Greetings and good morning to Bitogers everywhere, and to all the ships at sea!
I should have known better. I really should have.
I was late for an appointment, in a rush, in a hurry. Like the Rabbit and his pocket watch, my thoughts were concentrated totally and completely on getting there on time and time was in short supply.
Jumping ever so quickly in "Thunder the Wonder Pig," (My 1995 Oldsmobile Cutlass), I shouted the customary "clear prop" out the window, fired up the engine which roared to life in it's customary piston pounding way.
For those of you not in the know, the muffler on "Thunder the Wonder Pig" died and went to muffler heaven about two years ago. Rather than buy a new one, I simply cut it off and replaced it with a straight pipe. "It's a small motor" I reasoned, "so the sound should be small as well."
Little did I realize.
Loud does not even come close to describing the way it sounds. Driving "Thunder the Wonder Pig" is like riding a coal black storm cloud on the edge of an electrical storm. While the radio does still work, the noise from the un-muffled engine is so intense, the only musical entertainment I can hear inside the car is the symphony of cylinders roaring from the exhaust pipe, (which compels me for some odd reason to sing "Ghost riders in the sky").
I drove "Wonder the Thunder Pig" in this manner for close to two years until recently when I had problems with my catalytic converter. Apparently, in it's almost 20 years of living, it's been consuming a constant "meat and potatoes" diet of exhaust gases and like John Wayne in his latter years, became clogged resulting in sluggish highway performance. Add one saw, a cut pipe, remove said offending blocked cat and replace with "Thrush" brand "glass pack" which, by the way, I just happened to have from another project from years past.
"See" said I to myself when the project was complete, "it pays to hang on to things others would throw away."
I was sure that would put a lasso on that thar sound problem pilgrims. Sure, it might still be a little "barkey," but I can live with that.
I couldn't have been more wrong. All it did was add a "tongue" to the noise. Stepping on the gas pedal resulted in an engine raspberry the likes of which I have never heard. Rather than bring the noise levels to an acceptable low, I was now driving a vehicle that sounded like it had been living on a straight diet of re-fired beans and south of the boarder beer.
My solution was to simply find a "salsa" radio station and act accordingly.
All was going well until the day I was late.
In my haste to arrive on time with so little time, I pulled out onto the main drag through town right in front of one of our counties finest.
I didn't even see him. It was early in the morning, foggy and grey, I pulled out, and blew a motor raspberry right in his official law enforcement face.
"Flashing lights" followed with official demands for official documentation that I, in fact, owned this rolling wonder followed with the quizzical question: "What's up with your muffler?"
"Well officer, it's like this . . ." and I proceeded to tell him the whys and wonders of why my "Chitty, Chitty" went "bang bang."
He looked at me long and hard in a long and hard legal law enforcement way.
"How long has it been like this" he asked.
I lied, friends. I confess I lied to an officer of the law. "About a week, maybe ten days" I replied.
He stood there, looking at me, looking at the car, the only thing breaking the silence being the salsa music on the radio.
Finally he said, "Look, I know it's an old car and things happen, so I'm not going to give you a ticket. But if I 'hear' you again, I'll write you up. You need to get this fixed."
"Yes sir, right away sir" I replied. He returned all my official documents and I cranked up the "Wonder Pig" and off I went into the grey fog of the early hours of the morning, now late for my appointment, committed now to finding a muffler.
A saw, a pry bar, a hammer and five dollars at a local "U Pull it" yard rewarded me with a muffler from a beat and battered dark green Pontiac. It took a little creativity to fit it to the "Wonder Pig," (I couldn't help but think of Joan Crawford as I worked - "No more wire clothes hangers!"). But the results are amazing. It's been un-muffled so long, I had forgotten what motoring silence was like.
Gone now, gone is the exhaust raspberry.
I have to admit, I miss it. But I can hear the radio with clarity which is nice. But I'm beginning to think, if I really want to know what they're saying, I need to learn Spanish.
I should have known better. I really should have.
I was late for an appointment, in a rush, in a hurry. Like the Rabbit and his pocket watch, my thoughts were concentrated totally and completely on getting there on time and time was in short supply.
Jumping ever so quickly in "Thunder the Wonder Pig," (My 1995 Oldsmobile Cutlass), I shouted the customary "clear prop" out the window, fired up the engine which roared to life in it's customary piston pounding way.
For those of you not in the know, the muffler on "Thunder the Wonder Pig" died and went to muffler heaven about two years ago. Rather than buy a new one, I simply cut it off and replaced it with a straight pipe. "It's a small motor" I reasoned, "so the sound should be small as well."
Little did I realize.
Loud does not even come close to describing the way it sounds. Driving "Thunder the Wonder Pig" is like riding a coal black storm cloud on the edge of an electrical storm. While the radio does still work, the noise from the un-muffled engine is so intense, the only musical entertainment I can hear inside the car is the symphony of cylinders roaring from the exhaust pipe, (which compels me for some odd reason to sing "Ghost riders in the sky").
I drove "Wonder the Thunder Pig" in this manner for close to two years until recently when I had problems with my catalytic converter. Apparently, in it's almost 20 years of living, it's been consuming a constant "meat and potatoes" diet of exhaust gases and like John Wayne in his latter years, became clogged resulting in sluggish highway performance. Add one saw, a cut pipe, remove said offending blocked cat and replace with "Thrush" brand "glass pack" which, by the way, I just happened to have from another project from years past.
"See" said I to myself when the project was complete, "it pays to hang on to things others would throw away."
I was sure that would put a lasso on that thar sound problem pilgrims. Sure, it might still be a little "barkey," but I can live with that.
I couldn't have been more wrong. All it did was add a "tongue" to the noise. Stepping on the gas pedal resulted in an engine raspberry the likes of which I have never heard. Rather than bring the noise levels to an acceptable low, I was now driving a vehicle that sounded like it had been living on a straight diet of re-fired beans and south of the boarder beer.
My solution was to simply find a "salsa" radio station and act accordingly.
All was going well until the day I was late.
In my haste to arrive on time with so little time, I pulled out onto the main drag through town right in front of one of our counties finest.
I didn't even see him. It was early in the morning, foggy and grey, I pulled out, and blew a motor raspberry right in his official law enforcement face.
"Flashing lights" followed with official demands for official documentation that I, in fact, owned this rolling wonder followed with the quizzical question: "What's up with your muffler?"
"Well officer, it's like this . . ." and I proceeded to tell him the whys and wonders of why my "Chitty, Chitty" went "bang bang."
He looked at me long and hard in a long and hard legal law enforcement way.
"How long has it been like this" he asked.
I lied, friends. I confess I lied to an officer of the law. "About a week, maybe ten days" I replied.
He stood there, looking at me, looking at the car, the only thing breaking the silence being the salsa music on the radio.
Finally he said, "Look, I know it's an old car and things happen, so I'm not going to give you a ticket. But if I 'hear' you again, I'll write you up. You need to get this fixed."
"Yes sir, right away sir" I replied. He returned all my official documents and I cranked up the "Wonder Pig" and off I went into the grey fog of the early hours of the morning, now late for my appointment, committed now to finding a muffler.
A saw, a pry bar, a hammer and five dollars at a local "U Pull it" yard rewarded me with a muffler from a beat and battered dark green Pontiac. It took a little creativity to fit it to the "Wonder Pig," (I couldn't help but think of Joan Crawford as I worked - "No more wire clothes hangers!"). But the results are amazing. It's been un-muffled so long, I had forgotten what motoring silence was like.
Gone now, gone is the exhaust raspberry.
I have to admit, I miss it. But I can hear the radio with clarity which is nice. But I'm beginning to think, if I really want to know what they're saying, I need to learn Spanish.
