Ten miles beyond hell…

…where the Devil couldn’t get for stinging nettles (Whoever was responsible for developing the Opel Astra Classic rear brakes, that would be).

You see, Opel G cars come with rear brake calipers from either Bosch (I think) or Lucas. The former being much more common.

Of course the pads that fit the one caliper are almost but not quite entirely unlike the pads that fit the other.


For your edification.  The pad on the left is what they’ll give you if you mosey on down to Goldwagen and say “brake pads, Opel Astra Classic”.

The one on the right is what you want if you have Lucas calipers. This will entail printing out above picture (because the sample has to go back in the car so that Tanya can get to work) and taking it to Masterparts, then waiting for half an hour while the fellow finds the right thing.

Don’t ask me how I know.

Another tip: don’t believe the manual when it tells you to line up some indent with some boss when compressing the piston back into the caliper. Apply force with a G-clamp and turn the pistol with a waterpomp tang.

Accidents come in threes

Which means all of y’all can relax now.

First AD rolls his deer magnet, then Breda gets rear-ended, and then Tanya’s car catches on fire on the M3. Tanya blogs, so I guess it counts.


As far as we can tell, the aircon fan shorted out. Smoke poured out the dashboard, Tanya pulled off, called me. I got there, yup, looks like smoke all right. Opened the door to open the bonnet, and the fresh air fanned flames, coming out the dash. Hmmm. Not an easy fix then.

Disconnected the battery, left the car to stew. Fellow pulled up, handed me a fire extinguisher, I shot it at the dash, closed the doors again. We figure that might have helped keep the temperature down to “smoulder” instead of “burn”.

Fire department arrived around an hour later. Dumped a few hundred liters on the dashboard, making sure the smouldering is out. Car was a write-off anyway.


So now Tanya and I smell of smoke, and we need to go car-hunting again.

Moral of the story: make sure you have marshmallows in the boot.



Why I never throw anything away.

Tanya’s car going up in smoke left us with a slight transport problem.

You see, the Rand-Lover was leaking water from the thermostat housing, and I figured it’s the gasket. So I pulled the housing, bought velumoid, psyched myself up for the job, thought about it, drank beer, and otherwise procrastinated, as dictated by my basic nature.

Which lead to me hurriedly bolting things together on Wednesday evening. And guess what? It still leaked. Made it to work by pouring water in the top faster than it could run out the bottom, or side, in this case.


Removed the thermostat housing and got our driver to take it to a MIG welding place, where the fellow shook his head and frowned. Whereupon I phoned around, looking for a replacement, but no such luck. Apparently these things have by now all corroded away in a similar fashion to mine.

So Tanya had to give me a lift home last night, which also means that I had to give her a lift to work this morning.


I used the opportunity to shoot through to Bellville, where I have a shipping container, will all the stuff I’d accumulated when my ex kicked me out, as well as a bunch of stuff I’ve accumulated since then. Gads, I love my stuff.


And there I found, as I rightly suspected I should, the thermostat housing which I didn’t use, because it was then the worse of the two, but of course now it’s by far the better of the two.

Which means that the Yellow Rand-Lover rides again.


For your further edification, I present Plan B. Or is that Plan C?

This is the bottom thermostat housing off the front of the Chev 2.5 engine head (in other words, the bit that the broken bit in the previous pics bolt on to). With a piece of pipe, an angle grinder and an arc welder, one can create a functional equivalent to the aliminium part, but one that should last as long as the rest of the head.

The search for wheels

A week ago, we went to braai at a friend’s place in Bellville. Drove past a used car dealership in Durban Road, they had an Opel Meriva on the lot.

Now I was all for replacing Tanya’s Astra Classic with another Astra Classic, maybe the short-arsed one with an 1800 engine, because she doesn’t get nearly enough traffic fines… yea, right. But they stopped making the G-cars in 2005, and something newer would be nice.

But the later Astra models are either huge, or resemble an overgrown Kadett. On the other hand, the Meriva looked nice. White, 2006 model, 113k on the clock, R89k.

If they wanted to actually sell the thing to us, that is.

You see, if you’re looking to drop close to a hundred thousand ront on a car, you probably have a job. Which means that you will be pitching at the dealership outside of core hours. What do you mean, you don’t do test drives after 4? Or on Saturdays? Feh.

Meanwhile Pieter found a Gumtree listing for a little more than what the fools in Durban Road wanted, for a car with 45k on the clock, as opposed to 113k. Sounded good to us, so we went to see the car on Saturday. Tanya liked it, let’s do it.

Of course, when it came to banking details time, the price was suddenly R 99 900, up R 900. I’m not one to quibble over 1%, so I told him to deliver the thing with a full tank and I’m happy.

Update: Jaco delivered the car, already transferred to Tanya’s name, with a new licence disc valid for a year — I can’t complain about the service.

Google crumbs: RMP Motors, Bellville.

Quoth the Raven, “Spend some more”

This was sent to me by RD Rick, back in 1996. Found it again while searching for something else entirely. It’s too good not to share, and since it’s not in the Googlesphere (yet), here you go.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of Volkswagen lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of something gently rapping, rapping in my engine core.
“‘Tis some valve lash, ” I muttered, “tapping on my flat four;
Only this, nothing more.”

And the sluggish sad uncertain revving of my recently installed engine
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some loose valve entreating adjustment at my engine core,
Or some sloppy bearing entreating replacement at my engine core.
This is it, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Muir,” said I, “or Haynes, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently it came rapping,
And so faintly it came tapping, tapping at my rocker covers,
That I scarce was sure I heard it.” Here I opened wide the covers;
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Rod?”,
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Rod!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the combustion chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something in my bottom end.
Let me see, then, what there is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
‘Tis minor work, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the engine cover, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Out there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my engine core.
Perched upon the open deck lid, just above my engine core,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the heck is wrong, the problem’s worse than before.”
Quoth the raven, “Spend some more.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his engine core,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bonnet above his engine core,
With such name as “Spend some more.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Spend – Spend some more.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked, upstarting–
“Get thee back into the tempest and the engine’s bore!
Leave no black exhaust plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my Karmann Ghia unbroken! — quit the lid above my core!
Take thy beak from out my wallet, and take thy form from off my core!”
Quoth the raven, “Spend some more.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid engine lid just above my engine core;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
And the trouble light o’er him streaming throws the shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore

If you know who wrote this, please let me know (I’m guessing one of the interesting people I hung out with on the Vanagon list waybackthen).

RIP Bob Hoover

From his blog:

Sunday, August 15, 2010
It is my sad duty to tell all of you who read Bob’s blog that Bob passed away this past Friday, August 13. How much he will be missed is incalcuable. Thank you all for all the support you have given him. I’m his wife. He was a great man.

I have little to add to the above. Bob kept us entertained on the VW and Vanagon mailing lists, provided good advice free of charge, and built engines and aeroplanes on the side. Sadly, I never got to meet him.

This story is one of my favourites.

VW – The Flying Pig
There’s a gal on the Vintage VW list who calls her bug ‘Boris.’ I mentioned Boris at dinner one night then had to explain, or try to explain, that a lot of Volkswagen owners give their bugs and buses names.

My wife gave me one of those looks, asked what I called my bus. Blank. To me, it’s just the Green Bus. Before, there was a Brown Bus, before that a Red & White bus.

I said I didn’t give names to things. “But you called your airplane ‘The Spirit of Vista’,” she pointed out. But never flew it to Paris. “If I ever put wings on the bus,” I told her, “I’ll give it a name.” And muttered something about doing it just as soon as pigs could fly. That cracked her up. It also named the bus. “The Flying Pig?” she laughed.

“I couldn’t do that,” I muttered. I used to have a buddy who was a cop, spent umpteen years building a helicopter. Called it The Flying Pig. Flipped it during a test flight and burned to death. I wouldn’t want to steal his thunder. But maybe El Puerco Volador? Is that right? I’m always getting my Spanish mixed up.

A ham radio buddy came over after supper. He’s got some strange plumbing problems. Only way to fix it is to use an adaptor that will allow old thin-wall ABS pipe to mate with new schedule 40 PVC pipe, but now that the box stores have driven all the real hardware stores out of business no one carries the adaptors

So we made some.

Turned them up on the lathe. Took only a few minutes. Lathes are handy things and mine’s fully automatic. Just grab the knobs and think about something else while the parts sort of make themselves. I was thinking about Flying Pigs.

While I’m working, my buddy is looking around the shop. There’s an airplane engine under a bench, two fully dressed Volkswagen engines on scooters, a Datsun engine sulking over in the corner beside an orphaned 2-cylinder air-cooled Diesel engine that might one day power something strange and noisy. Above the diesel hangs a row of heater boxes.

My buddy looks at the five Volkswagen heat exchangers hanging in a row. Five. An engine needs two, a lefty and a righty. So how the hell did I manage to end up with five heat exchangers? I never noticed that before. All new, too.

Six blower housings. Three dog-house, three flat-backs. One of the dog-house housings is an after-market 36-hp style that proved it couldn’t flow as much air as stock, ended up not being used. I’ve no idea how the others came to be in the shop. You leave the door open, stuff wanders in. My hands make another adaptor and my buddy hunkers down, peering under a bench.

Three 12v alternators, two Motorolas, one Bosch. Two 12v generators. A whole scad of 6v generators. Why do I keep that crap? Blowers. I had a nifty idea for using old blowers to make… I’ll think of it in a minute.

A whole bunch of intake manifolds. Oops! Make that a bunch and a half; couple more of them hanging over there. Dual-ports and single ports, several of each. DP Kadron bases. SP Kadron bases. That makes… at least two bunches. And carbs. Lotsa carbs. Box of Kadron carbs. Box of Solex carbs. Whole big drawerful of other carbs including a lonely Bug Spray. Future projects, waiting for… the future, I guess.

Mufflers. Yea gawds have I got mufflers! Four stock bug mufflers, at least that many extractors. It’s hard to tell with extractors. You toss them in a pile, they start squirming around, get all tangled together, you gotta spray them with a hose, beat them apart with a stick.

Black, greasy thing under a bench. My buddy gives me a look, brows raised. “Tranny,” I tell him. Two more, back in there some place, along with a pile of axles. One of the trannys is a rebuilt, ready to run. I’ve been planning to install it in the ’67. I better make a note to myself to get to it Real Soon Now.

Cylinder heads. Pile of them here, row of them there, two on that bench, pile over beside the grinder, couple over by the welding rig. The bench where I do head work has got this big box of valves, another box of fuel pumps, some old, some new. Shelves hold rebuild kits for carbs and pumps and generator brushes and wheel cylinders and a whole slather of reloading equipment for half a dozen different calibers. The reloading stuff should be over on another bench but that one’s being used to test a six inch mirror for a reflecting telescope.

Stack of flywheels over by the milling machine, right beside a stack of stock, original, real VW-type Volkswagen hub caps for an early bus. Should be four. I count them twice. There are four. I feel relieved, give those five heat exchangers a glance. Still five of them.

Bus steering gear and steering wheel shaft leaning up in the corner behind the welding machine, like its waiting for a ride, which I suppose in a way it is.

Overhead, running pretty much the full width of the twenty-two foot wide shop is a pair of airplane wings. Volkswagen engine tin-ware is poked up on top of the wings, the smaller pieces hanging down on hooked hunks of welding rod, handy to get at. A stack of sump plates like little Frisbees. Funny gaskets. Sez ‘GMC manifold.’ There’s an old Jimmy down in the grove. My hands finish another coupler as my buddy gazes at stuff hanging on a wire.

“VW air-vanes,” I tell him. “Goes inside those things overt here,” I nod toward the blower housings. Two sets of air vanes, one reconditioned, painted with gray epoxy primer, others looking like something out of the La Brea Tar Pits, which tells me they came out of an all-original 1967, never-been-touched engine I recently overhauled. The thing blew an oil cooler seal, pumped oil all over for about six months before the guy sold it to a kid. They were both happy as clams, each sure they’d gotten the best of the deal.

I finished making the adaptors for my friend, chatted a while. “You’ve got a lot of stuff,” he said as I saw him on his way. Strong note of admiration, tinged with something else. Relief? Envy? Is it every man’s dream to have lots of stuff?

I came back to the shop to wipe down the lathe, cover it, sweep down. Seeing the shop through my buddy’s eyes was a strange experience, like when he stood reading the note on the chalkboard over where the phone used to be: “Pullen – Concrete”, a reminder about helping Clint Pullen do a little sidewalk out behind his house so his wife’s wheelchair wouldn’t get caught on the stones. Clint’s been dead at least five years. After I moved the phone, I never used the chalkboard again. We did the sidewalk for Alice back in 1977.

I sat looking at the incredible collection of stuff that has crept up on me over the years, looking at it with mixed emotions. Too much stuff is bad for you, nails you down. But my formative years were during World War II, when everything was rationed, you even had to stand in line to buy food. That’s when I was taught that throwing away Good Stuff was a sin. We needed all that Stuff to Remember Pearl Harbor, so we could Slap the Jap and Heel the Hun. They made us chant slogans like that in school, then sent us out to scour the neighborhood for scrap metal, knocking on doors, brow-beat old ladies into giving up their aluminum pans.

And they were right.

Have you ever tried to make steel? It’s not easy. Better to keep some on hand in case you need it, like that pile of tubing, or those old door panels. You never know when you’re liable to need a door panel for a… whatever the hell it came off of. And an old veedub axel makes a fine gun barrel. Remember Pearl Harbor. And Ruby Ridge.

I sat thinking a little too long, started going a little crazy. Bus right outside, pair of airplane wings strapped up across the ceiling of the shop. Five heat exchangers hanging in a row.

El Puerco Volador. Maybe I could use one of them door panels for the rudder.

Copyright © 1995 Robert S. Hoover

RIP, buddy.

Road trip

Alone on the open road with a mixtape for company. A purpose is optional, but nice.

It’s a luxury, fuel’s expensive and accommodation adds up.

But it’s cheaper than a head mechanic.

A bunch of old cranks.

A colleague told me they’d be doing a run today, so we went off to Kalk Bay for breakfast (Waffles. With ice cream. And ice cream coffee. My poor sinuses) to watch them come past.

A brace of Model Ts

They couldn’t have chosen a nicer day for their drive (through Muizenberg and Kalk Bay via Cape Point to Scarborough for lunch).

1901 Benz Ideal, co-piloted by my colleague Harvey.

Wolseley. Number plate says “1905” but this website* calls it a 1902.

They tell me this is the only remaining 1905 De Dietrich. Gorgeous big four cylinder engine which barely ticks over at Muizenberg / Fish Hoek Main Road speed.

The only known surviving Nordenfelt car, a 1907 model. Nordenfelt is better known for its multiple-barrel machine gun,  a predecessor of the Maxim.

* Evil website. They have a 1971 Citroen Safari for sale. Don’t tell my father. Hell, don’t tell me, I’m sorely tempted. Oh, and a 1961 Mercedes Ponton. Don’t tell my brother.