Dead Cell

So Thursday this last week I was browsing the video game section in my local video store, and they guy standing next to me turned to ask me about Xbox RPG's, excusing his lack of knowledge due to his being a gearhead. So I gave him my recommendations, then inquired if he knew much about carbeuration. He said he did, and that he worked on old cars almost exclusively. Supposedly he worked for a well-known body shop in Des Moines.

I told him I had the Galaxie out in the garage but that I'd done very little with it due to my lack of knowledge, excusing myself as a computer techie. He said he had a machine that wasn't working right, so I suggested we trade favors - I fix his computer and he get my car running. He said he was interested and actually showed up at my place later that evening, with computer in tow. What luck!

We couldn't get the car running Thursday evening, but he was puzzled when he saw a particular wire laying across the block, saying that he believed it went to a throttle body assembly. As it turned out, he called back the next day and said that he'd determined that my engine came out of an '83 Ford Falcon. Really? Any thoughts of a true restore job went out the window. This was going to be a total custom job now - I was resolute. He also negotiated to come back Saturday, and thought he'd bring a friend who specialized in distributors (I'd replaced most of the parts in mine, and probably really loused it up good).

Saturday came and Matt showed up in the late afternoon (sans friends). He double-checked that I had the plug wires on right (I'd mixed up 2 and 4), looked over the distributor (I'd left the coil unhooked from power), verified that the carb was getting gas, and generally stated that it ought to be starting. Each time we cranked it, the battery lost a little more juice. I brought a small charge unit and hooked it up but it wasn't doing any good. So I pulled up the F250 and we tried jumping it. No dice - it didn't seem to be charging. Matt popped the caps off the battery and one of the cells appeared to be half empty. He declared it a dead battery. By this time, it was 9:30PM - no auto stores were open. My options were to wait until Monday, or buy a Walmart brand battery.

Some things you don't skimp on. I don't buy inferior computer parts, generic peanut butter, or anything other than Charmin toilet paper. And when possible, I always buy Interstate batteries. I replaced the battery in my last '66 LTD with an Interstate, and was pleasantly surprised that it started after many times I forgot and left the headlights or stereo on.

So this week I will have a new Interstate battery for my hoopty.

Matt seems to be a good kid (he's 22) with lots of connections in the hot rod world - while he works in a body shop, he says he can fabricate about any part (with the right tools), fix darned near anything, and knows guys who can fix anything he can't.

I have nothing to post. Absolutely nothing. The beast slumbers in its dark cave behind my house, waiting for a hapless victim to crawl inside its maw in a futil effort to awaken it.

Can anyone say Cobra Jet?

Too cold, too little time, too much other work to do... Lots of excuses why the Galaxie is not yet tearing up the road. Ultimately, it just hasn't been a priority lately.


That hasn't stopped me from thinking about what I want to do to the car... While my Galaxie was built with a 289 ci engine, I drooled with lust when I read that there was a 7-liter Galaxie produced in 1966, with a 428 ci engine that produced 500+ HP. It got me to thinking...

http://www.proformanceunlimited.com/specs/428_525HP_AAL.html

http://www.chevystreetperformance.com/video/428cj.wmv


The 289 was a great little engine (in a 2800-lb Mustang) at 195-200 BHP. But to sling around a 3600-lb car, I believe I need something a bit bigger, a bit grander!

On the Table

Interesting that my Intrepid's engine blowing would be the catalyst for me finding my dream car. More precisely, Jen finding my dream car. Evidently, she and Scotty have been conspiring for some time to find me a 66 Galaxie.



Now I own one again. A red 2-dr hardtop with a 289ci small block. It's perfect. A blank canvas.

We come from the land of the ice and snow,

from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.

The hammer of the gods

Will drive our ships to new lands,

To fight the horde, singing and crying:

Valhalla, I am coming!

66?

"What's the significance of the number 66?", you may ask. Numbers, words, pictures - these and many other things can carry any amount of significance you choose to give them. There's a whole discipline (Symbology) devoted to it.

For me, 66 represents two things. A car and a trip. Both of those conjure grand ideas - freedom, big spaces, and Americana.

The trip is self-explanatory. A journey that many others have made before. A journey that my wife and I plan to take someday. That is not the purpose of this blog.

A CAR

Those who know me know that I've had cars with character. There was my first car - the Chaotic War Machine (also known as the Vova or the Dirty Snowball), my 77 Chevy Nova. A 4-dr straight-6 grocery getter with red-plaid bench seats was not my idea of a cool car when I was in high school, but my friends remember many hairy nights riding in (or on) that beast. It took all the abuse I could throw at it, and kept running.

There were less memorable vehicles - my 83 Ford F250 pickup, the 88 Olds Cutlass Supreme, the 83 Buick Skylark (totaled before I had it paid for), the 89 F150, the 2000 Ford Focus, and the Toyota Corolla.

The most notorious was my 1966 Ford Galaxie LTD 4-dr hardtop. 4 tons of Detroit steel with a 352 ci powerplant that woke every dog in 3 blocks when I'd fire her up in the morning. Scotty dubbed her my Hoopty, and it stuck. My then-wife was jealous of her (the Hoopty took better care of me) and finally convinced me to sell her. Years later the then-wife became my ex-wife and the Hoopty still haunted my dreams. She'd been sold in an auction and I bemoaned ever selling her. I could only assume she was at the bottom of a junk pile, victim of some demo derby.

My friends grew tired of me talking about it, and it became a dream best-forgotten.