The process of bringing my father-in-law’s (now my) Model T back to life continues. And continues to grow in proportion. I mean, it’s one thing to say (with beer in hand) hell yeah, let’s get this old gal going again, and another entirely to take each step in that process and actually achieve the end goal.
But somehow, probably because it was Gordon’s car that he left to me, I feel an obligation to see this deal through. So, in between the other tasks that make up my muddled existence, I’ve been trying to make progress on the T whenever I can.
The process really started a few weeks ago when I removed the front wheels to bring them back to Melbourne to have them rebuilt. Interestingly enough, the rear wheels were not quite in the same, parlous, crusty state as the fronts, so maybe more of them can be saved. But I still had to remove them from the car. And while the exact method of removing them remained a bit of a mystery, I knew it would involve a puller. Of some sort. A quick flick through the many Model T books that have come my way (and thanks to fellow UC contributor Jon Faine for the latest tome to hit the work-bench) led me to believe that a conventional three-fingered puller would bear on the flimsy little brake drums, not the wheel hub itself and, even to a dope like me, that seemed to be a bit sketchy. Fixing the car up is one thing, fixing it up and mending whatever damage I inflict on it in that process is another thing altogether.
Eventually, the book fell open to the page that talks about removing the rear wheels on a Model T and I discovered that there’s a special service tool, specifically designed to make this happen. So I put the word out that I was on the hunt for such a thing. Bondini put me in touch with a lady named Holly (who’s into old cars from this vintage) and, in turn, she put in touch with a bloke named David who owns and operates his very own Model T which, just happens to be the exact same model as mine other than his has four doors where mine has three. Beyond that, they’re both 1924 models and both tourers.
Later that week, I was standing in David’s garage, comparing notes on our two cars and swapping the usual old-car nonsense blokes like us go on with. But, importantly, I left David’s with his special rear-wheel puller on a one week loan. Champion bloke.
To understand how this works, you need to know how the rear axle is laid out. Like more modern stuff, the Model T’s axle is supported on bearings at the outer end of the axle. So far, so good, but where it gets all a bit Henry-Ford on us is the way the wheel and brake drum is laid out. Instead of the wheel separating from the drum when you remove the former, in the T, the wheel and drum is removed as a complete assembly. Well, the outer drum, anyway, because the brake shoes and backing plate stay on the axle.
Effectively, the wheel is attached to the axle on a taper and is tensioned by the single, castellated nut (with a split-pin for added security). So now you’re wondering why the hell the axle doesn’t just spin inside the wheel, leaving you perpetually in neutral. Well, there’s a parallel key that slots in between the wheel hub and the axle (inside a keyway, of course) and that’s what ensures the torque reaches the ground. This is also why the wheel needs a puller to remove it after the 60 years this car has been sitting idle.
David’s little gizmo amounts to a tube that threads on to the (very) fine spline that the hub-cap screws on to. From there, you tighten a pinch bolt to stop the thread being destroyed, and tighten the bolt in the end that then bears on the tip of the axle. Give the nut a few turns and, hey presto, you hear a dull pop and the wheel is suddenly loose on the axle, ready to be lifted off.
On my first attempt (the passenger’s side) there were complications. The first was that the hand-brake was still applied, so even though the wheel was loose, the tension on the brake shoes was stopping the wheel moving any farther. I ran around to the driver’s door, pushed the brake lever forward and I was back in business. Well, to the extent that I could now remove the wheel, only to have the brake shoes leap out on to the dirt floor I was working on, followed milli-seconds later by the key. Thankfully, I found all the bits and pieces and, since it’ll all be rebuilt with new brake shoes, springs and grease, is no big deal.
Inspired by my success, I moved to the driver’s side. Oh dear. The hub-cap (secured by that all-important thread, remember) fell off in my hand. A closer look with a torch revealed the thread itself was absolutely munted. Cross-threaded and flattened in places, there was no way the puller was going to help here (because it couldn’t be wound on to the thread). But, I sucked it up, removed the split pin and axle nut and gave the wheel a decent shove. And whaddayaknow? The thing almost fell off the axle into my lap. Result.
So now the wheels can all come back to Melbourne with me and take a holiday with a bloke who will remake all the wooden bits with local hardwood. In the meantime, I’ll blast and strip all the metal bits and make them new again (not sure what I’m going to do about that thread, though) and I should have a brand new set of Model T wheels that won’t collapse under their own weight like they would have after 100 years of shrinkage and neglect.
Should have known better
Like anybody else that has ever walked the earth and offered an opinion, I get things wrong. And when it comes to the four decades I’ve spent scribbling about cars,
I reckon the individual makes and models must number in the thousands, So, please, forgive me if I make the odd blue now and then.
The most recent one (that I know of, there may have been others since) was when I was describing the lovely 5.6-litre stroker V8 in some of Tickford’s best efforts. Thanks to my advancing years (I reckon I’m not too far off from hiding my own Easter eggs these days) I confused the stroker with the early 220kW five-litre Tickford mill when I was talking about the cylinder heads. As in, I said the stroker had alloy heads. It doesn’t, it had cast-iron GT40P heads that were cleaned up a little in the port department.
Had I said this to a mate at the pub, it wouldn’t have mattered, but, of course, I said it in this fine, family magazine. So it does matter. And I freely admit the error. Sorry. it (probably) won’t happen again.
Thing is, my balls-up so enraged a Tickford fancier, they he felt compelled to write to this magazine to point out my error. Which is fine. I appreciate all feedback. I usually reply directly to the punter that pointed out the goof. Only thing is, this email began with the phrase: “As a T series enthusiast I have had enough of the inaccuracies you continue to reproduce regarding the T series cars.”
Whoa dude. What happened to “Hey, Morley, you gronk, you messed up”?
Had Old Mate spotted me at a car show, do you really reckon he’d have started a conversation in such a put-up-yer-dukes way? Me either. Either that or he must get a lot of nose-bleeds.
Come on people, we’re better than this keyboard warrior crap. Keep yerselves nice, eh.
Struts ahoy
It’s often the little things that will annoy you about a car, isn’t it? I mean, we put up with iffy fuel economy in the name of performance, and most of us will cop a manual choke provided it’s not a daily-driver we’re talking about. But when the gas struts that hold up the bootlid fail and the bugger drops on your scone, it’s the end of the world.
Well, it was the other day when the struts on the Boxster’s boot finally gasped their last and allowed the lid to come hurtling towards my fingers that were carelessly resting across the opening. I managed to spot the boot giving gravity some love, milli-seconds before I lost my pinkies, but it was close enough for me to get busy and find some replacement struts.
I’ve been down the road with this process before with the bonnet on the Holden, so I ordered a set of Boxster boot struts from the same mob and then kept an eye on the mail-box. A few days later, the little package arrived and I started fixing to give the Boxster a little birthday present. Not to mention save my fingers for another day.
I had a few dramas with the spring-clip on the new struts wanting to either jump ship completely or flipping around and hiding inside the socket that attaches to the little ball-joint on the boot hinge. So, I figured rather than argue with little bits of spring-steel all day, I’d just swap out the old sockets on to the new struts. Nothing doing.
Believe it or not, the threads were actually different (one was a lot coarser than the other). Mind you, given what I paid for them, I was under no delusions that they bore a Porsche part number, but still… Seems a bit off. Anyway, I eventually won the argument with the clips and the struts are now on and holding up the bootlid quite nicely. Thank you.
But who’d have thought the threads would not be interchangeable? Like I said, it’s the little things that’ll get you in the end.
Like it or lump it
One of my favourite noises is the lopey idle of a tough engine with a big camshaft in it. There’s just something about that offbeat, lumpy racket that tells me good times have just turned up.
I’ve owned a couple of cars over the years with unfeasibly big camshafts, including the Charger that’s currently staining the garage floor at the MBC and, I’ve gotta say, that delirious, stammering idle is one of the things – if not the thing – I like about it most.
Yeah, sure, I’m certain it’d be nicer to drive without the big stick in it, but when you’re paying by the hour, you don’t want a nice girl.
Years ago, this magazine built a giveaway LJ XU-1 Torana with the project spear-headed by the very particular Uncle Phil. Now, if you’ve seen anything Phil has ever built or project-managed, you’ll know that close enough is never good enough. And so it was with this Torana.
Fact is, when it was done, it was one of the nicest examples I’d ever seen and with the Bathurst-spec camshaft in it, it has a wonderful, spiteful sound to it that reminded me of Tony Soprano about to deliver some very bad news to some unfortunate mobster who’d somehow crossed big Tony.
Okay, so I’m drawing a long bow here, but it proves just how evocative this stuff can be and, possibly, how massively off-centre my sub-conscious has become these days. But to prove it ain’t just me, have a listen to the radio version of Van Halen’s Hot for Teacher. I’ll swear that solo drum intro sounds for all the world like a small-block Chevy with a big stick in it. Have a listen for yourself and tell me what you reckon.