I wrote this as a column for a newsletter, but thought the readers
here might enjoy it.
andy
The Tool Trap
My desire to compete in motorsports went hand-in-hand with my desire
to wrench on cars. While a young teenager, I pulled a
Briggs&Stratton-powered reel-style lawn mower out of dumpster and was
determined that I could make it run again. My father had a good
collection of tools, and with his help (or possibly he with my help)
replaced the bent valve and nursed the lawn-mower back to another
couple years of productive life.
Not too atypical for a car enthusiast, my first car was an aging
sports car. In this case, it was a rusted, poorly-maintained decade-
and-a-half old Opel GT that I got for little more than removing it
from the previous owner's front yard. Armed with a Crescent wrench, a
few screwdrivers and pliers, I replaced the brake rotors and pads and
rebuilt the severely gummed carburetor. Looking back on it, I'm not
exactly sure how.
After that, I had a Fiat 850 Spider. After almost four months of faithful
service I had a spark plug tip break off in the number one
cylinder. By this time, I had my own socket set, combination
wrenches, a few more screwdrivers, probably some vise-grips. I
managed to patch the Fiat up well enough to sell it, though it would
come back to haunt me a few times.
Over the next few years, as cars came and went, I picked up more hand
tools and minor power tools on an as-needed basis.
When I decided to get into racing, I joined forces with a few people
who took what politely would be termed a "minimalist" approach to racing.
Tools were in short supply and big-ticket items were shared by those who
had them. One person had a welder. When you wanted something welded,
it was a forty-five minute drive each direction. Pulling an engine
involved throwing a chain around the garage ceiling joists and using a
come-along to lift while the car was rolled out of the way.
A not-so-polite term applied to this practice was "turd polishing."
Trying to misuse or jerry-rig tools to accomplish a task wore thin.
Trying to hack off-the-shelf hardware items for racing applications
seemed to work rarely, if ever. Trying to put a sheen on a turd
didn't belie the fact it was a turd.
This came to a head when couple other friends and I decided to try
painting our own cars. In an effort to keep overspray out of our
suburban neighbors' yard, we constructed a makeshift paint booth in
the driveway out of conduit and plastic sheeting. In a foolhardy
cost-cutting move, we tried using plastic conduit rather than metal.
The conduit sagged in daytime sun, and all manner of support was
employed to keep the plastic off the cars. The tiny 3/4 horsepower
compressor gave up the ghost mere minutes into the job, forcing a
panicked shopping trip to find a replacement compressor at 4 o'oclok
on a Sunday afternoon.
There probably wasn't a particular incident that caused the
transformation, but it was about this time that I came to realize
having the right tool for the jobs made sense.
Shortly afterward, I traded an old, tattered track canopy for a 2-ton
engine hoist. This isn't a trade I would ever regret. A few months
later, a metal cutting bandsaw found its way into my garage. A used
"hobby" drill press came and went quickly, replaced by a heavier-duty
bench model. Toolboxes got replaced when they started to over-flow
with specialty tools like snap-ring pliers, Reed Princes, safety-wire
twisters and Dremel tools. I had taken the dangerous step from
getting by with what I had to knowing what the right tool for the job
was and acquiring it.
This simply made me more enthusiastic, and I started going in search of
more "right jobs" for particular tools. I signed up for an evening
machining class at a nearby trade school. Mere weeks after trying my
hand at the lathe and mill, I started scouring the newspaper for ads for
used equipment.
It only took a little while before I hit paydirt. A model railroading
fanatic had died, and his nephew was selling off bits of the estate.
Geno's nephew told an interesting story of his life: Geno, a native
Italian, was captured by the British in the second world war. As
"punishment," Geno was sent to the U.S. when the war ended. The
punishment didn't seem too bitter, as Geno died with two adjoining
houses in one of the pricier neighborhoods in the San Francisco bay
area. He had built a shed-like structure between the two which model
trains ran through. Tucked in a bedroom in one of the houses was
Geno's machine shop. Three lathes, a mill, complete tooling for each,
lots of spare stock, spot welders, grinding wheels, and more were
stuffed into this bedroom and closet. A friend and I bid on the entire
contents of the room and walked away with a bargain.
The booty was split, and I converted an enclosed porch on my house
into my "machine shop," with a couple lathes, a grinder and a
floor-standing drill press set up. The small bench-top mill we had
scored moved in briefly when I had some milling to do.
When it came time to move, I knew a two-car garage and enclosed porch
weren't going to cut it any more. The new place has a shop, which
immediately prompted getting a full-sized mill. Model-railroad-sized
lathes weren't covering everything I wanted while building race cars,
so I moved up a size there, as well. There was plenty of room when a
used 300-amp TIG came on the market, so I snagged that, too. And
now, even my shop is fairly full with a variety of cars and tools.
Maybe it's time for a second shop.
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