So, yeah, I’ve quite easily painted myself into a small corner yet again, a place so small that I’m actually I standing on one foot. Now what? I opened my mouth way too soon. I know better. The Biscayne is still in my garage. Untouched. I haven’t even called Mike Nelson (NL Performance) to make an appointment to see what the matter really might be. I know said I would. I tried my bumbling best to discover the source of troubles. The third member leak is still an issue. I put the thing on jack stands, wiped the center section down, dropped it in Fourth, and ran it for twenty minutes to see where the seepage was. No weep observed. Huh?

While I was under there, I applied my squeeze gun to the nipples dotting the suspension members (including those on the Metco control arms and the Global West Del-A-Lum equipped upper A-arms) and injected a tube of Green Grease. I found that the emergency brake cable was being abraded by the inside of the tire and stuck it to the frame rail with an Adel clamp.     

While I’d first suspected an electronic snafu, I think now that the problem can be traced to the fuel pump. Pressure is supposed to be 42psi. Sometimes it inexplicably decays to half that output and the engine runs accordingly, like there’s a blockage somewhere in the system. Crud in the fuel line? A compromised fuel filter? A punk fuel pump maybe? The pump is new, of course, but it replaced yet another new unit (different manufacturer) that behaved in exactly the same manner. I’ll be under it in a couple of days to find out. A couple of days? It’s deadline time, buckos, and the deadline comes before anything. Maybe this thing needs to run on blood instead of gasoline.

I should be insane by now, right? Not being able to drive a car that’s taken nearly nine years to make drivable could do that to a person. I learned about patience long ago. I’ve learned that yearning has its place. I’ve learned that I haven’t been able to find the time because making a living requires more time than I’ve already got. There is also the matter of money. I would much rather make it than spend it, and I won’t do anything until I’ve got the cash for it. I won’t suppress plastic for it, either. Going into hock for a stinkin’ car just isn’t an option. I’d much rather feel solvent…than like a slave…to an inanimate object. Spending money to fix the roof of my house is a lot more urgent than fixing my toy.

Hard words for a gearhead to say, I admit. I reconcile the situation as an on-going epic. The car is here and so am I. Eventually, it will all be corrected. Eventually, I’ll become used to the torque. Eventually, I’ll grow the combination with some pertinent engine upgrades, a finished interior, changes in its suspension, a radio delete plate (anyone know where I can get one?), and claim a side view mirror for the passenger door.

Engine parts are readily available. Finding stuff for a Biscayne interior is another matter altogether. While an Impala owner fares a lot better in this realm, aftermarket trim and rear seat panels and door welting for a Biscuit are non-existent. My Biscayne pal, Larry “Bratwurst” Beyler, owns the straightest example I’ve ever seen. Its 9-year-old black is the deepest I’ve ever seen. Larry is one of the nuttiest car owners I’ve ever met. He was ecstatic that someone else was foolish enough to unconditionally embrace the B-body ethic.

Larry spent considerable time on his 502/Richmond 5-speed car and told me to keep everything, and never, ever mess with the rear seat side panels. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Larry also encouraged me to stick with it. “Don’t put it down,” he said. “When it’s done, you’ll be so freakin’ happy that you didn’t.”

He was right.

I am.

RoadRash Archives:

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