few bolts. Not like anything important, though, unless having power steering is “important.”

Great Video from Day 2

A Harrisonburg, Virginia journalist (?) put together this excellent video about the rally. It does a good job explaining the craziness to… uh… normal people. [Edit: I mis-attributed this to a BABE Rally participant earlier.]

Day 4

Day 4’s challenge was easy enough: take a photo of your team in front of the number 1 gas pump at BP/Amoco stations. Maximum six stations. That was largely just an excuse to get out of the car every 50-100 miles and stretch, breaking up an otherwise all-interstate drive in the Southern heat.

All teams coverged on New Orleans, and the results were announced. The popular vote for the worst pile of rubbish was given to Tossers with Tetanus, who drove the genuinely awful Triumph Spitfire (Spitty!) made of rust and tarp, which leaked differential fluid badly, was all rusty inside the cylinders, had been a cat’s home for years… you get the idea. They also got the spirit-of-the-event award from last year’s winners, Misfit Toys Racing.

The rallymaster’s choice (of rubbish-ness) went to Two Guys Do One BABE (hey, I don’t make up these team names), who drove a 1950’s Plymouth with a 15 mpg V8 under the hood.

In terms of challenge points, Misfit Toys fell to 2nd place this year, while Team Born from Jets took the top spot. The take home the sculpture/trophy made of old brake rotor, spark plugs, transmission gears, and the like.

Addendum: I forgot to mention that Economy Superstar and the Crapiolet did in fact make it to New Orleans on time and sort of trouble-free. It seems the gear shift linkage is still screwed up, so the Day 3 repair didn’t hold for long. Their plan for the trip home to Wisconsin is to force it into 5th gear and only stop when they absolutely, positively need gas. Good luck, guys!