Anecdote – The Rising Price of a Gasket. – A tale of woe!

The Rising Price of a Gasket.

It was approaching Christmas. There were three kids, a wife with the flu and a Morris Minor which blew a head gasket. These were not the best of combinations.

I went to our local garage where Norm, who was a shady character at the best of times, shook his head, muttered about tappets and retuning, and finally quoted £25. Now I did not have £25 and I happened to know that you could purchase a head gasket for mere £1. I also knew that Morris Minors were very basic cars with simple engines. Norm saw my dilemma, was not at all perturbed, and offered me the loan of his torque wrench if I wanted to have a go myself.

Now I am renowned for my motor skills. Unfortunately, being a biologist, they are confined to the dissection of dead plants and animals. And I had refused to do any more of that on moral grounds. So I was a bit out of practice. Not that it made much difference. When it came to mechanical specimens my dexterity deserts me.

However, poverty is a driving force – even if the car wasn’t.

I decided to have a go myself. I knew what I was doing. It was a doddle.

First I had to do some shopping for Christmas. Secondly it had started to snow.

I ended up fighting through a howling blizzard carrying two packed bags full of turkeys, mince pies and milk. My arms were on fire, two foot longer and my legs a foot shorter. I resembled a snowman. But I had purchased a bit of Christmas.

Tucked into one of the bags was the little plastic envelope containing the head gasket.

I had no desire to carry more loads of essential victuals back to the house on foot so, realising that this was on the cards, I decided that I had best fix the car pretty quick.

Wrapped up like a cross between an Egyptian mummy and Bedouin Arab I headed back out into the blizzard equipped with spanners, screwdrivers and my torque wrench, and attacked the car.

We did not have a garage. The car was parked at the side of the road. Raising the hood did afford some protection against the gale-force wind that was driving the artic snow into my eyes. I was resolute.

With frequent trips inside to check the kids were OK (in front of the fire) and make lemsips for the sick lady (who was wrapped up warm in bed busy making ominous lists), and also to get a little bit of feeling back into my hands (you cannot hold spanners with gloves) I set about dismantling the engine.

The nuts, bolts and pieces piled up. The head was prised off.

I cleaned the exposed surfaces up with chisel and emery cloth. I removed the gunk. At least, now that the wife was indisposed and upstairs, I could do the Head on the kitchen table. That still left the block to do outside though.

I was meticulous. You could have eaten your dinner off that block and head they were that clean. Unfortunately the kitchen table was not quite so lucky.

I traipsed back outside, applied some fresh gunk to block and head, and put the gasket on. I reassembled the engine with assorted peripherals, deployed the torque wrench and was not at all dismayed to find one nut and bolt over when it had been reassembled. That was par for the course. They always magically did that.

I was very proud and exceedingly numb with cold. It had only taken me five hours. The feeling of satisfaction did not dissipate the misery of being sodden and frozen but it felt good anyway. I had saved £24!

Proudly I sat in the car and tentatively pulled the starter button.

Miraculously the engine started.

I was not going to have to make multiple trips back and forth to the shops that would have ended with me resembling an orang-o-tang. No. I would travel by car!

I revved the engine and the head gasket blew. The surfaces must have not been quite so clean as I had though. All it took was a small imperfection. Either that or sabotage. I suspected sabotage.

I called it a day and went in to suffer the agonies of returning circulation and try unsuccessfully to remove black grease with swarfega and flannels.

The next day was a reprise of the first, except that I went to extraordinary lengths to ensure the surfaces were devoid of the slightest speck of debris, but this time the engine started. The head gasket was fine. I revved it and it did not blow. It had cost me two days of misery and £2 but I had saved £23. Result!

I went to give the old motor a trial drive but it was a lame as me and sounded like a factory of sewing machines on methedrine. The tappets needed tuning.

I’d had enough. I was not up to doing it.

I nursed the car round to Norm’s and returned the Torque wrench. I invited him to inspect the marvellous job I had done on the head gasket. He cleaned his fingers on a rag that was dirtier than his hands and yet seemed to remove black grease better than anything I had tried, and nodded admiringly. He listened to the deafening sound of the tappets shouting their death-rattle and looked quizzically at me.

‘I was wondering if you could give me a price for adjusting the tappets,’ I enquired hopefully.

‘Sure,’ Norm said, throwing the dirty rag into the corner, ‘£27.’