Part III

Years ago, I modified my 1965 GTO’s original fuel tank with a ½ inch pickup and an internal baffle.  The baffle has partially broken its weld.  I ponder trying to fix my old tank, but soon give it up.  The tank was old, there was no easy way to access the baffle and no shop wants to weld on a used gas tank with its potential for exploding.

I looked around for a new tank.  After hours on the internet I believe there is only one company, maybe 2, making reproduction gas tanks for early GM A-bodies, which include my GTO.  Lots of vendors advertise aftermarket tanks.  Few stock them.  Practically all tanks are drop shipped from the manufacturer, after they got your money and build the tank, at some indeterminate time in the future.  Prices vary widely from less than $200 to north of $350.  What about a tank with a preinstalled baffle, even, maybe, with a preinstalled baffle and pump?  I researched those as well.  I concluded, 1) they are pricey, like $600 pricey; 2) all use a return style pump mounted in the tank, which I decided years ago does not fit my needs for my street/strip car; 3) all are heavier than a stock style tank; and 4) all of them include the caveat in the fine print that they are not guaranteed to function with low levels of gas.  Their intended use is to control fuel slosh in road racing or circle track but not with a nearly empty tank.

“Put a fuel cell in it,” says Whiplash.  I explain that I love the stock look, I don’t want to sacrifice trunk space, I want long range cruise capacity and the whole idea of a stealth tank is cool.

“Fuel cell,” says Whiplash.

I decided to design my own tank for my ’65 street/strip GTO with these goals:  1) Appear stock when installed; 2) hold as much as a stock tank should I want to cruise long distance; 3) be as light weight as possible; 4) be able to deliver sufficient gas to the custom ½ inch pickup under hard launch and acceleration with 2-3 gals of gas in the tank; and, 5) use my existing externally mounted fuel pump with no other modifications.

I needed a new tank in which to install my baffle and pickup.  More internet.  Practically all the aftermarket tanks are 1 inch deeper to provide–they all brag shamelessly–an extra gallon or 2 capacity. More on this rip off later.

I could not find a stock sized tank.  In fact I had trouble finding any tank, enlarged or otherwise, ready to ship for a reasonable price.  Finally my local O’Reillys had a deeper tank at a good price, and, for $18 additional, would gladly ship it from where it resided in Iowa.  Using poster board and PVC pipe, I mock up a design for the baffle and fuel pick up tube.  I find a welding shop and they modify it to my specs.  The tank has a recessed hatch in the top that can be removed to access the baffle and pickup should that be necessary. To seal the hatch I use Buna gasket strips.

Once I get it home I level the modified tank on my garage floor.  I carefully pour water into the fill neck and watch thru the hatch.  At 2 quarts the pickup tube is covered.  The car would start and run with ½ gal of gas.  At 1 gal of gas the pickup is ½ inch submerged and the edge of the gas pool is against the baffle.  The car would likely race with 1 gal of gas.  I would make sure it had 2-3.

Now the ugly part.  What is this obsession with making everything “better?”  Are 1 or 2 extra gallons worth the price?  To use these “improved” larger tanks requires buying new straps and a proprietary elongated fuel pick up and float gauge assembly to access the increased depth of the tank.  Otherwise your stock fuel pick up and float dangle uselessly an inch and a half off the bottom of the tank leaving gallons of gas inaccessible.  Providing a bigger tank does not help the consumer.  It helps the vendor sell more parts to be able to use the thing.  It is a manipulative and self-serving use of the reproduction aftermarket.  I found some submersible hose, not regular fuel hose, but hose designed to go inside tanks in a 5/16 i.d. size, and attached enough to my stock pickup tube to reach the bottom of the tank.  I angle cut the end to match the floor of the tank.  I planned on using the custom ½ inch pickup tube I had installed.  Nevertheless the 5/16 would be handy as a backup in case the ½ inch pickup ever failed.  I bent the float arm nearly U-shaped to get the float nearer the bottom of the tank.  I was able to rebend the tank support straps and by using longer bolts make them work.  However when it was all reassembled, the fuel gauge did not work.  It was stuck around the full mark.  It did not like the float arm angle.  Before you ask, yes, the ground was properly attached.  So now I had no gas gauge.  Thank you, Aftermarket.

The pain in my arm finally drives me to a physical therapist.  “You have 2 choices,” he says.  “Surgery or physical therapy and home exercise.”  I choose the latter.  I attend therapy twice a week and everyday exercise my arm.  The pain lessens but my arm refuses to completely heal.  Every day I contemplate a future as a disabled hotrodder and human.  How do you put on a coat one handed?  I live in dread of hurting my other arm.

I take a hard look at my wiring.  It’s a mess with add-ons plugged into the stock fuse block over the years, abandoned wires hanging here and there, inline fuses, protecting—something.  Other wires, hot, with no fuse, disappeared into the firewall. I hate it when Whiplash is right.

I find a 6 circuit glass fuse block and mount it near the stock fuse block.  I power it from the wiper circuit in the stock fuse block and use one of the 6 circuits to provide fused power to the wiper motor.  In addition to the wipers, the auxiliary fuse panel powers 2 electric fans, the fuel pump and the tach and shift light.  They are all fused and I can check for a faulty circuit easily.  I install a fuel pump relay for good measure.

By now its spring of 2018 and its time to fire this puppy.  For years I have used an Odyssey gel type battery which are much smaller and lighter than a normal car battery and provide enough current to power the car.  They do not outgas either, so no more corrosion, you never add solution, they can be mounted in any position except upside down and I have grown quite fond of it.  I have been using it during the off season to troubleshoot my electrical issues, charging it occasionally.  It’s about 5 years old and I discover it won’t hold enough charge to start the car.

More delay while I research alternative batteries.  I like the Odyssey but this time go with a Full Spectrum Power, which is even smaller and lighter and more pricey, $219, which is a lot for me for a battery.  It will be an experiment to see if it can power the car.

Finally, I fire the car for the first time since October, 2017 and it has a knock, and not the loose header bolt.  This is a death rattle.  What is with this car?  It just never ends.  I feel, just a wee bit, discouraged.  I adjust the valves, it makes no difference.  I take a deep breath, go grocery shopping and invite Whiplash over.  We spend a long time studying the valve train with the carb, intake manifold, valley cover and valve covers removed.  We can observe the entire valve train from camshaft to valve tip and valve springs in the head. We bump the motor over.  We wiggle things.  We look at it.  We look at each other.   It is all perfectly, frustratingly, normal.  Neither of us will say it, but we both think it.  The noise is not in the valve train, it’s a bearing, which means the motor has to come out and my season is over before it begins.  We know the noise is near cylinders 5 and 7.  Finally Whiplash suggests we remove the lifters in those holes.  The hydraulic flat tappet intake lifter on number 7 is frozen, solid as a rock.  I take it apart, clean it, re-assemble it, submerge it in clean oil and work the plunger a bunch of times.  I do the same for adjacent lifters as well making sure I get them back on the correct cam lobes.  We adjust the valves with the valley cover off so we can guarantee the lifters are on the base circle of the cam when they are adjusted.  Instead of my normal zero clearance plus 1/8 turn on my hydraulic lifters I give them zero clearance plus 1/3 turn.  I anoint the whole valve train from valve tip to cam with a fresh quart of oil. We button it back up, the motor fires and the death rattle is gone.  Forget the food I bought, I take Whiplash to dinner.  I don’t know who is more pleased, him or me.  Whatever you want I tell him.

“Anything?” he asks.

“Yep.”

“Dessert, too?”

“You bet,” I say.  I don’t begrudge a nickel of it.  Whiplash has bailed me out and not for the first time.  I’m feeling better about the car.  Finally this cascade of failure can end.  I want to believe again, I really do.

The Year of the Garage

Part IV

The aliens living in the electrical system of my 1965 GTO are freaking me out.  My run side ignition and headlights are inexplicably joined.  One operates the other and vice versa.  I pull the ignition switch and light switch out of the dash and examine.  I look at the fuse panel.  Nothing seems amiss.  I check all the circuits in both switches with a test light.  Everything has power when it should and no power when it shouldn’t.  I replace the light switch with a new one.  Nothing.  I replace the dimmer switch with a new one.  Nothing.  I think about replacing the ignition switch.  I cannot find a new replacement ignition switch for a 1965 GTO.  You can buy a used ignition switch and change out your lock cylinder, so your key still works, but they aren’t cheap, and they also are 50 plus years old.  I am not convinced that will fix it.  I talk to a tech at Just Harnesses.  He doesn’t know what is wrong, but would like to sell me a new dash harness.  Mostly he’s bored.  His main input–and one that I take to heart– these systems were designed for a 10-15 year life.  Fifty years on, what do you expect?

Finally two more synapses find each other in my tired brain.  All headlight functions run through the dimmer switch.  The only push pull switch O’Reillys sells for under 5 bucks looks a lot like a cheap GM plastic switch from the ‘70s.  I install it in one of the holes for a radio knob and use it as a cut out switch between the light switch and the dimmer switch.  Both switches are required to operate the headlights now, but at least I can turn the headlights off when the engine is running plus the che ap plastic knob looks right at home in my dash.  Of course, this has nothing to do with the fuel starvation, but it does fix the headlights.  I notice the oil pressure gauge has a burned out bulb.  I need to get to that.  But generally, I feel better about myself.  Finally, I can take the car to the track.

Bandimere summer 2018 first time out….Prepping the car for the track, I had had no idea how much fuel was in the tank.  Over the last few months I had added a gallon here and there to be sure the fuel pressure issues were not because I was out of gas.  I guess at a half tank and buy a very cool non spillable 2 gal gas can, fill it up, and find a place in the crowded trunk.  I curse the gas tank people who made me ruin my gauge.

At the track, Whiplash eyes the new gas can suspiciously.  “Where’d ya get that piece of junk?” he inquires, though he didn’t say junk.  “Why can’t they make a decent gas can, that doesn’t require a Houdini to use it and when you do use it it leaks?”  He has a point, for the most part, new gas cans suck.

“This one’s different, “I reassure him.

“Humpf,” says Whiplash.  “So is this thing going down the track?”

“Sure,” I say with confidence I do not feel.  “It drove out here fine.”

“Until you make a full throttle pass at the strip, all the way through, ‘til you run it out the back door, I don’t trust a thing I do to my car,” says Whiplash.  “You can putt around town for years with a car on life support and never suspect a thing.  Garage Queens.  Bring it out here, beat on it once, and watch it fall apart.  Racing not only improves the breed, it improves the individual.”  This last bit is surprisingly insightful for Whiplash who is not much for introspection, trusting more in his hands.  Though we harangue each other I have a lot of admiration for the guy.  He has a solid 14 second full weight 1971 Pontiac LeMans.  Through sheer force of will, and endless testing, he has man handled the thing into the 13.0s, once dabbling his toes in the 12s.   The density altitude on that hero run was 6900 ft.  He regularly wins rounds in competition.  He can cut a light that leaves you blinking at the time slip.  He’s got even less money than I do.  He knows cars, motors, and drag racing, and also about half the people that regularly race at Bandimere.

I do not fully trust my new tank, fuel pickup, battery or wiring job, either.  It is rare so many changes to a car won’t need some shake down to function properly.   I unload, prep the car for racing, and get in line.  It is still early on a Wednesday test night so the wait is short.  Time to go, I’m dressed and ready.  Car fires up, runs a few moments, and dies.  I pump the throttle and crank the starter.  Nothing.  Crank and pump–nothing.  I suffer the ignominy of being towed from the front of the staging lanes back to the pits.  I spend a frustrating hour checking everything I can think of.  The electrical system is my prime suspect.  New fuse block, old fuse block, fuel pump relay, and wiring all get checked multiple times.  My new cutting edge battery demonstrates its major flaw.  It has very little reserve capacity.  I have soon drained it too low to start the car.  It doesn’t matter, I have found the culprit.  My fuel pump–after all we’ve been through–has given up the ghost.  I call the wrecker.  It’s 150 bucks back to my garage.  I still have not made a pass down the track, or enjoyed a carefree ride around town.  I could be depressed, if I thought about it.

Every day I am reminded my arm is injured.  It has little strength and I can barely grip tightly enough to turn a doorknob.  Any extension or torque through it wracks my arm with exquisite pain from shoulder to elbow.  Everything takes longer now.  I learn to use my other hand but there are things on the car that cannot be done left handed.   And not only on the car.  Many simple tasks require my right arm.  I discover I cannot brush my teeth left handed.

I remove the Mallory 140 pump and disassemble it.  Again.  There are the brushes I never replaced, even more worn.  I contact Mallory.  They think I should replace the brushes and so do I.

I polish the rotor and install the brushes.  It is difficult to align them properly while re assembling the motor.  But it gets done and the pump bench tests fine.  On the car, the fuel pressure is steadier than before.  I give myself a pat on the back.  Left handed.  No need to buy a new pump, just replace the brushes.  Aren’t I clever.  I drive the car around the block, put it back in the garage and it dies.  Everything checks out.  What is going on?  I try sealing off the filler neck and blowing into the tank.  Miraculously, the car has fuel pressure, and roars to life inside the garage.  Have I designed a fuel system that allows an airlock preventing fuel delivery?  It runs a bit more and dies, thankfully this time, still in the garage.  Again, the pump comes off the car and I disassemble it.  The brushes are chewed beyond recognition.. Obviously I installed them incorrectly.  Unbelievable.  I give up and order a new Mallory 140 pump.  I don’t remember when I bought my original Mallory, but I remember the price—about $140.  The new one is $316.95 from Summit.  Free shipping.  I screw it on the car. I should have done this in the beginning, I keep telling myself.  Finally my car is working.  But at this point I have lost all faith.  What else could bite me?  The gas gauge.  I devise a way to translate the wet gas mark on a rod–stuck in the tank as a dipstick–into gallons of gas in the tank.  I rig another portable, slightly more sanitary, method to seal the tank when I blow in it.  I make sure my emergency gas can is full.  I look for the next date I can go to Bandimere.  Summer is slipping away.

Back to the track.  I’ll save you the suspense.  Car dies at the top of the staging lanes this time.  Whiplash catches me blowing into the gas tank.  “Really?”  He says, “It’s come to this?”

“$%#**&&&#%$^^^&^%#@@+++)*&^%$!!!!!, I say.  I check the whole **&^%$#%$@ car again.  I blow in the tank ‘til I’m blue in the face.  Density Altitude is stealing oxygen from me.  What I finally find I don’t want to believe.  I can’t fix it, so once again I make the wrecker call.  A hundred dollars to come out, a buck fifty to get towed home.

The next day in my garage I confirm my suspicions—my brand new Mallory fuel pump, with less than 50 miles on it–has failed.  This has gone beyond tired wiring systems, amateur attempts at design and installation, and worn out parts.  This has turned metaphysical.  All the work since the previous fall, the countless times I dissected the old pump, finally buying the new pump only to have it fail as well?  Obviously the hot rod gods have got me in their sights.  My arm aches, it has for months, and I am sick at heart at all the work I’ve done and still not have a running car.  A cloud seems to hang over my life.  I feel completely snake-bit.  Summit sends me a new pump.  On the car it goes.  Summer is gone, and I do have another life.  I need to travel to Durango, Co for the month of September on business and also my high school reunion.  There is one race date left I can make, Sept 7, 2018, and it happens to be a series I normally race in.  It will be my last hurrah this year.  I might return from Durango to catch the season ending races in October, but at this point, I don’t really care.  You would think the law of averages would eventually break my way.  Bitterness comes from losing, forgiving, then losing again.  The things you learn from a car.