We have been discussing "Moto-Darwinism" (or how one has stupidly abused
oneself while using/working on things British) on the Brit-Iron
newsgroup, and after posting this experience of mine, I thought it
actually might help someone here avoid a similar scenario. Feel free to
laugh at my stupidity, though.
**********
How about working on the engine of a 72 Triumph Spitfire outdoors on a
blustery day? If you recall, the entire front-end of the vehicle hinges
and opens up like a clam to expose the engine, front suspension, tires,
etc. While busily working on the carburetor, the wind was blowing
against the propped-up front of the car, working it up and down a bit
against the prop rod. While I was bent over the engine removing the
carburetor, the wind "suspended" the front end of the car just long
enough to let the prop rod "fall away."
This, of course, caused the entire front-end to come crashing down on
the back of my unsuspecting head, forcing my face into the windshield
wiper motor and associated sharp electrical parts.
I only figured out this happened once I "came to" in the dark (I now was
pinned under the closed hood of the Spitfire). I don't know what hurt
most, the karate chop to the back of my neck where the hood struck me
from behind, or the multiple lacerations I had on my forehead from where
it subsequently struck the wiper motor.
Once I pulled myself free from my self-imposed vermin trap, I realized
that I was in dire need of some stitching work on my head. But, of
course, I was home alone, and had removed the carburetor by then. So, I
had to reassemble everything before I could drive it down to the
doctor's office to seek medical attention. The reassembly work
progressed rather slowly as I had a very difficult time seeing what I
was doing from all the blood flowing into my eyes from the forehead
lacerations. Using shop towels to wipe away the blood turned out not to
be the best idea, either.
By the time I could drive to the medical office, a good deal of time had
transpired, and our family doctor greeted me his normal cheery
salutation of "Why didn't you just wait until it rotted off?"
By this time, my head had swollen enough so that it was impossible for
the doctor to deaden my forehead (no circulation he said, but I think he
was trying to punish me fore being so stupid -- he had to comment on the
previous creosote and gravel experience). Nonetheless, he proceeded to
sew up my head without deadening it, but he did give me a leather strap
to bite down on while he plunged that curved needle repeatedly into my
forehead.
I drove home after that visit with a tremendous pain in the back of my
neck, a pounding headache, a forehead that felt (and looked) like it had
been repaired with a pneumatic nail gun. To add insult to the various
and many injuries I had incurred, the Spitfire ran very poorly as the
carburetor still was in dire need of a rebuild.
It is, of course, very difficult hiding a forehead that looks like four
or five different rail road tracks had been imprinted on it, so I had
the "pleasure" of explaining to just about everybody I encountered, just
how I had managed to inflict this type of damage to myself.
I also was very wary of working under the hood of that Spitfire after
this unique adventure.
doug
B50SS advocate
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