Number three valve was running hot. Compression test proved that.
After a cross-country trip and as much seeing the sights as was budgeted, I took on the valve job. "Get the idiot book." was the advise from a trusted friend fixing a place up in the Corbett neighborhood of Portland who'd been a tremendous resource person upon arrival there upon the utter failure of "family" connections on the part of my wife, captive of a bunch of schmucks and sharpies. (Really stupid people, I must say.) A crew from hospital where I worked helped me pull the engine.
Along with the text, I made progress, getting the heads to a machine shop. Muir counselled cracking the case and checking the assorted tolerances and play. I'd cash in hand for the valve job. When I saw I'd need to replace the pistons and cylinders I decided to go ahead with it (Fell Swoop Doctrine.) and wait on the next paycheck. The "wife" contributed nothing, not even any nourishment in the travail.
The disassembled engine sat in the pantry of a small house we'd rented for some three weeks awaiting the parts. Complaints were made. One of the reasons the "relationship" was corrupted in tandem with the aforesaid corruptors. (Unfortunately, a famed damily.) Undeterred, cash flow permitting, I finished the task.
One of the most ecstatic moments in my life... again rented a winch and we reconnected the drive train. Turned over post haste. Really wonderful. Talk about team spirit! We did real good.
The schmucks left behind (A sin against the Holy Spirit can never be forgiven.) I subsequently traded the vehicle for a beat-up Gibson guitar after the battery fell through a rusted bottom. That's all I'll say on the subject (Too bad.), the sharpies of significance as bit players, and hardly that. (Treacherous creeps of no consequence.) That's the way it is - no problem.
After a cross-country trip and as much seeing the sights as was budgeted, I took on the valve job. "Get the idiot book." was the advise from a trusted friend fixing a place up in the Corbett neighborhood of Portland who'd been a tremendous resource person upon arrival there upon the utter failure of "family" connections on the part of my wife, captive of a bunch of schmucks and sharpies. (Really stupid people, I must say.) A crew from hospital where I worked helped me pull the engine.
Along with the text, I made progress, getting the heads to a machine shop. Muir counselled cracking the case and checking the assorted tolerances and play. I'd cash in hand for the valve job. When I saw I'd need to replace the pistons and cylinders I decided to go ahead with it (Fell Swoop Doctrine.) and wait on the next paycheck. The "wife" contributed nothing, not even any nourishment in the travail.
The disassembled engine sat in the pantry of a small house we'd rented for some three weeks awaiting the parts. Complaints were made. One of the reasons the "relationship" was corrupted in tandem with the aforesaid corruptors. (Unfortunately, a famed damily.) Undeterred, cash flow permitting, I finished the task.
One of the most ecstatic moments in my life... again rented a winch and we reconnected the drive train. Turned over post haste. Really wonderful. Talk about team spirit! We did real good.
The schmucks left behind (A sin against the Holy Spirit can never be forgiven.) I subsequently traded the vehicle for a beat-up Gibson guitar after the battery fell through a rusted bottom. That's all I'll say on the subject (Too bad.), the sharpies of significance as bit players, and hardly that. (Treacherous creeps of no consequence.) That's the way it is - no problem.
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