I was stopped from my folly of moving engine and transmission around today, by injury. I did get them both into the shed. It was 3 hours just doing that. I had a fire roaring, and I was even burning some rags that were soaked in hydraulic fluid. (better than the landfill) You see, the little monster would just not stop bleeding. I could not stop the leaks of red blood of hydralic machine; transmission. Awful devil with two tails – one vacuum line and a speedometer cable. Yesterday’s struggle was pulling the engine/transmission out – together, right out on a hoist and chain. It appears that I’ve accomplished that. Things I could not get to with it in the car are now just right in front of me, and accessible. There is some satisfaction in this.
I had precariously set my exhaust manifold on top of the drum that is the upper chamber of Norman’s woodstove. I hung a towel on it, subsequently. Then, I was messing with something and I dropped that exhaust manifold rignt on my toes. The corner of it. Four foot drop. I sit here in pain, but I will not take pain killer pills, even though I have four still left over after the tooth surgery. Pain.
It isn’t broken. It is just badly swollen. I hope. My hands and arms are just exhausted. Losing my mind in a wire brush and citrus solvent madness. Somehow, when I’m doing this with cranksets it’s a whole ‘nuther experience.
My moment of victory, if I should live to see it, will be to drive that car again. As ridiculous as that sounds, that is the vision that sustains my task.*
I once said, after snowboarding:
“The mountain is my woman now, and she beats me.”
I would trade those days for these in a second.
*I need to bring me, my tools, at least two bicycles, and my dog friend THE FUCK out of here (raison de faits) someday<p>by