After Otto’s decapitation and re-capitation, last week he rejoined the living. With his newly rebuilt head, he sprang to life on the first turn of the key. But after I re-torqued the head and set the valves, I didn’t like the sound of the idle.
Thinking there might be a vacuum leak, I hooked up my $100 eBay smoke tester—(everyone should have own of these!—and immediately found a good-size leak at the #1 intake plenum, right where I had problems getting it to seal last week because the upper part of the intake manifold was hitting the block-off plate for the fuel-pump rod.
You may recall that last week I made the ridiculous statement, “If and when I have cause to pull things back apart, I’ll sand down the corner of the plate where it’s hitting, but for now, since I’d gotten things to seal, I just left it.”
The Hack Mechanic got his come-uppance on this one. I pulled the plenums and the upper part of the intake manifold back out, ground down the interfering portion of the block-off plate with a Dremel tool until there was clearance, put it all back together, set the timing, and adjusted the idle.
Since I wanted to sell the car, I decided to address the other problem that stuck out: the fact that the car pulled slightly to the left on hard braking. Typically, this means that the right caliper isn’t functioning correctly, either because it’s seized or because the rubber flexible hoses plumbing it are plugged. A few weeks before, I’d pulled the right caliper off and was easily able to work the four pistons back into the caliper, indicating that none of them were seized, so I’d ordered a set of braided stainless brake lines.
While the car was still up on the lift, now was the time to install them.
Readers of this column probably recall that quite recently I did this same repair on my ’72 2002tii. And all of the same dynamics were in play on Otto; all of the connections to the six rubber lines (one at each end, so twelve connections) required heat and wax to allow disassembly without stripping the metal fittings or snapping the metal lines.
And, just like on the ’72, one rubber brake line that had been plugged—and thus had no fluid in it, but only air—exploded like a party favor when I heated its attached rubber fitting. Good times!
I got all six lines changed and bled the brakes. I then opened Otto’s left door and pounded on the brake pedal to verify that it was good and firm.
I began to button up the wheels.
But when I got to the left front, I noticed that one of the metal lines to the caliper—it had a little “coffee cake” rust on it, but it didn’t look all that bad—was wet. Must’ve been some stray brake fluid from the bleeding, I thought. I sprayed it with brake cleaner and wiped it down. But it immediately got wet again.
Damn.
I don’t know if I nicked the metal line, or if it creased and broke when I detached the original rubber line from it and replaced it with braided stainless. But there was no denying that it was leaking. For situations like this, I stock a roll of copper-nickel brake tubing, metric bubble-flare fittings, and a bubble-flaring tool in the garage. While lazily watching a rerun of Futurama, I got the new lines cut and flared.
The following evening, I installed them and bled the brakes again. This time, everything looked good.
When you drive a car after a major repair such as a head replacement, it’s best to proceed in small increments. I warmed Otto up while he was still on the lift, shut him off, and looked underneath for signs of coolant, oil, and fuel leakage. Everything looked good; down off the lift he came.
I took a cautious lap around the block, followed by scooching down and verifying the continued absence of fluids. Still good. I did a test drive of a mile, then two, with no problems.
I came home, ran inside, and announced to Maire Anne that I was going to take Otto out onto the highway for a bit. She asked me if I could run past Marty’s and pick up some wine. This was good; it was now not only a test run, but a legitimate errand. Otto’s status was passing back into one of normalcy.
Up onto the Mass Pike I went. The car accelerated fine. The temperature was stable. All good.
I bought the wine, then pulled back onto the highway. Okay, I thought, let’s wind ’im out. At the end of the entrance ramp, I mashed the accelerator. The response was quite unexpected; it was as if the throttle was no longer connected. The car didn’t stall or stumble, but it paid no attention to my attempts at increasing its speed. When I throttled back, the car seemed to regain some sense of equilibrium, but it did not want to hold speed at anything above 45 mph. When I got off the highway and took my foot off the gas at the stop sign, the car wanted to die. I kept it running by feathering the throttle, and got it home.
I had a pretty good idea what the problem might be. I posted the symptoms on Facebook for fun, and Rennie Bryant nailed it I about twenty seconds: I had forgotten to tighten the pinch point between the rod that comes down from the throttle body and the rod that’s attached to the Kugelfischer pump. (Actually, on close examination, I saw that I had tightened it, just not enough.) Twenty seconds of diagnosis and tightening and another test drive later, the problem was eliminated.
So: Otto appears to be not only none the worse for the wear from his head transplant, he’s got a new lease on life and is straining at the bit to get out there and run. I hate to let him go, but I’ve discovered that thirteen cars is at least one past the number I can store and maintain. The auction is up on eBay as we speak. With luck, by next week Otto will have a new home.—Rob Siegel
Rob’s book Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic is available through Bentley Publishers, Amazon, and Bavarian Autosport—or you can get a personally inscribed copy through Rob’s website: www.robsiegel.com. His new book, The Hack Mechanic Guide to European Automotive Electrical Systems, can be pre-ordered from Bentley Publishers. Use the coupon code “BMWCCAELECTRIC” for 30% off list.
