On 15/4/19, Paul Stenquist, discombobulated, unleashed:

>My 1970 Pontiac jumped time in the parking lot of the old underground
>Coliseum Garage in NY in the early '80s. I knew something was wrong when
>it backfired just before I shut it off. It wouldn't restart and puffed
>and wheezed as engines do when the cam is out of time.  It would have
>cost me a fortune to tow it home and even more to have it repaired in
>Manhattan, so i took off my shirt, borrowed some tools from the Motor
>Books crew who worked just around the corner in the Hearst building,
>bought the parts I needed at an old auto parts store in Hell's Kitchen,
>went back to the garage, dove under the hood, took the front of the
>motor apart, replaced the cam gear and timing chain and installed new
>parts. Worst part was getting under the car to take out the front oil
>pan bolts.  It took the better part of a day to finish the job, so I
>missed a day of work but saved the car and hundreds of dollars. I was on
>a salary, so I didn't get docked, and my boss, the editor of Motor
>Magazine, a service industry trade publication, applauded my efforts. 
>Today at '71, I'd bite the bullet and call a repair shop. Too many
>broken parts on this old body to work that hard.

Good story Paul. Yep, some have spent many an hour grazing knuckles with hands 
buried deep in oily recesses of engines - and enjoyed it - but now, the thought 
of doing it myself actually makes my back ache even thinking about it.

Great memories though!

-- 


Cheers,
  Cotty


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