Meet Results
I wound up with the third highest raw total. A far distance behind Rex Hubbard's 1885, and a bit behind Curtis Rabon's 1725. Though, I would have been closer if I would have gotten some lifts in. I think I was 100 lbs over the fourth highest raw total and 220 over the fifth.
In my weight class, there were two twenty year olds. I was 545 over the second place kid and 745 over the third place kid.
They went 405/185/555/1035 and 285/185/365/835 respectively.
Anyway, it was nice to feel like I am a decent lifter. Not upper echelon like Rex, but no beginner either. Of course, both those kids almost beat me when I nearly bombed on the squat, so it keeps it all in perspective.
Well, back to "work".
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Meet Recap: APF/AAPF South Carolina Open
Held at American Muscle in Pelion, SC. A decent sized gym, but a bit too small to house 27 powerlifters, 13 benchers AND about a hundred spectators. By the end of the day everyone was complaining about the heat. It did not bother me, but the one bathroom and the port-a-potty for all of the above was problematic.
Judging was a bit inconsistent. They gave a few of the big-time squatters extra time to prep for lifts and made an egregious error on the bench bar. For a meet from a federation that was supposed to be for the lifter, I was a little surprised by the attitude of some of the judges and the meet promoter. All in all, I was not won over by multiply lifting, especially when it came to squats. There were a lot of high squats passed. I really have no problem with it, I mean if the judges give it to you, you take it, but I don't think I would want to do it. The single ply stuff was hard enough. MP would prolly kill me. It takes a lot of work to do multiply. My hats off to those who do, but sometimes it seems the rules get bent a little as a trade-off. Saw some utterly amaxing lifting by Rex Hubbard out of NGBB: 745 raw squat, 755 raw DL: 1855 total at 275. Good to reconnect with WC Waldren from NGBB and then Justin and John from SC.
They asked Logan to spot and load, which he did all day. I was proud of him, but missed him in the back with me.
And now: the horror.
Squat
Warmups were problematic. Two squat racks, one a monolift, and it just was hard to get it done in time. Plus, with five guys warming up on a rack, there was not the luxury of raising and lowering the rack. As such, the setting was too high for me, I could not get the bar low enough on my back, and 495 and 545, weights I can handle easily, felt heavy.
As such, I was off in the brain.
Throw in the equipmemt I am not used to using, namely: Mastadon-type bar, hundred pound plates and mono-lift and:
Opener: 600... pinned me. My opener, a weight I have done for a triple, pinned me. And I was shitting my pants! And...
I freaked the fuck out. Christan tried to talk me down, but I was ready to go home. Luckily, I got my shit together.
Second attempt: 600... 2 whites, one red: good lift. I asked them to lower the rack before I went. That helped. Kept my head up, but it felt hinky in the hole. There will be no more training with a mirror in front of me, I can tell you that. Here is footage: 600 squat
Sadly, this beat the AAPF (drug tested) raw Amercan Record by 104 lbs. A sad state of affairs.
Humiliating, but not as humiliating as...
Third attempt: 625... never even tried. Could never feel right under the rack. Had them lower it again, but it just wasn't happening. Felt like 700 lbs on my back. Just... guh.
No blame on my squats, I just had no confidence, but the equipment issues were part of the problem.
Bench
Warmups went pretty well.
Opener: 365. Got it, but it felt wrong. Here is footage: 365 bench
I asked Fred if the bar rings felt narrow. He said he did not know (he gets stupid focused), but when I went back to check, WC and Rex were already measuring. Sure enough, the rings were an inch closer to the center of the bar. So, they tell the meet promotor, who swaps out the bar... for a squat bar. A thick, whippy, squat bar. Rex got pissed and they swapped the bar out for a decent one.
Should have kept the old one.
Second attempt: 385... miss
third attempt: ditto.
What a waste of time and money to get a 600 squat and a 365 bench. The only plus was that I did not bomb. I had only three goals left going into the DL: not to bomb, to break the AR in the total, and get a PR total.
Deadlift
Warmups were terrible. Could not decide on sumo or conventional. Only warmed up to 495. Opted, as I walked up to the bar, to go sumo. Why? Because the plan was to go to conventional. The plan did not work at all, so I went contrary.
Opener: 585... my biggest opener ever... got it, but not with much speed at all. See for yerself: 585 pull
this gave me the AAPF raw American Record. Phffff. So, two goals down...
Oh, the socks were a big hit.
Second attempt: 615... a 15 pound PR, and I got it. This was a grind, but a 2-1 good lift: 615 PR Pull
I remember thinking I was locked out, looking at the head judge and him just looking at me. I figured, "Better pull just a little more." And I did. I was happy for the first time on the day.
Christan yelling for me not to give up makes me want to cry. It just makes me feel loved. And, not having quit, I gave her all I had.
Took a third at 630, but I had nothing left.
So. 1580. A whole 30lb PR total at 242 and a 15 lb PR on the deadlift (one that I got a lot of props for).
I really don't know how I feel about continuing. I'm sure I will, but I am embarrassed right now. Depressed. Start back late next week.
Thanks to Christan and Gage for always being there. Double thanks to Christan for her yelling,
Thanks to Logan for working harder than me at the meet. That spotting and loading will whip you after eight hours. And he always came over to help me whenever possible.
Thanks to Fred for hanging around and offering advice.
Thanks to Jeffery and Jenny Parr for paying my APF fees.
Thanks to Justin and John for being my SC cheering section.
Some more bitchin' and thoughts:
Made an error on my record application sheet. IT WAS MY MISTAKE. I freely admit that. Was it egregious enough for the meet director to be a prick about it. I debate that. Fed up, I just said, "Fine. Just give it back." Then he acted like it was no big deal. Huh.
Actually had some competition in the 242 raw class: me and two other guys. I was fortunate enough to come out on top.
Oh, even though I paid an extra ten bucks to be part of the APF AND the AAPF, and even though of the seven AAPF (drug tested) lifters there, I was the only one tested (I was more than happy to comply) it bugged the hell out of me that the APF/AAPF were not considered seperate. Even when it came to best lifter. There were two of us that might have won best lifter in an AAPF division, but the best lifter went to an APF lifter. He deserved it, no question, but the reason I paid for the AAPF card was to lift against fellow willing-to-be-tested lifters, not those unwilling to be tested. Again, I have no problem with how a person wants to lift, I just think apples with apples, oranges with oranges.
Speaking of testing: all meets test a percentage of available lifters. That was why I was the only one of seven lifters to be tested. What was crazy was the fact that the Meet Director gave me my piss cups and let me go about my business. Chain of custody be damned. I could have gotten Gage to piss for me and noone would have been the wiser. Also, typically, the test is done at the end of the meet. They had me do it at the end of the squat. That was fine, but I was worried I would be unable to fill the cups. Turned out to be no problem.
Fred Carpenter hit a nice 390 raw PR bench with a very near miss at 400.
I am convinced that gym weights are lighter than weights used for meets.
Well, its all in the past and I am shot out. TTFN, kids.
Pete
Judging was a bit inconsistent. They gave a few of the big-time squatters extra time to prep for lifts and made an egregious error on the bench bar. For a meet from a federation that was supposed to be for the lifter, I was a little surprised by the attitude of some of the judges and the meet promoter. All in all, I was not won over by multiply lifting, especially when it came to squats. There were a lot of high squats passed. I really have no problem with it, I mean if the judges give it to you, you take it, but I don't think I would want to do it. The single ply stuff was hard enough. MP would prolly kill me. It takes a lot of work to do multiply. My hats off to those who do, but sometimes it seems the rules get bent a little as a trade-off. Saw some utterly amaxing lifting by Rex Hubbard out of NGBB: 745 raw squat, 755 raw DL: 1855 total at 275. Good to reconnect with WC Waldren from NGBB and then Justin and John from SC.
They asked Logan to spot and load, which he did all day. I was proud of him, but missed him in the back with me.
And now: the horror.
Squat
Warmups were problematic. Two squat racks, one a monolift, and it just was hard to get it done in time. Plus, with five guys warming up on a rack, there was not the luxury of raising and lowering the rack. As such, the setting was too high for me, I could not get the bar low enough on my back, and 495 and 545, weights I can handle easily, felt heavy.
As such, I was off in the brain.
Throw in the equipmemt I am not used to using, namely: Mastadon-type bar, hundred pound plates and mono-lift and:
Opener: 600... pinned me. My opener, a weight I have done for a triple, pinned me. And I was shitting my pants! And...
I freaked the fuck out. Christan tried to talk me down, but I was ready to go home. Luckily, I got my shit together.
Second attempt: 600... 2 whites, one red: good lift. I asked them to lower the rack before I went. That helped. Kept my head up, but it felt hinky in the hole. There will be no more training with a mirror in front of me, I can tell you that. Here is footage: 600 squat
Sadly, this beat the AAPF (drug tested) raw Amercan Record by 104 lbs. A sad state of affairs.
Humiliating, but not as humiliating as...
Third attempt: 625... never even tried. Could never feel right under the rack. Had them lower it again, but it just wasn't happening. Felt like 700 lbs on my back. Just... guh.
No blame on my squats, I just had no confidence, but the equipment issues were part of the problem.
Bench
Warmups went pretty well.
Opener: 365. Got it, but it felt wrong. Here is footage: 365 bench
I asked Fred if the bar rings felt narrow. He said he did not know (he gets stupid focused), but when I went back to check, WC and Rex were already measuring. Sure enough, the rings were an inch closer to the center of the bar. So, they tell the meet promotor, who swaps out the bar... for a squat bar. A thick, whippy, squat bar. Rex got pissed and they swapped the bar out for a decent one.
Should have kept the old one.
Second attempt: 385... miss
third attempt: ditto.
What a waste of time and money to get a 600 squat and a 365 bench. The only plus was that I did not bomb. I had only three goals left going into the DL: not to bomb, to break the AR in the total, and get a PR total.
Deadlift
Warmups were terrible. Could not decide on sumo or conventional. Only warmed up to 495. Opted, as I walked up to the bar, to go sumo. Why? Because the plan was to go to conventional. The plan did not work at all, so I went contrary.
Opener: 585... my biggest opener ever... got it, but not with much speed at all. See for yerself: 585 pull
this gave me the AAPF raw American Record. Phffff. So, two goals down...
Oh, the socks were a big hit.
Second attempt: 615... a 15 pound PR, and I got it. This was a grind, but a 2-1 good lift: 615 PR Pull
I remember thinking I was locked out, looking at the head judge and him just looking at me. I figured, "Better pull just a little more." And I did. I was happy for the first time on the day.
Christan yelling for me not to give up makes me want to cry. It just makes me feel loved. And, not having quit, I gave her all I had.
Took a third at 630, but I had nothing left.
So. 1580. A whole 30lb PR total at 242 and a 15 lb PR on the deadlift (one that I got a lot of props for).
I really don't know how I feel about continuing. I'm sure I will, but I am embarrassed right now. Depressed. Start back late next week.
Thanks to Christan and Gage for always being there. Double thanks to Christan for her yelling,
Thanks to Logan for working harder than me at the meet. That spotting and loading will whip you after eight hours. And he always came over to help me whenever possible.
Thanks to Fred for hanging around and offering advice.
Thanks to Jeffery and Jenny Parr for paying my APF fees.
Thanks to Justin and John for being my SC cheering section.
Some more bitchin' and thoughts:
Made an error on my record application sheet. IT WAS MY MISTAKE. I freely admit that. Was it egregious enough for the meet director to be a prick about it. I debate that. Fed up, I just said, "Fine. Just give it back." Then he acted like it was no big deal. Huh.
Actually had some competition in the 242 raw class: me and two other guys. I was fortunate enough to come out on top.
Oh, even though I paid an extra ten bucks to be part of the APF AND the AAPF, and even though of the seven AAPF (drug tested) lifters there, I was the only one tested (I was more than happy to comply) it bugged the hell out of me that the APF/AAPF were not considered seperate. Even when it came to best lifter. There were two of us that might have won best lifter in an AAPF division, but the best lifter went to an APF lifter. He deserved it, no question, but the reason I paid for the AAPF card was to lift against fellow willing-to-be-tested lifters, not those unwilling to be tested. Again, I have no problem with how a person wants to lift, I just think apples with apples, oranges with oranges.
Speaking of testing: all meets test a percentage of available lifters. That was why I was the only one of seven lifters to be tested. What was crazy was the fact that the Meet Director gave me my piss cups and let me go about my business. Chain of custody be damned. I could have gotten Gage to piss for me and noone would have been the wiser. Also, typically, the test is done at the end of the meet. They had me do it at the end of the squat. That was fine, but I was worried I would be unable to fill the cups. Turned out to be no problem.
Fred Carpenter hit a nice 390 raw PR bench with a very near miss at 400.
I am convinced that gym weights are lighter than weights used for meets.
Well, its all in the past and I am shot out. TTFN, kids.
Pete
Friday, July 22, 2011
Getting Ready to Head Out and a Good Cut
Weighed in at 238.6 this morning. A very good cut this time and do not feel weak. It was not hard at all. Even drank a slim fast this morning. Should be dead on to weigh in at 239 or a tad under.
We should be gone and gone by 11:00 am.
Gots to shave myself, get the hair ready and I's is good to go.
Updated plan
Squat: 600-635-655
Bench: 365-390-400
Deadlift: 585-625-645
This gives me a tie for my last meet on my openers (and the measly AAPF American Record will be mine!) and gives me a shot at 1700, and gives me my goal on second attempts: 1650.
Opener squat will give me the American Record at 242, second deadlift will give me the American Record as well.
I want that 655 squat so bad I can taste it. And it taste like victory... and mandarin oranges.
Luck you will wish to me?
We should be gone and gone by 11:00 am.
Gots to shave myself, get the hair ready and I's is good to go.
Updated plan
Squat: 600-635-655
Bench: 365-390-400
Deadlift: 585-625-645
This gives me a tie for my last meet on my openers (and the measly AAPF American Record will be mine!) and gives me a shot at 1700, and gives me my goal on second attempts: 1650.
Opener squat will give me the American Record at 242, second deadlift will give me the American Record as well.
I want that 655 squat so bad I can taste it. And it taste like victory... and mandarin oranges.
Luck you will wish to me?
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Household Adventures of Proto-Mechanic
The Dishwasher
So, last week, the dishwasher ran for eleven hours straight. Proto-Mechanic senses told me something was wrong. But before I could get my mitts wet, the dishwasher acted all normal and what not. Until it stopped draining. I got the thing drained by shaking the outlet hose like a porn-star-in-training, then ran some CLR through the dishwasher which ran for three straight hours. Again, I had an inkling that the timer might be out.
But, my father, Big Dave and the Half Nelsons, replaced his DW three years ago and stored his old one at the warehouse. He told me I could have that one. Sweet.
I figure... now let's just make it clear here that I am, that I recognize that I am, and that I will always be an idiot who will never learn... an hour an a half and I am set to start cleaning the house for all the visitations this weekend.
First day of vacation, I slept in until nine. This proved to be a good idea.
So, to remove the old dishwasher, I figure it will just pop out of there. Take out the mounting screws and, um, yeah, it moves all of three inches. It was at that moment that it occured to me that there was probably a water AND a power supply. Proto-mechanic learns quick.
A quck trip to the breaker box to flip the breaker marked "Dishwasher" and "Dryer" and "Hot Water Heater" just to cover my bases. I then remove the lower cover to see a brass fitting and electrical box, the first on the left, the second on the right. I don't know much about brass fittings, but rumor has it they are a pain in the ass... Pol Pot, for those of you who regularly read. I decide to go the easy route and just take the water-inlet-thingy off and work the brass fitting later. Easy-Peasy.
On to the electrical box. Remove the cover, seperate the wires and got to unhook the ground wire and what is that I feel on my hand?
A unsettling thrum of electricity.
What is that sound?
Me screaming like a girl.
So I get the test light and sho' nuff we have live wires. Apparently the guy who added on to this house back in 1984 was a sadist. "No need for the breaker marked 'dishwasher' to actullay turn the power off to the actual dishwasher. Surprise!"
So I flip all unessential breakers.
Here's the foreshadowing: the test light reads no power.
So, I unhook the ground wire.
What is that I hear?
1) a loud bang
2) me screaming like a girl
What is that I see?
Bright spark.
What is that I yell?
(deleted due to its uncouth manner)
I curse repeatedly and turn the power off to the whole damn house, but I get the power chord off, get the old dishwasher out, remove the drain hose and get the brass fitting off the old water-thingy. Proto-mechanic skills tell me that it is gonna be a serious ass pain to put back on. More foreshadowing kids.
New dishwasher is too tall. Adjustable feet. Awesome. Seven adjustments and seven dishwasher configurations too tall and I remove the damn feet. She slides right in there.
Back to the power chords. The wall wires are solid wires, the DW wired are the type that fray. This makes splicing them harder, but I get 'em spliced and covered in electrical tape. Turn the power on, put the DW to on...
nothing.
Turn off power to the house, resplice the wires. Turn power back on, DW motor kickes on. Sweet. I then go to tuck the wires into the metal box and close it up and...
What is that I see?
A big blue spark.
What is that I hear?
1) Loud pop (and a nice burn mark on the metal)
2)My screaming like a girl.
3) A blue streak of swearing and cursing the gods of electricity, home ownership and dishwashers in general.
Power down. The wires popped through the electrical tape. Retape and use some plastic caps. Re-power up, and the motor kicks in. Swell. Close the box and we are good.
On to the brass fitting. Pol "M_____R F______G" Pot! Lucky I had some plumbers tape. Unlucky for me, I can never figure out how to put that shit on correctly. FORESHADOWING!
First off, there is a big end and a small end. The small end can go in either the outlet or inlet, but if you put it in the outlet, the other end is too big for the inlet. Ask me how I know this? Go on, ask me dammit.
I swap it out and redo the plumber's tape, and after ten minutes of the inlet fitting just touching the connctor but not catching (more foreshadowing), it finally goes on. I tighten it down snuggly, but not all the way because Proto-Mechanic has insane torque skills and he always fears snapping bolts. Turn on the water supply...
Water SPRAYS all over the place. Tighten that sucker down by using a wrench with 1/4 inch clearence with a 1/16 inch ROM. Turn on the water supply...
No spray, but a leak. Damn.
Undo the brass fittings, redo the tape and then begin the arduous process of fitting the brass things together.
Over the next thirty minutes, I slowly lose my grip on reality. As proof of this, I say to Gage (who is flipping breakers and turning on water supplies at my behest) no less then fifteen times:
"I just don't understand it! They are touching, but the thing won't CATCH!"
Literally thirty minutes later, it catches. The 1/16 ROM and another five minutes, turn on the water supply and...
No spray, no leaks. Awesome.
Turn on the power and water does not seem to be going into the machine.
Son of a BITCH!
I screw around for another fifteen minutes, then, having done nothing, turn the machine on again, 'cause why not? Seems I did not give the machine time to actually push water into the machine.
So, dishwasher is installed and it only took five hours, I only got an electric shock three times, and I only sort of lost my temper.
Proto, out!
So, last week, the dishwasher ran for eleven hours straight. Proto-Mechanic senses told me something was wrong. But before I could get my mitts wet, the dishwasher acted all normal and what not. Until it stopped draining. I got the thing drained by shaking the outlet hose like a porn-star-in-training, then ran some CLR through the dishwasher which ran for three straight hours. Again, I had an inkling that the timer might be out.
But, my father, Big Dave and the Half Nelsons, replaced his DW three years ago and stored his old one at the warehouse. He told me I could have that one. Sweet.
I figure... now let's just make it clear here that I am, that I recognize that I am, and that I will always be an idiot who will never learn... an hour an a half and I am set to start cleaning the house for all the visitations this weekend.
First day of vacation, I slept in until nine. This proved to be a good idea.
So, to remove the old dishwasher, I figure it will just pop out of there. Take out the mounting screws and, um, yeah, it moves all of three inches. It was at that moment that it occured to me that there was probably a water AND a power supply. Proto-mechanic learns quick.
A quck trip to the breaker box to flip the breaker marked "Dishwasher" and "Dryer" and "Hot Water Heater" just to cover my bases. I then remove the lower cover to see a brass fitting and electrical box, the first on the left, the second on the right. I don't know much about brass fittings, but rumor has it they are a pain in the ass... Pol Pot, for those of you who regularly read. I decide to go the easy route and just take the water-inlet-thingy off and work the brass fitting later. Easy-Peasy.
On to the electrical box. Remove the cover, seperate the wires and got to unhook the ground wire and what is that I feel on my hand?
A unsettling thrum of electricity.
What is that sound?
Me screaming like a girl.
So I get the test light and sho' nuff we have live wires. Apparently the guy who added on to this house back in 1984 was a sadist. "No need for the breaker marked 'dishwasher' to actullay turn the power off to the actual dishwasher. Surprise!"
So I flip all unessential breakers.
Here's the foreshadowing: the test light reads no power.
So, I unhook the ground wire.
What is that I hear?
1) a loud bang
2) me screaming like a girl
What is that I see?
Bright spark.
What is that I yell?
(deleted due to its uncouth manner)
I curse repeatedly and turn the power off to the whole damn house, but I get the power chord off, get the old dishwasher out, remove the drain hose and get the brass fitting off the old water-thingy. Proto-mechanic skills tell me that it is gonna be a serious ass pain to put back on. More foreshadowing kids.
New dishwasher is too tall. Adjustable feet. Awesome. Seven adjustments and seven dishwasher configurations too tall and I remove the damn feet. She slides right in there.
Back to the power chords. The wall wires are solid wires, the DW wired are the type that fray. This makes splicing them harder, but I get 'em spliced and covered in electrical tape. Turn the power on, put the DW to on...
nothing.
Turn off power to the house, resplice the wires. Turn power back on, DW motor kickes on. Sweet. I then go to tuck the wires into the metal box and close it up and...
What is that I see?
A big blue spark.
What is that I hear?
1) Loud pop (and a nice burn mark on the metal)
2)My screaming like a girl.
3) A blue streak of swearing and cursing the gods of electricity, home ownership and dishwashers in general.
Power down. The wires popped through the electrical tape. Retape and use some plastic caps. Re-power up, and the motor kicks in. Swell. Close the box and we are good.
On to the brass fitting. Pol "M_____R F______G" Pot! Lucky I had some plumbers tape. Unlucky for me, I can never figure out how to put that shit on correctly. FORESHADOWING!
First off, there is a big end and a small end. The small end can go in either the outlet or inlet, but if you put it in the outlet, the other end is too big for the inlet. Ask me how I know this? Go on, ask me dammit.
I swap it out and redo the plumber's tape, and after ten minutes of the inlet fitting just touching the connctor but not catching (more foreshadowing), it finally goes on. I tighten it down snuggly, but not all the way because Proto-Mechanic has insane torque skills and he always fears snapping bolts. Turn on the water supply...
Water SPRAYS all over the place. Tighten that sucker down by using a wrench with 1/4 inch clearence with a 1/16 inch ROM. Turn on the water supply...
No spray, but a leak. Damn.
Undo the brass fittings, redo the tape and then begin the arduous process of fitting the brass things together.
Over the next thirty minutes, I slowly lose my grip on reality. As proof of this, I say to Gage (who is flipping breakers and turning on water supplies at my behest) no less then fifteen times:
"I just don't understand it! They are touching, but the thing won't CATCH!"
Literally thirty minutes later, it catches. The 1/16 ROM and another five minutes, turn on the water supply and...
No spray, no leaks. Awesome.
Turn on the power and water does not seem to be going into the machine.
Son of a BITCH!
I screw around for another fifteen minutes, then, having done nothing, turn the machine on again, 'cause why not? Seems I did not give the machine time to actually push water into the machine.
So, dishwasher is installed and it only took five hours, I only got an electric shock three times, and I only sort of lost my temper.
Proto, out!
Monday, May 9, 2011
Proto-Mechanic Presents: The Tale of The F______g Mower: Part Three? and counting...
Disclaimer:
For the sake of brevity, when I say anything to the effect of "I/we thought it might be the 'x' or the 'y'," what I mean is that Master of Sport Mechanic and All 'Round Great Guy, My Personal Mechanicing Lifeline Terry though it might be "x" or "y". Full disclosure and all.
So, as the grass in the yard is a nightmare, I tell you, children, the tale of the mower...
Go back a month.
Or so.
Pretty sure that the mower's issues are much deeper rooted than the carburator. As it stands, I can get it started, but she runs liked a mean-spirited, three-legged Anger-Wolf. I decide to start taking her apart. Word to the wise: they is a lots of bolts in a Briggs and Stratton 17.5 horsepower mower engine. I am careful, and place everything just so so as to remember where everything is.
Within hours the engine is off the mower (I am pretty sure that I will NEVER remember how to get the belts back on the engine pullies) and I have B and S 17.5 hp mower engine in 97 parts with 375 bolts laid carefully out across my workroom. Proto-Mechanic put him a work-room together in order to dissect the engine.
The last little bit of fluff and bother is to take the crankcase cover off and pull the piston out. Hell,yeah. With some advice from Tejas, I do just that, and find... pretty much nothing wrong, though, I have no idea what I am looking for.
Master of Sport Mechanic asks: "Does everything look alright: piston, valves, frazzlestaff?"
Me: "Yes?"
So, I set it aside for a week. I have this idea that just the mere act of taking the engine apart and putting it back together will somehow magically make the rebuilt engine purr like a kitten. The following Sunday I head out to my work room and decide the piston needs to go back in to the engine. Not braggin here, kids, just showing the skills. This grasshopper has learned some things. The only thing is, I do not know how to get it back in. Those rings on the piston do not go easily back in the maw of the hole.
I make The Call.
... and All-'Round Great Guy: "Make sure the piston goes in the same way it came out."
Me: "Yeah?"
My Personal Mechanicing Lifeline: "It just has to be facing the same way."
Me: "But it only goes one way."
Terry: "No, it can go either way."
Me: "But there is a notch thingy."
Master of Sport: "Yeah, but make sure it is facing the right way."
Me: "... I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are saying to me."
This goes in a five minute circle, with me reiterating "I have no idea what you are talking about" over and over, until I have me an A-HA! Moment. I think to myself, "I'll have this bitch back to gether in NO TIME ." I will, it seems, never learn.
and All-'Round Great Guy: "How do the gaskets look?"
Me: "There were gaskets, dude?"
Apparently yes, there were and apparently yes they needed replacing, so... I have to stop. Nothing happening the rest of this Sunday afternoon. I wack down the three inch thick, five feet tall dandy-lions in front of the house, just for fun, ya know.
I go to the lawnmower shop and order the gaskets on Tuesday.
Oh, yeah, I just remembered:
My Personal Mechanicing Lifeline: "And hey, ask them what they think the problem is when you go by there."
That is so encouraging! My lifeline asking for somone else's advice.
Gaskets are 17 bucks. Shipping is nine. WTF?
Counter Guy: "They should be in tomorrow by noon."
Me: "Right on, Bro! By the way, this is what is wrong with my mower: what ya think?"
Counter Guy: "Sounds like a valve."
I go by Thursday and they are not in. I finally get them Friday, but with my mother in town, there is no chance to do anything about the 97 parts and 735 bolts until the next weekend.
Yesterday was that weekend.
I get that piston in there like a freaking champ. It really is awesome.I am focused, calm and determined. AWESOME. I even get to use a hammer as a precision tool. Make The Call just to make sure I do not have to chant anything, offer chickens to the gods or spit in the crankcase before sealing it.
Terry: "What about those valves?"
Me: "Hydunnow."
We quickly determine that the valves are a bit loose. No problem, just go order some valve guides and ask the guy what he thinks about the valves. Good thing MOSMaARGG, MPML Terry asked me about the gaskets, or we would never have gotten to the valves.
I show the engine guy at the repair shop what I have gathered, ending with my desire for valve guides, sir.
Engine Guy: "You need a new head."
Me... Balls nasty. "Can't I just get some guides?"
Engine Guy: "They come pressed into the head from the factory."
Me: "Swell."
Engine Guy: "But you are in luck we have a a used one."
So, forty five bucks instead of a hunnnert and fifty. Not the worse thing in the world.
Three hours later, (2.45 hours spent on the frakking push rod dilemma)I have calmly assembeled the engine, barely calmly gotten the pulley system back on and have attached all the wires and such. All that is left is the carburator. No problem, I have done that at least a dozen times.
Forty five minutes later, when the governor thingys would not stop touching the choke thingy, when I could not find a diagram on the internet (I mean come ON! The internet!) I lost my freaking mind for only the second time in three weeks. Weeping, swearing and gnashing of teeth on a biblical scale, kids. I broke down in literal tears. I chalk it up to the cumulative effects of shit and trying to stay on the Anger-Free Wagon for so long.
I had to make The Call, but we figured it out forthwith. So, I hook up the battery, the spark plug and turn the key...
not a sound was heard. Oddly enough, I was good.
Figured the battery was dead. Nope, one of the solenoid wires popped off. Easy fix. Turn the key...
sputtering weakness and smoke. All kinds of smoke.
It seems the muffler bracket got wedged up underneath the valve cover and oil is dripping down the bracket and frying on the muffler. Easy fix. Turn the key and she goes, revving up and down, but staying on. I figure once the shroud and air filter are on, she will feel better. Easy fix. Turn the key...
She roars to life! I mean roars, that sucker is revving high like Steppenwolf on a runaway American dream. I mean going. I figure I can adjust the throttle later. I suit up: cool new gloves, cap, Mp3 and headphones: DJ Yardman in the House!!!
I experience true joy, I mean True Joy for only the eighth time in my life for the next thirty minutes. I am mowing my back yard with a mower that was in 99 peices (Mower engine: 97 pcs, hood: 1pc, rest of the mower: 1pc= 99 pcs) with 5346 bolts not five hours before. I feel like a king on his throne!
That throne turns out to be the crapper. After another twenty minutes, there is a rattling and the idle goes down and the F_____g Mower craps out on me again.
Square ONE!!!
I may never get this bastard going again, but for just under an hour on a warm May afternoon, I actually ran a mower that I rebuilt from the ground up (mostly and with A LOT of help). I have determined that I am going to be burried with my office stuff, the TV I won from Clay Gibson (the one with a big ass chunk out of the plastic, but I beat The Man, yo) and that f_____g mower.
But, I am sad that I have to go through the diagnostics yet again. Just like life, the tale of the mower teaches us that you can be up one second and then savagely depressed the next. Especially if you have depression isses and are trying to ween yerself off rageahol at the same time.
Awesome.
To the Work Room!
For the sake of brevity, when I say anything to the effect of "I/we thought it might be the 'x' or the 'y'," what I mean is that Master of Sport Mechanic and All 'Round Great Guy, My Personal Mechanicing Lifeline Terry though it might be "x" or "y". Full disclosure and all.
So, as the grass in the yard is a nightmare, I tell you, children, the tale of the mower...
Go back a month.
Or so.
Pretty sure that the mower's issues are much deeper rooted than the carburator. As it stands, I can get it started, but she runs liked a mean-spirited, three-legged Anger-Wolf. I decide to start taking her apart. Word to the wise: they is a lots of bolts in a Briggs and Stratton 17.5 horsepower mower engine. I am careful, and place everything just so so as to remember where everything is.
Within hours the engine is off the mower (I am pretty sure that I will NEVER remember how to get the belts back on the engine pullies) and I have B and S 17.5 hp mower engine in 97 parts with 375 bolts laid carefully out across my workroom. Proto-Mechanic put him a work-room together in order to dissect the engine.
The last little bit of fluff and bother is to take the crankcase cover off and pull the piston out. Hell,yeah. With some advice from Tejas, I do just that, and find... pretty much nothing wrong, though, I have no idea what I am looking for.
Master of Sport Mechanic asks: "Does everything look alright: piston, valves, frazzlestaff?"
Me: "Yes?"
So, I set it aside for a week. I have this idea that just the mere act of taking the engine apart and putting it back together will somehow magically make the rebuilt engine purr like a kitten. The following Sunday I head out to my work room and decide the piston needs to go back in to the engine. Not braggin here, kids, just showing the skills. This grasshopper has learned some things. The only thing is, I do not know how to get it back in. Those rings on the piston do not go easily back in the maw of the hole.
I make The Call.
... and All-'Round Great Guy: "Make sure the piston goes in the same way it came out."
Me: "Yeah?"
My Personal Mechanicing Lifeline: "It just has to be facing the same way."
Me: "But it only goes one way."
Terry: "No, it can go either way."
Me: "But there is a notch thingy."
Master of Sport: "Yeah, but make sure it is facing the right way."
Me: "... I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are saying to me."
This goes in a five minute circle, with me reiterating "I have no idea what you are talking about" over and over, until I have me an A-HA! Moment. I think to myself, "I'll have this bitch back to gether in NO TIME ." I will, it seems, never learn.
and All-'Round Great Guy: "How do the gaskets look?"
Me: "There were gaskets, dude?"
Apparently yes, there were and apparently yes they needed replacing, so... I have to stop. Nothing happening the rest of this Sunday afternoon. I wack down the three inch thick, five feet tall dandy-lions in front of the house, just for fun, ya know.
I go to the lawnmower shop and order the gaskets on Tuesday.
Oh, yeah, I just remembered:
My Personal Mechanicing Lifeline: "And hey, ask them what they think the problem is when you go by there."
That is so encouraging! My lifeline asking for somone else's advice.
Gaskets are 17 bucks. Shipping is nine. WTF?
Counter Guy: "They should be in tomorrow by noon."
Me: "Right on, Bro! By the way, this is what is wrong with my mower: what ya think?"
Counter Guy: "Sounds like a valve."
I go by Thursday and they are not in. I finally get them Friday, but with my mother in town, there is no chance to do anything about the 97 parts and 735 bolts until the next weekend.
Yesterday was that weekend.
I get that piston in there like a freaking champ. It really is awesome.I am focused, calm and determined. AWESOME. I even get to use a hammer as a precision tool. Make The Call just to make sure I do not have to chant anything, offer chickens to the gods or spit in the crankcase before sealing it.
Terry: "What about those valves?"
Me: "Hydunnow."
We quickly determine that the valves are a bit loose. No problem, just go order some valve guides and ask the guy what he thinks about the valves. Good thing MOSMaARGG, MPML Terry asked me about the gaskets, or we would never have gotten to the valves.
I show the engine guy at the repair shop what I have gathered, ending with my desire for valve guides, sir.
Engine Guy: "You need a new head."
Me... Balls nasty. "Can't I just get some guides?"
Engine Guy: "They come pressed into the head from the factory."
Me: "Swell."
Engine Guy: "But you are in luck we have a a used one."
So, forty five bucks instead of a hunnnert and fifty. Not the worse thing in the world.
Three hours later, (2.45 hours spent on the frakking push rod dilemma)I have calmly assembeled the engine, barely calmly gotten the pulley system back on and have attached all the wires and such. All that is left is the carburator. No problem, I have done that at least a dozen times.
Forty five minutes later, when the governor thingys would not stop touching the choke thingy, when I could not find a diagram on the internet (I mean come ON! The internet!) I lost my freaking mind for only the second time in three weeks. Weeping, swearing and gnashing of teeth on a biblical scale, kids. I broke down in literal tears. I chalk it up to the cumulative effects of shit and trying to stay on the Anger-Free Wagon for so long.
I had to make The Call, but we figured it out forthwith. So, I hook up the battery, the spark plug and turn the key...
not a sound was heard. Oddly enough, I was good.
Figured the battery was dead. Nope, one of the solenoid wires popped off. Easy fix. Turn the key...
sputtering weakness and smoke. All kinds of smoke.
It seems the muffler bracket got wedged up underneath the valve cover and oil is dripping down the bracket and frying on the muffler. Easy fix. Turn the key and she goes, revving up and down, but staying on. I figure once the shroud and air filter are on, she will feel better. Easy fix. Turn the key...
She roars to life! I mean roars, that sucker is revving high like Steppenwolf on a runaway American dream. I mean going. I figure I can adjust the throttle later. I suit up: cool new gloves, cap, Mp3 and headphones: DJ Yardman in the House!!!
I experience true joy, I mean True Joy for only the eighth time in my life for the next thirty minutes. I am mowing my back yard with a mower that was in 99 peices (Mower engine: 97 pcs, hood: 1pc, rest of the mower: 1pc= 99 pcs) with 5346 bolts not five hours before. I feel like a king on his throne!
That throne turns out to be the crapper. After another twenty minutes, there is a rattling and the idle goes down and the F_____g Mower craps out on me again.
Square ONE!!!
I may never get this bastard going again, but for just under an hour on a warm May afternoon, I actually ran a mower that I rebuilt from the ground up (mostly and with A LOT of help). I have determined that I am going to be burried with my office stuff, the TV I won from Clay Gibson (the one with a big ass chunk out of the plastic, but I beat The Man, yo) and that f_____g mower.
But, I am sad that I have to go through the diagnostics yet again. Just like life, the tale of the mower teaches us that you can be up one second and then savagely depressed the next. Especially if you have depression isses and are trying to ween yerself off rageahol at the same time.
Awesome.
To the Work Room!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Well, we might actually get back to the gym tonight and some funny schtuff.
With Beauty and the Beast and my mom coming to visit last week, there were not enough hours in the day to get to the gym and still remain sane. Back at it tonight.
And my motivational/WTF/humorous roundup:
It is so true... even for me.
Evil incarnate.
Creepy.
Please to God, let it not be photoshopped.
Awesome.
My new life motto.
Damn straight.
Truth in advertising. 
Waiting for the remake.
Raise it!
Hahahahahah!
For Nate.
Dammit!
Laugh out loud funny.
WTF glory.
And my motivational/WTF/humorous roundup:
It is so true... even for me. Evil incarnate.
Creepy.
Please to God, let it not be photoshopped. 
Awesome. 
My new life motto. 
Damn straight.
Truth in advertising. 
Waiting for the remake. 
Raise it!
Hahahahahah!
For Nate. 
Dammit!
Laugh out loud funny. 
WTF glory.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Further Adventures of Proto-Mechanic
The Place: Valdosta
The Job: Something or another with the starter on the 1989 Olds Cutlass Cierra Assumed Time: Who the hell ever knows?
So, Logan calls me Monday night to tell me his car won't start. Lights come on, but it will not turn over. Sounds like the starter, but Mother-in-Law had a similar issue and it turned out to be the battery. I tell him to have someone jump him off and get it to the Zone... Dunta-dunta-duh-duh-Duh... Autozone! to get the battery tested. If it is bad then they will install the new one for free and Proto-Mechanic will not have to make the run to Valdosta on Tuesday.
No such luck.
Still won't start. I have him make The Call. Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry figures it might be the solenoid since sparks are flying off of that particular part. Rather than spend 100+ bucks to get the car towed and fixed, I prepare to don the Proto-Mechanic guise once again.
Tuesday:
I load the FrankenFocus with everything I think I might need. This includes everything except my axe. This concerns me because as soon as I invariably have to make The Call, I imagine that Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great-Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry will tell me, "What you need is an axe." I climb inder the car and have Logan turn the key, the starter jumps all over the place and there are, indeed, sparks coming from somewhere. Proto-Mechanic senses tell me that something is amiss. We jack the car up, undo the battery and I wedge my way in. Seems the starter is hanging by only one of the three bolts used to keep it in.
Once again, I foolishly think to myself, "This is gonna be easy!"
I am careful to note the placement of the wires and the dust shroud as I remove the one bolt and expertly remove the starter. Though I imagined (with MOSMaARGG,MPML Terry's input) that the starter was simply bound up, I figured it was best to have it tested. Off to the Zone... Dunta-dunta-dun-dun-Duh... Autozone!
A word about the workings of a motor. You turn the key, it pulls juice from the battery, sends that juice to the solenoid which revs up the starter whose teeth wind up the fly wheeel which... does other stuff. With the starter so loose, I figured the teeth were not lined up with the flywheel. As Berry would say, "That makes a whole headful of sense. " That it was wrong is irrelevent, the hypothesis was sound.
Starter was good and I got away with dropping just five bucks on this here repair. Needed new mounting bolts. Back to the car, whip the starter on, notice I forgot the shroud, whip the starter loose, insert shroud, tighten starter down, attach wires making VERY SURE the battery cable flange is SEATED FIRMLY in the grounding nook, turn the key and ...
Son of a bitch. But no exclamation point because to this point I had fulfilled both my goals: 1) not to buy a tool and 2) not to lose my freaking mind. This required a cal to Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great-Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry. We climbed under (I in grease, Terry in phone) and took a gander. Since we still had an indeterminate spark, Terry figured something had to be loose. I found what was loose. The cap on the solenoid. Who knew?
Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great-Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry, that's who. Three screws, reattach the battery and...
Sweet starter music.
Thanks to the leaky sieve that is Logan's engine I was covered head to elbow in oil/grease/dust juice/nasty. The House of Culture (wherein hang out the actors) had no dish soap so I was still pretty filthy when we headed to Subway (Eat Fresh you fat bastards!) to dine with Nate and Logan before heading back to the big town.
I would be remiss in not noting that Tuna the Cat assisted us by taking over the pad I was laying on. It belonged to him, of that he was sure.
Got to meet Logan's girlfriend Margaret. She seems nice, but a little quieter than I imagined.
So:
Total Time with Travel: six and a half hours
The Job: Something or another with the starter on the 1989 Olds Cutlass Cierra Assumed Time: Who the hell ever knows?
So, Logan calls me Monday night to tell me his car won't start. Lights come on, but it will not turn over. Sounds like the starter, but Mother-in-Law had a similar issue and it turned out to be the battery. I tell him to have someone jump him off and get it to the Zone... Dunta-dunta-duh-duh-Duh... Autozone! to get the battery tested. If it is bad then they will install the new one for free and Proto-Mechanic will not have to make the run to Valdosta on Tuesday.
No such luck.
Still won't start. I have him make The Call. Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry figures it might be the solenoid since sparks are flying off of that particular part. Rather than spend 100+ bucks to get the car towed and fixed, I prepare to don the Proto-Mechanic guise once again.
Tuesday:
I load the FrankenFocus with everything I think I might need. This includes everything except my axe. This concerns me because as soon as I invariably have to make The Call, I imagine that Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great-Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry will tell me, "What you need is an axe." I climb inder the car and have Logan turn the key, the starter jumps all over the place and there are, indeed, sparks coming from somewhere. Proto-Mechanic senses tell me that something is amiss. We jack the car up, undo the battery and I wedge my way in. Seems the starter is hanging by only one of the three bolts used to keep it in.
Once again, I foolishly think to myself, "This is gonna be easy!"
I am careful to note the placement of the wires and the dust shroud as I remove the one bolt and expertly remove the starter. Though I imagined (with MOSMaARGG,MPML Terry's input) that the starter was simply bound up, I figured it was best to have it tested. Off to the Zone... Dunta-dunta-dun-dun-Duh... Autozone!
A word about the workings of a motor. You turn the key, it pulls juice from the battery, sends that juice to the solenoid which revs up the starter whose teeth wind up the fly wheeel which... does other stuff. With the starter so loose, I figured the teeth were not lined up with the flywheel. As Berry would say, "That makes a whole headful of sense. " That it was wrong is irrelevent, the hypothesis was sound.
Starter was good and I got away with dropping just five bucks on this here repair. Needed new mounting bolts. Back to the car, whip the starter on, notice I forgot the shroud, whip the starter loose, insert shroud, tighten starter down, attach wires making VERY SURE the battery cable flange is SEATED FIRMLY in the grounding nook, turn the key and ...
Son of a bitch. But no exclamation point because to this point I had fulfilled both my goals: 1) not to buy a tool and 2) not to lose my freaking mind. This required a cal to Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great-Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry. We climbed under (I in grease, Terry in phone) and took a gander. Since we still had an indeterminate spark, Terry figured something had to be loose. I found what was loose. The cap on the solenoid. Who knew?
Master-of-Sport-Mechanic and All-'Round-Great-Guy, My-Personal-Mechanicing-Lifeline Terry, that's who. Three screws, reattach the battery and...
Sweet starter music.
Thanks to the leaky sieve that is Logan's engine I was covered head to elbow in oil/grease/dust juice/nasty. The House of Culture (wherein hang out the actors) had no dish soap so I was still pretty filthy when we headed to Subway (Eat Fresh you fat bastards!) to dine with Nate and Logan before heading back to the big town.
I would be remiss in not noting that Tuna the Cat assisted us by taking over the pad I was laying on. It belonged to him, of that he was sure.
Got to meet Logan's girlfriend Margaret. She seems nice, but a little quieter than I imagined.
So:
Total Time with Travel: six and a half hours
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