The original plan was to go out and clean up the garage the night before I started replacing the struts. Instead I got home from work and ate an entire frozen pizza, washed it down with a pint of homebrew. Ended up falling asleep on the sofa with something forgettable playing on the television while thumbing through the Chilton's manual. Woke up at 2am to some bizarre infomercial...stared a minute...determined it wasn't something I needed and moved into the bedroom to sleep for the rest of the night. I must've needed it because I didn't wake up until one the following afternoon. So much for finishing the project in daylight.
The bench was littered with odds and ends of one sort or another, the one thing they all had in common was that none of them belonged there. I can tell you that it's one huge pain in the ass to try to get some work done if you don't have the right amount of space, even worse if you can't find a tool that you know you have. Getting everything ready to start working was going to be at least a half hour, but I was already behind schedule, so...what the hell.
Ratchets and wrenches covered by paper and fast food bags. Screws and nuts of all kinds and sizes. Some of 'em looked important. No idea what they're from. Manuals from stuff I had bought and installed 6 months ago. The travel mug Eric left in the car after our annual dirt worship. As I cleaned up I caught a glimpse of an old Polaroid picture tucked into the lid of my tool box. There's the old man, running a hose on somethin' at the Air Force base. Who knows what year, hell it's a damn Polaroid. It could be any time between whatever year it was he gave the camera to mom that Christmas morning and...well, whenever the thing quit workin'.
Everything I know about tearing something apart and putting it back together I learned from him...even if I didn't realize I was learning something. Standing there at my bench, I had to stop for a minute and look over the tools. I bought a Craftsman set of sockets when I moved into the house, those where hanging tidy in sequential order on the pegboard; it was the derelict sockets and wrenches that caught my attention. They were dupes my dad chucked into this toolbox he scored for me at an auction. Started sifting through, like going through a soldier's things, most of the sizing is barely readable. Grease from 1960 still stuck in the embossment. I picked up a boxed-in 9/16 (which you will NOT be using on a Subaru) and held it. It felt really good in my hand; natural. As I held it up to the light I noticed a mark...I knew that mark...there was a little chunk taken out of it near the end like a rotor or something fell on it.
I remember this wrench all the way back to when I was 12 years old, working on my Huffy in the garage.
I used it on all my cars growing up.
My first love affair with a car turned out to be an old '68 Mustang dad lined up for me when I was about 16. There was an old Fairlane in the driveway that he picked up at the lemon lot for something like $75. The engine was seized up, but he and I got it running. He lined the trade up because the Mustang was much more road worthy engine wise, but the floor boards were rusted so badly there were holes big enough to throw a cat through. Dad came home one night with a couple panels of sheet metal, a guy at the shop bent them in a way that was kinda close to what they needed to be. I did the best I could, I must've drilled about 27 holes in each, trying to find solid metal on the other side so I could get a pop rivet in there. I think I hit pay dirt 6 or 8 times. Called it good. Painted the interior with some sort of tar like substance dad found in a building on base. No idea what it was. I lined it all delicately...lovingly...with black indoor/outdoor carpeting.
Dad helped me with the torch so I could put a lift kit on it. I leaned on the wrench so hard trying to get that leaf spring bolt loose I rounded the head clean off. Dad says “that's ok, we'll cut through it.” He showed me how to get the gas mixture just right, when to hit the oxygen to blow away the slag. I crawled down underneath that thing, crossed my legs, and started heating up that old rusted bolt. I'll be damned if the first drop of slag that fell didn't go right down into my shoe. So the first thing I did was throw the torch so I could get up and start dancing around like a fool, the second was to say 'fuck' in front of my father for the first time. I did pretty good actually, it was just a small burn and my voice stayed in the lower register for the obscenity. The shoe was ruined. Dad was standing across the driveway with a grin on his face. I just know he was shitting himself trying not to laugh.
“Why didn't you tell me that would happen?!”
He then proceeded to explain that he did; there were all sorts of things he tried to tell me...but I didn't listen. And if I did listen, I wouldn't have believed him.
“Bet you'll never do that again.” he said in his trademark style as he passed by me, stepping over the wrench set laid out in a fabric pocket organizer mom had made out of a hunk of old corduroy pants.
Now this particular operation on the Subaru isn't hard, but its time consuming. Tiring. You spend a lot of time balancing, grunting, and blindly threading screws all at the same time. Once you get the assembly out you have to compress the coil spring. That's where the danger element shows up, if one of the compressors slips off, you've got thousands of pounds of pressure coming at you...quick. I remembered dad's line just as I took the nut off at the end of the strut when there was still just a little too much pressure on the spring...when that last little bead lost its grip on that last little thread it went off like it was fired from a gun. I heard it hit somewhere over on the other side of the car. I didn't even have time to react, I just stood there like a dumbass and then jumped about 5 seconds later. The flange landed at the far end of the bench and I'm still amazed I didn't lose the washer.
“Bet you'll never do that again.” I said aloud.
The first strut on both the front and the back took about 4 hours each. This was my first time doing this repair, and wouldn't you know it I have the model year of car that has the fewest helpful photos and illustrations in the Chilton's manual. So once I figured out what I was doing the second and fourth were no sweat.
I managed to spread my tools from one end of the garage to the other, another issue that hampered a quick finish. I can't tell you the number of times I went looking for the 14mm socket, each time saying aloud “I just had the thing...” One time I looked down and it was actually in my hand. All the tools needed a good wipe down at the end of the night, rolling around in the snow melt and grime isn't good for 'em.
I got everything piled onto the bench and started separating things out, getting everything polished and put away in it's spot. My feet were aching, my back was stiff, and my eyes had bags big enough for groceries. (Note to self: buy groceries). I was close to involuntarily shutting down, but I dragged my ass into the house and got a pint of beer. Trudged back out to the garage and leaned against the bench and drank that beer, just looking at the car.
When I was coming up and got in trouble dad was never far away. He never said no when I asked for help, whether it was a bolt I couldn't break loose or the piston hanging out the side of the block. It sounds strange...but suddenly I felt like I might have what it takes to be a dad.
I hung that 9/16 in the center of the pegboard, looked at it like it was the centerpiece of a trophy case, and turned off the lights.
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