Foreword: Like the previous installment, this has nothing to do with the wiper linkage. But the first one does. Chapter I "You are a pale, pasty, freckled Irish cracker whose grandfather died in his thirties of skin cancer! You should not be out here!" I say to myself as I stalk among the rows in the Ford section of the Memphis Pull-A-Part. I am drenched in sweat and have begun to get sick to my stomach from the horrendous July heat. Heat which I can see rising up from the multitude of cars as far as the eye can see, shimmering upwards from the hoods of their doomed carcasses. These once gleaming relics now bake in the brutal sun, dashes cracking, wiring harnesses crumbling as they serve their final role - carrion to be picked clean by vultures like myself with wrenches and wheelbarrows. The towering crusher looms to the right on the other side of a fence, a solemn executioner pronouncing the grim fate which awaits all of these condemned souls. God, how I love this place. "Must... complete the mission!" I gasp, replacing my sunglasses which have again slipped off my drenched face. I chug some more Gatorade and proceed with strengthened resolve. I am looking for a Taurus. Later model, 3.8 liter. There's a Sable. No, the fan's already gone. Distracted for a moment, I notice a Granada, so I am compelled to see what sort of rear axle it's equipped with. "Don't bother, it's a Fox body." I resume shoving my cumbersome wheelbarrow through the blazing limestone gravel that carpets this metallic death row, observing various tragedies, wondering if some could be saved, knowing they never would. Soon I come upon the prize I've sought. I affix the requisite socket to my ratchet and begin to unmount the fan. With the bolts loose I pause for another swig of Gatorade, then I make swift work of cutting out the wiring harness. I wrestle the fan free from the broiling Taurus. As I step back from the car and catch my sunglasses on their way to the ground again, my worsening fatigue and uneasy stomach tell me I've done all I can do here and I'm glad I've got what I came for. Muttering to myself like a crazed hobo is not a positive sign either, I decide. It's time to go home. I put the cap back on the the bottle of Gatorade once more and realize I can no longer ignore my desperate need to urinate. Looking around I decide there are too many people here to chance whipping it out and relieving myself out in the open. Besides, the Honda rows are at least fifty yards away, and the two blue booths containing the portable toilets are relatively nearby. Although I did spot a suitably riced-out Escort with red spraypaint falling off all of its engine plastics, I resolve to brave the toilets. I should have pissed on the Escort. If there is any place more unspeakably vile on this planet than the booth I was now in, I have never been there and I pray I never will. Unspeakable as it may be, I will speak it anyway for the benefit of you, dear reader. The form and function of this building is not unlike a greenhouse. The air is heavy and it's hot as a sauna. The stench hits me as if I've walked into a light pole. I hold my breath and try to imagine happy places as I disturb the bloated fudge dragons below, like gravy-covered pork tenderloins falling apart after stewing in a crock pot way, way too long. Holding my breath was not enough. My eyes burned from the burbling, swamplike miasma. I had to get out of there. I burst out of the door, stumbling back onto the painfully bright gravel. I doubled over and fought off my gag reflex. It was only through years of training and conditioning during my misspent youth, binge drinking and holding my liquor against all odds, that I was able to avoid decorating that gravel with my lunch. I take some deep breaths, stand up straight, and proceed to the exit line. After my entry fee and warranty fee, the grand total comes to just short of fifteen bucks. Not bad at all. I load my Taurus fan and my tools into the trunk of the Maverick, drive toward the Interstate and launch down the on ramp, delighting in the relief of the eighty mile per hour wind in my face. I crank up the stereo and look down at my temperature gauge. Just over two hundred. I know this is higher than it should be on the highway, but I attribute it to the ridiculous southern summer, and it's really not that bad. The real trouble comes when I leave the highway for city streets. At the first light after leaving I-40, I'm already at two hundred ten, then by the time I'm back in my garage it's over two-twenty. This is why I've bought the Taurus fan. I already have an electric fan, but it doesn't have a shroud and that's really the last part of the cooling system that I can consider a weak link. The thermostat I have confirmed is good. Water pump is good. Hoses, radiator cap, heater core, are all good. But it's always run at least a little hotter than it should, especially with my massive aluminum radiator. It just doesn't make sense. The last ideas I can come up with are either my cheap little fan isn't cutting it, or the stock sixty amp alternator isn't letting it run at its full potential. Nevermind the fact that it shouldn't be a factor on the highway. Maybe the fan's actually so bad it's hindering airflow. I don't know, but perhaps I have the answer in this fan I've brought home. I really don't want to downgrade to an engine-driven fan, so I have high hopes for this project. Unfortunately I can't deal with it immediately as I'd like to. My head is throbbing, my body is aching and weak. I am literally ill from exposure, such as I've only been a few times in my life. Even my eyes feel sunburned. I decide to get some fluids, electrolytes and pain relievers into my system, get some food and perhaps I'll feel better by evening. Night falls and all but the last remnants of my headache have passed. I have disassembled and meticulously cleaned my new fan. I've been to Auto Zone and got plastic ratcheting fasteners that go through the radiator fins to attach it. My reciprocating saw from Harbor Freight (Praise Harbor Freight!) stands ready to enforce my decree that this part will fit my car. I lift the hood, do a little measuring, and prepare for a test fit. First of all, it's obvious that the mounting tabs on the sides of the shroud must go, so I cleanly lop them off. Then I see that I will have interference from both my upper and lower radiator hoses, so I make neat curved cuts to accommodate them. Sadly, despite all the success stories from people who have used these fans in Mavericks, my application is, as always, special. There's not enough distance between the water pump and the radiator for this thing to fit. I've got four inches and I need about five. I could see it fitting with a thinner radiator, but not mine. I'm not ready to declare this project a failure though, so I cut nearly an inch off around the perimeter of the shroud. It's still not happening. If I remove any more plastic the fan will touch the radiator. I am forced to declare this project a failure. Chapter II I am eager to return to the Pull-A-Part, but I fear it may be some time before I do. I won't go there again until the weather changes. Something about that environment magnifies the effect of the already miserable heat. Maybe it's the sun reflecting off the light colored gravel, blinding as a blanket of snow. Surely it's also the cars storing up and radiating the sun's merciless energy. Whatever it is, I can't handle that place until the temperature drops. By a stroke of great luck, it's not long before I get my chance. The next Sunday the sky is completely overcast. The breeze is cool, and the apparent threat of rain proves empty. It's a comfortable eighty-three degrees outside, so I pack up some tools and venture out again. This time I've come with a list. I am prepared to spend hours in this wonderland of cheap parts. I scope out some rear axle assemblies, hoping for a chance at something with good gears and a limited slip differential. Disc brakes too, if you please. I find a few likely candidates, but none are exactly what I'm looking for. No matter. The inventory changes here all the time. Sooner or later I'm going to score. I snatch a mirror off a Mercedes for a co-worker. Then I head off to the GM section to find an alternator. I know I should buy a new one, but this is an experiment. And if I happen to find a good one for ten bucks, why not run it until it breaks and save that hundred or so dollars? What I'm looking for is a higher amp, internally regulated Delco alternator with a v-belt pulley and the mounting holes in the right position for my brackets. Eventually I find what I want in a 1986 Cadillac Fleetwood. Big hundred-amp beast. This ought to end any deficiency I might have in electrical capacity for my cooling fan. I pull it out. Soon I find another one and stick that in the wheelbarrow too, in case the first one is bad. I'd like to get a rear swaybar as well, but I haven't taken enough measurements to be sure of what I need yet, so I decide to wait on that. Now it's time to get what I really came here for. I got a reliable tip that a fan from a late model Escort might be a better fit, and there are several here to choose from. Most are missing their fans, but one isn't, at least not until I show up. I look it over, don't see any cracks or obvious problems, but I do notice something I've never seen before. Most of the wire looms and even the insulation on the wires themselves have disintegrated on this car. Sun damage, I'm sure. I pull the fan out anyway, and I notice the motor and the fan itself look very much like the Taurus stuff, so I take a gamble thinking if this motor's bad I'll use the other one. But I do need a wiring harness because this one's ruined, so I snatch that off the ricer that I should have whizzed on the week before. When I get home, it's deja vu. I take the fan assembly apart and clean it up, noticing there is indeed a strong similarity between this and the Taurus fan. In fact the fan itself is identical. The only differences are the more compact shroud and the fact that the motor is a single-speed instead of a two-speed unit. I reassemble it, test it out and it blows strong. A little bit of light trimming around the area where the hoses will be, and it fits like a glove. I step back and admire my work. It looks good, almost factory except for the cut around the radiator hose, but I've got a plan for dealing with that. I'm feeling good about it. Yes, I believe I'm just a few minutes away from having a perfectly functional cooling system. I top off my coolant in the radiator, then before I finalize the installation I decide to run the fan for a few seconds again to be sure it spins freely with no interference. That's when I am rudely knocked off my high horse. The last thing I expected while leaning over that fan when I touched the wires to the battery, was to be blasted in the face with a cloud of antifreeze. What the hell is this? Did I just shred my radiator? No, the fan's not touching it at all. I pull it back out and it doesn't take long to see that half the fins on the right side of my radiator are soaked with fluid. Yeah, I've got a hole in my nice aluminum radiator, and I really can't afford to buy a new one right now. The idea of replacing it with something from the junkyard makes me sick. I'm not about to rig a stock one to fit, not when I've got this really nice one already. Well damn. What am I going to do? Park it until next paycheck? Put it all back together and just keep running hot like I've been doing? No. My brother-in-law mentions pouring some stop-leak into it. Hell no I'm not running that junk through my motor. Eventually I decide I'm going to try soldering it. What have I got to lose? So I get a hose and siphon out most of the coolant, then soak up the water on the fins with a towel. Because of where the fins were the wettest, I find the hole pretty easily. I think I can patch this. So I warm up my trusty little soldering iron, rummage through the toolbox and find my solder, then I get to work. I put the soldering iron against the metal around the hole. A little sizzle, a little steam. The smell of burning antifeeze calls forth memories of bad times with various vehicles on the side of the road. I wait for the metal to heat up, then it occurs to me how stupid this is. This is a giant heat sink. It's a radiator, that's what it does. It absorbs heat. "No, Computer Guy, this little toy is not going to suffice for soldering something like this. You need a torch." Sweet. I need an excuse to buy a torch anyway. So I go to Wal-Mart and I get a propane torch. Now I'm getting somewhere. Soon I've made the repair. I fill the radiator back up and crudely pressure test it with my mouth on the filler neck. I think it might hold but I don't know. Only way to find out is to put it together and run it for a while. So my fan is all mounted and wired up. Again I see my cut around the upper hose looks like, well, a cut. So I decided to take a piece of small rubber hose, split it down the middle and cover the rounded edge next to the upper inlet with it. Now, I have learned over the years of a sure way to know whether a repair of this nature is going to be a success. Somebody has to bleed on it. When I played with Trans-Ams and Camaros, I had an amazing talent for breaking GM ten-bolt rearends. Not on the track - on the street. With a 305. I guess that's just how I roll. My friends and I had it down to a science. To install a junkyard 10-bolt rearend in a GM f-body car, it takes just two guys, twelve beers, 45 minutes and a fair amount of cursing to get the job done. But if nobody spilled blood, it wouldn't last a week, On this night I am blessed with a good omen. As I split the little 5/16" rubber hose down the middle with a box cutter, I also make a seemingly insignificant cut in the palm of my left hand. I think nothing of it as I match up the hose against the edge of the fan shroud. Once I'm satisfied with the way that looks, I glance down and notice I have anointed my radiator and everything around it with copious amounts of blood. My hand and forearm look grisly under the fluorescent drop light as the blood streams out of that small but evidently deep cut. Quickly I grab a roll of shop towels and my spray bottle of Simple Green. I've got to get the blood off my car before it coagulates or this is going to be a real mess. Only after I'm sure the car is clean do I finally wipe the now impressive amount of gore off my arm and tend to the wound. That's when I notice my brother-in-law has been looking at me like I'm crazy while I wiped down the car. Well, what would you have done? A road test the next morning yields good results. Never above 190 on the way to and from work, nor during my lunch break. When the car cools off I make a dipstick of sorts, put it down inside my radiator and mark the water line. After doing this all week I am satisfied that the repair was a success. No loss of coolant in six days, no high temps, and no need for the high-amp alternator, which is good because both of the ones I got at the junkyard tested bad at the parts store. The End ...?
When does the book go on sale?... Bloody good read... thoroughly engrossing, a real 'page turner' or 'mouse scroller'... your mastery of description paints lucid visuals in my minds' eye... when does the movie come out? Whisky Disappointed with "Hellboy II" I saw in the theatre tonight, but your little 'Saga of Coolant' reinforces my belief that there are still some good storytellers in this world.
very nice read ,im impressed ,ive enjoyed your writting in the past ,cheers friend ,i cant wait for the next one
Man, I was laughing so hard I was about crying there a few times. I go to both the Norcross and Atlanta South Pull-A-Part all the time, and man you hit it on the head. The Atlanta South Pull-A-Part has an added bonus that most others don't have though! A nice big landfill about 1/4 mile away. When the wind blows just right, on an nice hot, humid day, man, it's not good. Not good at all. Oh, good way I have found to test things like fans while in the yard, before you buy them... If you have a cordless drill or something like that with a 12-18 volt battery on it, you can take that in there in your tool box. Figure out which terminals are the positive and negative, and you have a nice little portable power source that you can test fans and radios and all kinds of stuff with. I've even hooked mine straight to the battery cables on a Crown Vic in there before that still had the key in it, turned the key on, and the entire car was powered up just like as if it still had a regular battery in it. Obviously, that little battery won't turn the engine over, but it will power up all the accessory's when you turn the key on. What's real fun is to just wait until someone starts to walk by, then turn the windshield wipers and 4 way blinkers on and blow the horn. :evilsmile
Great post realy enjoyed it, also think i'm going to look for a escort fan for the install of my alum. rad.
Thanks for all the positive comments! Jamie, I can only imagine how much worse it would be with a landfill involved. Good idea on the battery thing... I'll probably write more of these, problem is it always involves horrible things happening to my car, so hopefully it will be a while before the next one.
Very fun read once again ... thanks for the laugh. I was in the "mumbling to myself like a hobo" mode myself not that long ago ... 4 hours in our local boneyard on a hot Florida day. I was looking forward to the time I was going to have to spend under the car ... being in the shade was a relief. In this yard, the Ford section is right next to the police pistol range. You get to hear an endless string of firearms in use. Sometimes you swear that bullets are flying by because of the way they echo. Takes a bit of getting used to.
