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Bleeding

There have been times in my life I have been accused of being an attention seeker. While I totally dispute this and all my friends will agree that it’s a most unwarranted allegation, one of the occasions used by my mother in support of the notion, was the time as a 2 year old I stood outside our home on State Highway 2 stark naked waving at cars. While that may be true I have not done it since or, at least to the best of my memory, recently. Another time recorded in family folklaw relates to my need for her to offer due praise for a very fine bow and arrow I had just manufactured. It was the classic 3 piece. Bamboo bow and arrow with brown parcel wrapping string nicked from the local Post Office. My chosen method of demonstration was a vertical discharge that in time of war I would use to bring down enemy aircraft. It was a magnificent shot. Virtually out of sight until it started it’s downward descent. Unfortunately I had not allowed for wind drift. It did miss Mum but only just. It would have been better for me had it hit her because it unfortunately pierced our corrugated iron roof and could be seen from inside peeping through the softboard ceiling panel. In spite of my enthusiasm to climb on things and retrieve the arrow it remained embedded until my father came home. That was bad. Given that I was in possession of the state of the art weapon in our family armoury, my father showed considerable bravery by attacking me bare handed.

Members of a Classic Car club who have joined with me on numerous drives during the past 7 years will be aware that my car has suffered an attention attracting brake squeal. In spite of my efforts to be rid of it by changing every component in the braking system a number of times it remained to drive me crazy every time I braked at low speed. The finest solution was to avoid low speed as often as possible. This tactic simply transferred the noise problem. Instead of a dreadful shrieking emanating from the car I suffered an equally ghastly shrieking from the passenger. A few weeks ago she commanded me to again attempt to remove the offensive brake squeal as people were starting to recognise her in spite of the disguise.

This time I decided it may be lazy wheel cylinders not returning from the rotor resulting in glazed pads. I’ll be honest, upfront and tell you now. It proved not to be the problem but I didn’t know this until I had worked right through the ‘issues’ that surround remedial matters of this nature. The brakes still squeal and I no longer care.

Removal of the calipers was easy but extracting the pistons was anything but. I tried the method recommended in the much thumbed workshop manual and succeeded in ruining the lip of the sealing ring grove. Given that one piston now required total replacement and as usual the simple job was degenerating into a major catastrophe I decided that good workman like practices would be dispensed with. I used larger levers and hammers with no success. I tried using gentle heat on the problem and stopped myself just in time before this escalated into extreme heat. Finally I reassembled the calipers in the vise and made a plate to stop the piston on one side moving. I then fabricated a threaded connection between the fluid inlet and my airline - then applied 140psi of air pressure to the whole assembly. The air hose split and writhed around like a demented cobra determined to kill me. Fortunately the air tank ran out of pressure before the beast succeeded and I was able to creep out from behind a battered tool trolley and yank the plug out the wall. It was terrifying to hear the compressor motor working flat out in an attempt to regenerate enough energy to finish me off. I have never turned my back on it since.

I think it was Winston Peters who said “Desperate times call for desperate measures” as he worked his way through a dozen wines to produce a cardboard box suitable for carrying his files into parliament a few years back. The words came to mind as I formulated the next plan to release the reluctant pistons. I was also by now wondering how the car had passed it’s previous 14 Warrants of Fitness tests given it appeared the brakes were not working very well at all. I considered putting the partially blanked calipers back in the car and simply leaping on the brake pedal but reasoned a more controlled environment existed in the vise. At least I could see the bastards! The concept of using explosives was considered until I remembered the last time this tactic was used. Our blocked septic tank became an extremely effective fertilizer spreading event that annoyed my neighbour when she discovered her laundry on the clothes line had blocked an efficient spread over her vegetable patch.

My friendly panelbeater loaned me his hydraulic portapower which said on the box was capable of many tones of pressure – “So watch out!” Or words to that effect. This was the sort of language I needed for the project. Fearing another attack on my personage I enlisted the assistance of a friend who has never yet considered why I ask him to only assist with projects that usually end in tragedy. He pumped while I attended to supervisory matters from behind a rather sturdy forklift. The seized piston popped out with a hell of a bang and my friend made his usual coarse remark before excusing himself for a while in the ablution area of the workshop. We used the process to successfully remove the other 7 pistons and after seeing the pitted and rusty old chrome walls consigned them to the scrap metal bin.

A new set proved easy to procure although the Minister of Finance thought there must have been quite a few fiscally astute ‘middlemen’ involved in the distribution chain. They were installed and refitted to the car in a rather boring quick time. All that remained was to bleed the brakes and to motor about the country in relative quiet obscurity.

Let it be known that my wife is very handy around the cars in our possession. She pays the associated bills. On this occasion I decided to enlist her assistance to affect the bleeding. It was our mutual hope that the bleeding would be confined to the cars braking system as she reminded me that on a previous occasion when she helped she became involved in some bleeding that was not shown in the workshop manual as one of the tasks being undertaken.

Everyone knows how to bleed brakes. “OK-in–out–in–out. This process continued on the farthest wheel from the master cylinder for a long time. I said “#*^&#@* - in then out”!  I made countless journeys around the car checking connections, brake lines, fluid levels and every imaginable thing but still no fluid would emerge into the bleeding receptacle. My “in/out” commands became quite brusque and it was reported heard 3 buildings away.  Finally after perhaps an hour I gave up. The shame of it. I resigned to having to call for expert help. Then a small voice from inside the car said, “Which pedal am I supposed to be pushing?”