I'm feeling an unusual sense of loss right now. As if I've lost a sense of purpose.
Not because I've suddenly realised my weekends always end with drunken SMS poetry and hundreds of poorly exposed but perfectly posed photos on photobucket and Facebook. Certainly not because a pet died either, the only pet I'd foster is a pet hate, and they are maintenance free.
Bizarrely, its because I actually have 3 (not quite) perfectly functional cars.
It probably seems a bit illogical, but having a broken car that needs fixing within a set time frame is unusually motivational. Not that I really enjoy doing the work, its shit. Especially in this summer heat. I do hope that one day boffins discover that 20+ year old engine oil is the elixir of eternal life and not, say, the cause of super-cancer.
As it turns out the problem with the Pajero was incredibly simple. Shit in the lines. Quite a lot, in fact. The answer was staring me in the face the whole time but I didn't realise. The fuel pressure being higher than what the fuel pressure reg works at should have run alarm bells. It didn't though.
Basically what was happening was that shit in the fuel lines was clogging at the inlet end of the fuel rail, this raised the fuel pressure significantly in the hose before the restriction, probably to the limit of the fuel pumps. The restriction also lowered the pressure in the rail itself. The result being that the car could idle fine (mostly) but get generous with the throttle and it'd starve of fuel. The issue was always there, but not the sole reason for the dramas (pumps also failed due to running dry, cavitation or pumping the shit that was in the lines). It ran briefly (quite well in fact, but briefly) with twin VL pumps in serial. The idea being that you could double the possible fuel pressure at the same flow rate. That failed when one (or both) of the pumps chewed itself to pieces.
The solution was to pull the rail off and clean it out. This was actually an incredibly simple process. Mitsubishi, in what I can only assume was a gross error on their part, actually made removing the injectors incredibly simple. 2 bolts and its out. No need to remove half the plenum, intake manifold or the entire motor. The shit that came out of the rail, though mostly caught in the banjo bolt at the end, was unrecognisable. It was as though a cigarette-packet model had coughed up a tarry lung full of sputum into the fuel lines. It was impressive, fucking foul, and unmistakably the reason for the dramas. There was no way fuel was getting through there easily.
Half a can of carby-cleaner later the black death stopped coming out of the lines. We reinstalled the fuel rail with fresh (second hand) injectors, a 3rd in-line fuel filter and turned the key. After 30 seconds of spluttering as the lines primed properly, it came to life to our amazement and the neighbours disappointment. To us though, the familiar sound of an un-muffled, rattling exhaust was pure joy. In much the same way, I imagine, as the sound of a boys choir singing Christmas carols is to a paedophile.
So then with 3 working cars, I could concentrate on breaking them again. The fun part.
We took the now running Pajero out to the secret testing ground. Its basically an empty block of land with a lot of clay soil, some steep hills and a cemetery right next to it. It may in fact it be part of the cemetery. Well, nobody has ever complained.
A few of the lower laying patches of the land were still quite muddy. As I said it was that horribly slimy clay soil. The shit that is difficult enough to walk on let alone drive on. After climbing a few (dry) hills effortlessly, no hesitation or anything, we got a bit overzealous. There was a fairly large and inviting strip of mud with plenty of dry areas around it for a run up. I dialled up a few grand and made a dash for it.
The mud was actually quite a lot deeper than it looked, probably a foot deep in the middle and even with plenty of speed and plenty of throttle the Pajero slowed right up. It came to stop with barely two metres between the first patch of dry ground and the front wheels. The car just dug it self in and threw mud up in the air. Some massive piece collected the passenger side mirror and it inverted itself.
No amount of pushing, rocking, jumping or throttle could get the car to move from where it was.
Defeated I made a few calls. RACQ wasn't really an option, neither was Marc, so I went the next best thing. A mate's dad. He drove for 45 minutes to get to where we were just to snatch us out. So thanks, Dad.
It was getting dark by this stage, and given we'd already used the get out of jail free card, we called it a day. I pulled into a servo for a splash and dash, and to clean off the mud that was all over the front windscreen from all the vain attempts at freeing the car.
I pulled up next to a yellow Hyundai with a couple of girls in it. I hopped out, barefoot, with mud half way up my shins. Mud was still dripping from the car. The Indian dude at the counter was glaring at me, like I was the coach of his daughter's soccer team or something. I grabbed the squeegee and started scrapping the shit off the windscreen. I left distinct clay foot prints where ever I walked.
The girls in the car were giggling. "I think you'll need a bigger sqeegee! hehehehe!" I turned around and realised they were cops. I'm thinking they were trainees because they were about my age. That and the fact they still had a sense of humour. I'm pretty sure they train that out of them. Or surgically remove it. I threw a cheesy grin back at them, probably more out of surprise than anything.
They drove off giggling away like school girls, throwing a few more comments as they went. I just hope they still have that sense of humour when they pull me over next time. It could be handy.
Not because I've suddenly realised my weekends always end with drunken SMS poetry and hundreds of poorly exposed but perfectly posed photos on photobucket and Facebook. Certainly not because a pet died either, the only pet I'd foster is a pet hate, and they are maintenance free.
Bizarrely, its because I actually have 3 (not quite) perfectly functional cars.
It probably seems a bit illogical, but having a broken car that needs fixing within a set time frame is unusually motivational. Not that I really enjoy doing the work, its shit. Especially in this summer heat. I do hope that one day boffins discover that 20+ year old engine oil is the elixir of eternal life and not, say, the cause of super-cancer.
As it turns out the problem with the Pajero was incredibly simple. Shit in the lines. Quite a lot, in fact. The answer was staring me in the face the whole time but I didn't realise. The fuel pressure being higher than what the fuel pressure reg works at should have run alarm bells. It didn't though.
Basically what was happening was that shit in the fuel lines was clogging at the inlet end of the fuel rail, this raised the fuel pressure significantly in the hose before the restriction, probably to the limit of the fuel pumps. The restriction also lowered the pressure in the rail itself. The result being that the car could idle fine (mostly) but get generous with the throttle and it'd starve of fuel. The issue was always there, but not the sole reason for the dramas (pumps also failed due to running dry, cavitation or pumping the shit that was in the lines). It ran briefly (quite well in fact, but briefly) with twin VL pumps in serial. The idea being that you could double the possible fuel pressure at the same flow rate. That failed when one (or both) of the pumps chewed itself to pieces.
Half a can of carby-cleaner later the black death stopped coming out of the lines. We reinstalled the fuel rail with fresh (second hand) injectors, a 3rd in-line fuel filter and turned the key. After 30 seconds of spluttering as the lines primed properly, it came to life to our amazement and the neighbours disappointment. To us though, the familiar sound of an un-muffled, rattling exhaust was pure joy. In much the same way, I imagine, as the sound of a boys choir singing Christmas carols is to a paedophile.
So then with 3 working cars, I could concentrate on breaking them again. The fun part.
We took the now running Pajero out to the secret testing ground. Its basically an empty block of land with a lot of clay soil, some steep hills and a cemetery right next to it. It may in fact it be part of the cemetery. Well, nobody has ever complained.
A few of the lower laying patches of the land were still quite muddy. As I said it was that horribly slimy clay soil. The shit that is difficult enough to walk on let alone drive on. After climbing a few (dry) hills effortlessly, no hesitation or anything, we got a bit overzealous. There was a fairly large and inviting strip of mud with plenty of dry areas around it for a run up. I dialled up a few grand and made a dash for it.
The mud was actually quite a lot deeper than it looked, probably a foot deep in the middle and even with plenty of speed and plenty of throttle the Pajero slowed right up. It came to stop with barely two metres between the first patch of dry ground and the front wheels. The car just dug it self in and threw mud up in the air. Some massive piece collected the passenger side mirror and it inverted itself.
No amount of pushing, rocking, jumping or throttle could get the car to move from where it was.
Defeated I made a few calls. RACQ wasn't really an option, neither was Marc, so I went the next best thing. A mate's dad. He drove for 45 minutes to get to where we were just to snatch us out. So thanks, Dad.
It was getting dark by this stage, and given we'd already used the get out of jail free card, we called it a day. I pulled into a servo for a splash and dash, and to clean off the mud that was all over the front windscreen from all the vain attempts at freeing the car.
I pulled up next to a yellow Hyundai with a couple of girls in it. I hopped out, barefoot, with mud half way up my shins. Mud was still dripping from the car. The Indian dude at the counter was glaring at me, like I was the coach of his daughter's soccer team or something. I grabbed the squeegee and started scrapping the shit off the windscreen. I left distinct clay foot prints where ever I walked.
The girls in the car were giggling. "I think you'll need a bigger sqeegee! hehehehe!" I turned around and realised they were cops. I'm thinking they were trainees because they were about my age. That and the fact they still had a sense of humour. I'm pretty sure they train that out of them. Or surgically remove it. I threw a cheesy grin back at them, probably more out of surprise than anything.
They drove off giggling away like school girls, throwing a few more comments as they went. I just hope they still have that sense of humour when they pull me over next time. It could be handy.
2008-12-15 20:26:00 ( 0 Comments )
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