Thursday, December 6, 2007

The snow falls hard and don't you know...

... the winds of Thor are blowing cold. - Led Zeppelin, No Quarter

Monday, November 19, 2007

What's wrong with this picture?



Yesterday evening, I looked into the sky and realized that winter was upon Vermont. I then remembered that I hadn't put on my snow tires. So, without further procrastination, I broke out the torque wrench and got to it. I am a firm believer in snow tires. Having driven through many nor'easters, several ice storms and a blizzard or two, I can vouch for the benefits of knobby snow-gripping treads. All-season radials are good in the sun and serve well in the rain but they are no match for the winter road conditions of the North. I am not alone in this regard. One of my co-workers so loves the sense of security derived from his Winterforce tires that he leaves them on year round.

In fact, it was with childish zeal that he announced during this morning's car-pool commute, "I've been waiting for this all summer!" He then tromped on the gas and blew by a line of squeamish drivers - who seemed surprised by the presence of freezing rain in November. Incidentally, their cars were all shod in summer radials. Due to his savvy wheel-handling and those Winterforce tires we were able to obtain speeds approaching 55 miles-per-hour and, consequently, were almost able to make it to work on time.

Anyway, when ever I have the wheels off, I take a moment to look over my brakes and suspension bits. This is good practice as it may allow for early detection of part failure and, therefore, prevent one from becoming stranded on the roadside during a blizzard.

I found nothing wrong with the ball-joints or tie-rod ends. These pieces all checked out, which is reassuring, since the front-end overhaul I conducted last spring included the replacement of all these items. Looks like I got that project right the first time.

However, I discovered that my rear brakes were not working - at all. Yup, it seems that the rear calipers are no longer squeezing like they ought to. You see, the Saturn has four-wheel, single-piston disc brakes with vented rotors up front and solid rotors aft. This is a relatively typical set up in our modern age - even for economy cars - but in 1994 - the vintage of my Saturn - it was a cut above the rest. Many similarly priced cars from that era, such as my '90 Volkswagen Jetta GL, have disc brakes at the front wheels and drum brakes at the rear. And older vehicles, like my '74 Volkswagen Super Beetle, have drum brakes at each corner. Watching a so equipped auto stop from 65 miles-per-hour can be very amusing - assuming your not in front of it.

At each of the Saturn's wheels there are three primary brake-system components: a rotor, a caliper, and a pair of brake pads.

The rotor is a cast iron disc that bolts to the hub and fits under the wheel.
During the vehicle's operation the rotor turns with the wheel. The rotor is flat on both sides so as to provide two friction surfaces. These are the surfaces that the brake pads contact during braking. The rotor is also designed to disperse heat, because that is what the vehicle's kinetic energy is transformed into when the brake pedal is depressed.

Rotors cope with heat in a number of ways. First, the size of the rotor is very important. In general, the larger the rotor the more energy it can absorb. Think of a pot of water: the more water in the pot, the more energy necessary to bring it to a boil. Of course, the size of the rotor is limited by the size of the vehicle's wheels.

The next way that rotors dissipate heat is through air-cooling. Most modern vehicles are equipped with vented rotors at the front wheels. Some vehicles, usually the sportier models, come standard with vented rotors mounted at all four wheels. Vented rotors feature air-channeling veins between the two friction surfaces of each rotor. The veins move fresh air through the rotor in order to facilitate more rapid brake cooling. To enhance this further, some manufacturers equip their cars with air ducts that re-redirect even more air over the rotors via grill-like openings in the vehicle's bumper.

And then there are performance orientated rotors which come drilled with holes or slotted with groves that - not only allow for better evacuation of vaporized brake pad material - but also provided more surface area for metal to air cooling.


The caliper is a sort of
hydraulically-operated pincher. It has a cast-iron body that houses two brake pads and a hydraulic piston. This piston, known to engineers as a slave piston- no, it is not clad in leather - is tied into a dual-hydraulic system with the other brake pistons and a fifth piston called the master cylinder. When the brake pedal is depressed the master cylinder extends. This creates pressure in the brake system which forces the slave pistons in the calipers to also extend. This action closes the pincher-like caliper and forces the brake pads against the rotor thus creating the friction that slows the car.

The brake pads are the real workers in the system.
Brake pads and shoes were once constructed of asbestos - yikes. Modern brake pads are a composite of metallic and non-asbestos organic materials. These modern composites - which include ingredients such as ceramics, fiberglass, kevlar, graphite, metal chips, phenol-formaldehyde (think Bakelite) and a sundry of other fillers and chemicals - are engineered to absorb heat, generate consistent friction and ware at an acceptable rate. As well, most pads have incorporated into their design a soft metal strip that only comes into contact with the rotor when the pad needs replacement. When the strip makes contact with the rotor it emits a squeaking noise that alerts the driver to service the brakes.

If you look in the pictures above, you will see that the rear rotors are rusty. This means that the brake pads are making little to no contact with the rotor face - which, if you recall, is important if you want to stop. As I said before, when the brake pedal is depressed the caliper squeezes the brake pads against the brake rotor and the resulting friction - not only slows the car - but also removes a thin layer of material from both the pads and the rotor. So, under normal circumstances surface rust can not form on the rotor because the rotor's face is being resurfaced every time the brake is engaged.

Funny, I didn't notice this problem until now. Perhaps, it is because I use my brakes sparingly. Light or infrequent use of a vehicle's brakes can lead to this sort of failure. Under braking the weight of the car shifts forward toward the already nose-heavy front. Therefore, the front brakes are required to do most of the heavy lifting and - especially on a small car like the Saturn - the calipers in the rear do very little work. If calipers are not operated frequently or heavily enough they tend to seize. It's the "use it or loose it" scenario. A scenario, incidentally, that should not be broached while in the company of eunichs.

Now, the Saturn has never been a fast car - it wouldn't go 80 if you dropped it out of a plane - but it has always been able to slow down in a hurry. In fact, I have often taken pride in my vehicles ability to de-accelerate (that's not really a word - the proper term would be negative acceleration - but that sounds geeky.) Obviously, I must remedy the current situation. So, you the reader can look forward to a tedious and long winded DIY on rear brakes.

- update - December 15, 2007 - In the spirit of fixing things on the cheap, I seemed to have gotten my rear brakes to work again by merely exercising them. For the last few weeks I have been a bit heavy on the brake pedal - not to mention the numerous e-brake turns in the snow last night - and, as a result, the rear calipers have loosened up. Now, with the thermometer reading below zero and the salt thickening on the roads, this might only be a temporary fix.

Friday, November 9, 2007

One Year and still blogging...

Yikes! I've been at this blogging thing for a year. That's quite a run for a technophobe such as myself - to think, I don't even have a cell phone - not that I want one - if I had one, someone might call me.

Of course, I'm not really afraid of technology. Technology has been around since our ancestors discovered that a large stick can be used to persuade an even larger animal into choosing someone else to eat. I just maintain that technology is here for me to utilize, and not the other way around. Having a switched-on cell phone, BlackBerry, Ipod or whatever at my side would detract from my quiet time by making me available to my boss, wife and that man from the circus who won't take "no" for an answer. I need quiet time to philosophize, commune with God and write this blog. So, you won't be seeing me running around with one of those earbuds planted in my head.

Anyway, back to blogging. It seems like it was only yesterday - as the cliché goes - that I was barreling down the eastern seaboard with my cousin in his silver pick-up. Our destination: Allentown, PA. Our quarry: a low-mile, '80 four-door Jetta painted in the uber-rare shade of Inari Silver Metallic. I had discovered the car in a classifieds ad on the VWvortex and knew immediately that I wanted it - no, needed it - that I had to have it because it was calling to me like a little lost kitten might cry out in the cold night for its mother. Well, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but I really did feel compelled to scoop this car up and save it.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Volkswagen sub-culture, the web-based VWvortex forums are to V-dubbers what Haight-Ashbury was to the counter-culture: an open venue for the exchange of ideas, information, goods and good times. On the phone, the seller promised that I wouldn't be disappointed - as they always do. And, the car did look good in the photos posted to the ad, so, I didn't doubt him. This would later prove to be a mistake, but I'll get to that in minute.

And so, it was with great enthusiasm that I conned my cousin into coming along for the trip - I needed his pick-up - and we were soon on the road.

We surprised our city-dwelling friend by driving through the night to arrive at his doorstep by 8 in the morning. It was with bleary-eyed disbelief that he greeted us. We must have been like nothing he had ever seen. I was in my favorite red-and-black-checked plaid flannel replete with oil-stained Dickies and my cousin was wearing Carhart trousers, a grungy work shirt and a trucker-cap. We must have looked liked fugitives from the set of "Funnyfarm." Our VWvortex buddy had a surprise of his own. We soon discovered that this uber-rare Jetta was not as advertised and that it had a blown engine. Turns out that our buddy's sister - blame a girl, way to be a man - ran the oil pan into a curb during a snowstorm - typical southern folk, can't drive in a little snow. The net result was that the oil pump pick-up - which is a metal tube that resides in the oil pan - was torn loose preventing the oil pump from sucking up enough oil to maintain popper pressure which lead to rapid bearing wear and - voila - one spanked engine. Ach! Der motor ist kaputt.

Quick negotiations were conducted and resolved in our favor - he probably figured we had packed a scatter-gun in the truck. As we loaded the car on the trailer it occurred to me that I ought to put my journalism background to use and write a journal or something - after all, I'm still paying all those student loans. And so, that's how this blog was born.

Unfortunately, with all the other obligations that I have, the project has been displaced for nearly a year. I feel, however, that now is the time to begin in earnest. Otherwise, I may never get to it.

Below: The project begins. First, everything is labeled. Next, the oil is drained from the engine and the coolant is drained from the water-jacket. Then it's time for the tear down! Look at the parts starting to pile up on the work bench. I love this stuff.







Look how loose the timing belt is. My brother is removing it with his fingers while the tensioner is still tight. Someone drove around in this state for thousands of miles! Damn girl drivers - or so the previous owner might have us believe.


... and, as always, beware the watch-eye. Jack, my Australian Shepard, has been one of those other obligations. With his goofy smirk and mis-matched eyes he looks rather harmless, but in reality he's a handful.

Monday, October 29, 2007


Peak is now past and all but the last of the leafy hold-outs have fallen. The air is chilled and the skies are sullen and slung low. The days are rapidly growing shorter and the north sun can do little to brighten the gray, lifeless landscape. This is Stick Season, as my mother calls it, and it will be upon us until the first lasting snow ushers in Winter proper.

And it's just in time for All Hallow's Eve, I might add, for there is nothing spookier than the dusky silhouette of an old, bare oak twisting in the chill fall wind.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Sunday, October 14, 2007


Mountain stream in the woods off the left side of Rt 108. (Smuggler's Notch, Stowe, VT.)

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Roads are tricky things because they go places. Sure, that amalgamation of asphalt, cold patch and yellow paint outside the front door seems a stationary enough thing but if you suffer a momentary lapse in judgment or memory and - God forbid - find yourself untethered from your mortgage, wife, job or whatever else keeps you in this desperate life of self-diluted servitude - you may discover yourself moving with the river-like road. Look to the right and you'll see Huck and Jim, to the left is Jack and in the gutter ahead is Neal. Pay them no mind and just keep rolling for the road - with all its turns and stops - is life and - above all other things - the way to the shrouded destination that waits beyond the curvature of the Earth.

Monday, October 1, 2007

An engine to go. . .

It's Saturday morning and I'm standing in a self-storage unit with my friend Chris Cheeseman. He has rented this unit to store a sundry of Volkswagen paraphernalia that his land lord finds unsavory. Cheeseman has it so crammed full that it's hard to move around inside. There are seats, engines, bumpers, a roll-away MAC tool box, a cherry Mark II Jetta, a classic pre-80 Rabbit and a bunch of other stuff. In short, it is a secret grotto filled with the kinds of treasures that only a real VW nut can appreciate.

Now, this has me fantasizing about all the other self-storage units at this facility. If I could see through walls, what would I find? Does the next unit over conceal a covert gun-smugglers cache or is it a clandestine film studio for some subversive anti-government organization. Or, perhaps, Michael J. Townsend - recently evicted from his secret mall-apartment in Providence, RI - has set up shop in the deluxe suite three units down. I think probably not. If I did have x-ray vision what I'd see would be a lot of old furniture, un-used exercise equipment and un-wanted Christmas gifts.

The self-storage industry in our country is huge - an institution, you might say, with its own professional subculture. If you don't believe this bold statement, check out this self-storage blog: http://www.selfstorageblog.com.

In fact, according to the Self Storage Association, within our nations borders are 40,000 self-storage facilities offering 1.875 billion square feet of personal storage. That's a lot of space. Now consider that most of these facilities are reporting 90 percent or more occupancy rates. It's clear that these austere metal boxes- which are strung together in rows of 20 or more - are as much a part of our consumerist society as Walmart and double-pleated toilet paper.

What's really in these self-storage units is the detritus of a spoiled and material inundated America. Never in our history have we had so much cheap, whirling, shining crap. Crap that is obsolete on the shelves of our department stores before it is purchased. Yet - though a better model has been acquired - we seemingly can't live without the old one so we throw it in the garage. But, soon the garage is full and so isn't the attic and all the closets and even that space under dead aunt Edna's wheel chair. Well, of course, the solution is to rent a storage unit where we can stash our year supply of Mach III shavers - can't use them now that there's the Quattro - and while we're at it we'll store our life-time supply of garbage bags that are specified to fit a trash can only sold on the other coast. Besides, we can justify the storage rent because we also need the extra room for those dusty, high school bowling trophies and for that mint-in-the-box Star-Wars-Edition Monopoly game that someday may be worth a fortune. What the hell - even though we may never look at it again - we can't throw this stuff away, that would be a waste.

Surely, we are wasting our lives, our time and ruining the planet when we participate in such mindless materialism. But self-destruction is a basic human trait. It is the trait that motivates us to continue to burn fossil fuels, stock pile atomic weapons and snack after we brush our teeth.

I am, however, not writing this to scold. My business, this day, is to purchase a low-mileage, 2.0 liter Audi 3A engine block from my friend. It seems that Cheeseman needs the extra cash in order to pay for his self-storage rent. And so, like any junkie needing his fix, Cheeseman needs to part with this particular item to finance his addiction. I, equally addicted, am more than willing to help him out.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Hot Rods!


Here are some of my photos from the annual NSRA show in Essex,VT. More to come. . .














Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Fall Comes



The sun is setting earlier and the nights are cool. Soon the trees will be ablaze with all the colors of autumn.


Monday, September 17, 2007

Another Puma out of reach.

I found this beauty on the Internet during my daily Puma AM-4 hunt. It's not red, my favorite color for this fine car, but considering the scarcity of the breed I guess I could settle for white. Now, how can I get this thing from Brazil to Vermont? Anyone know any importers?


Sunday, September 16, 2007

British Invasion

Below are a number of pictures that I took at the annual British Invasion held off of Route 108 in Stowe, VT. The official website for the event bills the show as the largest gathering of English cars on the East Coast. Due to work obligations, I was unable to attend the Concours d'Elegance on Saturday. However, the Sunday Competition of Colors proved just as impressive.








Check out this pre-war Morgan Super Sports. Note its size when compared to the man on the power chair. I think he's eyeing one for his next scooter.