The weather was sunny, the temperaure high in the 60's, and the roads open. It was a pleasant day for a drive and I decided today would be the perfect day to take my 1967 Mustang from my mom's house in Fort Worth to my new home in Oklahoma City. I had taken a couple days' vacation and decided to make the most of them. Two hundred miles of easy road should be no problem for the Mustang I had recently converted to electronic fuel injection, and then I could get a good reading on my mileage improvement against the old carburetor's record of 11MPG.
Before leaving I installed a heavier gauge starter cable. The engine is relatively high compression and the starter would bog down sometimes when it drew a lot of current. After soldering up the cable and drilling a new hole in the fender apron it was ready to go.
With that finished I turned the key to start the car. It was stone dead. I put it on the charger for a while, but even after an hour it was only at 50%. Any old car is likely to have its share of electrical gremlins, and mine sometimes forgot you had taken the key out of the ignition and would keep the interior electrical systems powered. In the months it had been in storage, the battery was totally flat. I tried to rescue it with my little charger and a jump start, but had no luck.
A trek to the local Wal-Mart to replace the battery under warranty was my first setback. After waiting an hour for them to fast-charge the battery, I was informed when I returned that the machine had "malfunctioned" and the charge and load test needed to be done again. After killing another hour so they could confirm the battery was indeed dead, most of my sunlight was gone.
I finally had my replacement battery, returned home, and installed it quickly. I jumped in the car and turned the key. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclick. Getting impatient, I bumped the starter in a hurry to see if the teeth just weren't meshing. On the last click, the solenoid, putting all 780 cranking amps to good use, stuck shut. My voltmeter dropped to zero. My battery was now dead shorting across the starter without a key in the ignition. I jumped out of the car and threw the battery disconnect by the trunk. I decided that incinerating my fourth O'Reilly's starter in a year wasn't a good idea if I wanted to make this trip today. After disconnecting the battery I tapped on the solenoid and heard it thunk back into position. Testing with power, the starter was no longer trying to recreate Chernobyl.
I jacked up the car and removed the torque convertor access cover. With a socket wrench on one of the four bolts that connect the engine to the transmission, I turned the engine over, thinking maybe there was a bad tooth or two on the flywheel. It turned over without too much drama, and I extricated myself and bumped the starter. Still no dice. I started turning the engine over a bit, bumping the starter, turning the engine over, bumping, repeatedly, hoping to find that sweet spot. After several attempts the solenoid stuck again. I jumped out to kill the battery, but after shutting it off, bumped it again with the kill switch.
The starter cranked over, without the keys in the ignition. I tapped the solenoid so the starter wouldn't runaway, powered up the kill and cranked her up to let her idle for a minute. I shut her back down and did a couple of restarts. The engine started fine several times in a row, so I figured there was some kind of issue with the teeth or some debris in the way that was now resolved. I buttoned up the transmission, loaded up, and pulled away. With the sun long set and the temperature dropping, I filled up the tank on the corner and got on the highway. Getting reacquainted with a car I hadn't driven but 100 miles in a year was nice. The car has 3.50:1 rear gears and no overdrive, so I took it slow at about 60MPH, which is 2800RPM on the tachometer.
I always worry that the balljoints are falling off or the tie-rods are breaking, but the car just weaves a bit more than a new car with power steering. You can feel an 18 wheeler coming up behind you, as it pushes you to the outside. Then you get a good buffeting as it passes. Once I readjusted to the driving dynamics the drive was going well. I had my phone plugged into my stereo pumping Pandora and pulling power from the USB port. Or so I thought.
My first bit of trouble was just outside Ada, Oklahoma at about 10pm. With my foot holding constant throttle, something let go and the gas pedal got very very light. Even a light touch would open up the secondaries quickly and start unleashing a few hundred horsepower. It was controllable, but the car now had a very light trigger. It had to be the primary return spring. Luckily, the backup spring was doing its job and I coasted in to a gas station. This would be a good place to fill up and check my mileage, since I'd done 140 miles. 13.8MPG, which is about a 25% improvement from the carburetor to the fuel injection.
It was indeed the primary spring which had failed. I bent the hook too tight and the fatigue had snapped it. No problem. Just bend a new hook with a better radius, and presto. It was a quick fix, so the temperature wasn't bad. I looked at my phone. It was powered down and would not revive.
I topped off the car, hopped in, and turned the key. Click. My heart sank somewhere between the gas-stained pavement and the Earth's core. I tried over and over, trying to urge the electrons along with some extra kinetic energy from my key turns.
Encouraging the car, I stopped encouraging when the smoke started. I took the key out, bolted for the battery kill and shut it down. I opened the hood and stood there for a while, watching the smoke from the starter windings carry away my hopes of having a nice pleasant drive and warm evening at home. I hadn't given up on the starter yet, however. It had cranked the car 10 times since I bought it. It may have been made in China, but I just needed one more start.
Out came the hammer. Bludgeoning the starter didn't help. There was no turning the engine over from the front - not enough room for a wrench between the electric fan and the crank pulley. I was going to have to return to my previous inch-and-bump method, but how? I had no jack. The car had three inches of ground clearance on a flat surface, and the gas station lot looked like it was made in Minecraft.
With sheer power of will and a few weird looks from passers-by, I wedged myself under the car. With my arm at full extension, I removed the access plate by feel. I felt inside for a bolt to snag with a wrench to turn the engine. Hot.
There are four of them on the torque converter, and the transmission access plate covered about 70 degrees. In layman's terms, they were hopelessly inaccessible.
Not one to be deterred by simple things like dimensions, I hooked a flat bladed screwdriver in a small hole on the flexplate. Not much purchase, but it might be enough. I heaved against it with every fiber of my being. I had no leverage, I was just trying to turn over a 10.5:1 V8 engine with the tip of a screwdriver. The stars must've aligned and the next piston moved just past compression, because it gave just enough.
I got a wrench in and did the turn-n-bump for about an hour. The engine would bump just enough to hide the bolts from me, so it required some inventive leverage and a long reach, all by feel alone. At long last it cranked. I let off the starter with the key. The solenoid had other ideas. With the starter engaged the engine fired up and idled away happily at 1000 RPM. The starter did not idle happily at 1000RPM. With it whining, I flipped the battery kill switch. Nada. Stupid alternator kept it going. With a stream of colorful invective I ran to the front of the car and braced myself for electrocution.
I eyed the ignition coil, and in a swift motion reached down and yanked the wire. The engine died. I stood there for a moment, collecting myself and looking apologetically at the lone gas station patron who heard my tirade. I crossed my fingers and collected my tools from the various ground and engine compartment positions I'd thrown them in. I put the access plate in the car, because there was no way I would get it back in without a floorjack and the miracle of sight.
I tapped on the solenoid, heard it release, and gave it a crank. A miraculous crank. The final, magical sound of money exploding as the engine caught. It was 70 miles to OKC, I had a full tank of gas, half a can of energy drink, it was dark (but I had no sunglasses.) I hit it.
With no further upset I drove on. The delay had made the temperature drop and the car had no heat, but I powered on. Once off the highway I dreaded the backfire, the stumble, the hesitation that would spell my doom. It's funny how you can drive a car every day with no issues knowing it will restart, but that glacial press on the gas when you know it won't is more likely to make it do so. Without more incident other than the bullets of sweat freezing on my forehead, I made it home, unpacked, jacked up the heater and went to bed, with the clock showing 4:00am.
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