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Replacement Displacement?

Jimway

Jimway

Well-known member
All of this recent talk of displacement has caused me to want to share a recent happening in my neck of the woods. A local band of youngsters complete with their foreign automobile has seen fit to practice mayhem on the country road that leads to the JimWay residence. Due to Mrs. Jimways recently stricter laws, rules, and regulations concerning the behaviour of one Mr. Jimway, my response to repeated burnouts, spinouts, highspeed passes, and countless replays of their miniscule three or four cylinder revving to the limiter has been stifled out. I had been biding my time, dreaming of a good plate of revenge, all of the while maintaining feigned good behaviour. These youngsters have been practicing their video games and doing their best to act out their driving skills on the actual road. Tailgating, crossing the double yellow, passing on blind corners, driving down the middle of the road, hand gestures, and the everpresent bump-bump stereo have become rather commonplace.
 
Sounds like ole Jim's been hitting the bottle again. Or has Misses Jim been hitting him with the bottle.
 
Jimway said:
All of this recent talk of displacement has caused me to want to share a recent happening in my neck of the woods. A local band of youngsters complete with their foreign automobile has seen fit to practice mayhem on the country road that leads to the JimWay residence. Due to Mrs. Jimways recently stricter laws, rules, and regulations concerning the behaviour of one Mr. Jimway, my response to repeated burnouts, spinouts, highspeed passes, and countless replays of their miniscule three or four cylinder revving to the limiter has been stifled out. I had been biding my time, dreaming of a good plate of revenge, all of the while maintaining feigned good behaviour. These youngsters have been practicing their video games and doing their best to act out their driving skills on the actual road. Tailgating, crossing the double yellow, passing on blind corners, driving down the middle of the road, hand gestures, and the everpresent bump-bump stereo have become rather commonplace.
Click to expand...

These punks are the road version of Wake Board Boats on our rivers/lakes. This next generation of video game heroes are really getting under my skin, and I am not that old (My Generation is no Gem either).

It makes me want to rewind things a few years and show them that a swollen lip actually hurts, unlike a video game where you just play again!

Thanks for firing me up so early in the day Jim!

HD
 
Often during the Holiday Season, old friendships are maintained or rekindled, often to the direct dismay and dissapproval of the various Mrs's that are involved. An anchient friend of mine, a guy known to me and some of you, as The Flame, is known to stop by the Jim residence on his way to warmer surroundings for the winter season. Now I suppose I should give credit where it is due and state that the youngsters with the little boxy speedster are true to their faith with backwards or sideways situated caps on their noggins, untucked 't' shirts, jeans that hang down below the arse, and unlaced tenny shoes. The vehicle itself is somewhat clean with a stainless steel muffler pokeing out from under the rear bumper. This muffler should be called an amplifier, I'm just sayin. Lots of stuff that is not directly involved with the most important functions of the vehicle look to have been removed. The hood is one of the components that has dissappeared. What appears to be a three or four something cylinder motor resides there. During one of the verbal skirmishes that I was able to pull off out of earshot of Mrs. Jim, there was mention of cold air induction, ports, polish, cams, turbo chargers, NOS ( which I took to mean nitrous oxide), intercoolers, and absurd levels of mice under the hood. The youngsters bristle at the mention of mice power, so out of consideration, I started using the term hamster in place of horse. After hearing of the term 'ricer', I stole some of Mrs. Jims minute rice and throw some of it at the youngsters when they pass by...
 
jazzy said:
Valve stem removal?
Click to expand...
You and I think alike but,

Take a pair of lineman pliers and cut off the whole valve stem, rather then just removing the core.

Only thing is, lots of punks have onboard video and cell phone cameras so...Jim, It might be better to put a note on the cars when you next see them parked.

Note could read, "Have video of you horsing around in you car on these roads, with picture of your face and licence #, move your fun to somewhere else or I turn them in."
 
I like the way you guys think too. I like the camera idea and used some to defray a rather intense situation ( you may remember ) with the 'Test Pilots' husband. I was planning to use a logging boot sideways on the youngsters before another circumstance presented itself...
 
Jimway said:
I like the way you guys think too. I like the camera idea and used some to defray a rather intense situation ( you may remember ) with the 'Test Pilots' husband. I was planning to use a logging boot sideways on the youngsters before another circumstance presented itself...
Click to expand...

'till next time guys..........:thumb:
 
Just to stir the pot, when I hear the little machine spool up as it comes down the lane, I grab a premeasured amount of rice and hit the garage door button. The garage door opener has seen some modifications to its chain drive gear and opens rather quickly, facilitating fast escape where the situation demands. I yell a few course words and throw the rice and retreat to the garage. The youngersters slide to a stop and climb out and run toward the driveway and loudly describe their anger at having stuff thrown at them and often openly confess to a desire to scuff up old Jim. The yuongsters have learned, quickly, I might add, to stop at a certain distance from the garage door that happens to be the limit of the spray nozzle on the garden hose. The neighbors have taken an interest. You can see them peeking out of their doors and windows and over fences. We trade insults and then I close the door and the young ones try to whittle some rubber off of the front tires of there pitiful little box as they continue on with their day. I may have forgotten to mention that when the Flame goes on vacation, he leaves his car in the possesion of, you guessed it, yours truely. This automobile has been a lifelong love affair of the Flames. His Mother bought it new. It has spent almost every night of its life in a garage. On the Flames 16th birthday, it became his. About the only time he gets more than a mile or so from it is when he goes south for the winter. Right before he goes South, he drops the car off to the everwatchful eyes and heated garage of the Jimster. The car was nearly snuffed out in the early seventies by some kid in a pickup truck. The Flame was devestated. Ole Jim stepped in and breathed life back into her. Hour after hour went into the resusitation.I can still remember like yesterday when the Flame, fresh out of the hospital, saw his baby with no front sheet metal, no drivers door, and half of the body cut off in preperation of a new rear quarter section, he fainted clean out on the shop floor, bandages, arm cast, crutches, and all. At that time, it was only natural to make a couple of improvements to Louis Chevrolets two door sedan. Most importantly for this story, in the engine bay of the Flames car, resides Displacement...
 
There is a small country store situated at the North end of a measured quarter mile( complete with starting and finish lines painted across the road by some hooligan). It is a handy place to pick up snacks, chew the fat, and check on the whereabouts of the local Sheriff ( the stores owner habitually listens to the police scanner) before letting gobs of displacement leap and lunge down the road. It just so happens that the youngsters spend time in the parking lot amping each other up and looking feroicious and intimidating. Seeing as how the Flame had recently dropped off the old Chev, I was at the Store to check on any unexpected appearence from Johnny Law before giving the car its annual workout. As expected, the young ones were there and had no shortage of words like old man, antique car, has been, and stuff like that. In an earlier time, I might have been a little nervous. In an earlier time I might have been tempted to pop Mr. Smarta** right in the mouth. At this moment, I looked down at the miniscule little motor with its little chrome parts and red plug wires and braided hoses and intercooler hanging down where I imagine the front bumper was supposed to be, and smiled a Clark Griswold type of smile. "How many hamsters this thing puttin out?" I asked. "Way too many for a old man like you to count" said Racer W ( the W stands for wanna be ). "I'll spot ya three car lengths and still blow ya clear off the highway" added Racer W. "That was easy", I thought to myself. "I suppose you wouldn't have no trouble whippin an old car like this one"? I asked."I'd be happy to blow yer doors off" said Racer W, but "I don't turn cams for less than three hundred bucks" Racer W's friends laughed loudly and shook their heads up and down. It quieted right down as I pulled out my billfold and counted out three hunnert. "I have a counter offer for you" I said. " If you win, you get my three hundred, if I win, no more speeding by my house, no more revving the motor, no more spinning tires, no more tailgating or any more bullsh**" "What say you?" I asked. "Lets do it" says Racer W. "Easiest three hundred I've ever made" added Racer W to his approving friends. To let the cat ( or maybe I should say RAT) out of the bag, I popped the hood on the Chev. I could tell that none of them guys had seen a big block peice of history before. "Let me introduce you to 7 liters" I said proudly. Racer W took one look under the hood and shook his head in disgust. "That aint nothin but a big boat anchor" he said. His friends laughed. I reached into the car and turned the ignition on, selonoids clicked and an electric fuel pump whirred, I bumped the high torque starter and 427 cubic inches of tri powered fury softly stated its willingness to vaporize rubber, remove the uppermost layer of asphalt from the road, and to do its best to suck the hood into the engine when all three carbs are opened up. "Might wanna get that peice of sh** tuned up" said Racer W, "Sounds like its missin" he added as he jumped into the hamstermobile...
 
This story is getting good Jim. I used to combat these annoying ricer deuchbags with a 4" side exit exhaust, tilted slightly upwards, hooked to 6.6 liters of turbocharged diesel tweaked up to 452 rwhp and 803 rwtq. it smoked like a coal fire the VG turbo had almost zero lag with my tuning. i could shoot a 15' plume of smoke into their rolled down windows at stoplights.....and they could never catch me. they really hated it when i laughed and pointed when they leaned out of their windows gasping for air and shouting obcenities whil gesturing i was #1. not to mentioned their aces looked like they were out of africa ater a smoke treatment.
 
Jimway.
You had me hooked on your story from the start.
Im the Mayor of a very small town of 600 people and I receive similar
complaints from the locals around town.
You discribe the youngsters perfectly, with the hats, shoes and hamsters
with amplifiers out the back. I most enjoyed when you stated
in the engine bay of the Flames car ( resides displacement. )
I was sure I knew what was comeing next. This day by day is killing me
and if you say the Flames car has a muncie rockcrusher 4sp Im just
gonna die. Cant wait for tomorrow, keep up the good work.
 
She rolled off the assembly line in 1962. It says Bel-Air on her flanks. She is still gold and white, although not the original paint due to her accident in the 70's. She still has her original upholstery, bucket seats, and floor console, although the original powerglide and small block are gone, replaced by some feind with his own three hands. In the arena of Displacement, is a 427 ci tri carbed monster that was originally rated somewhere in the neighborhood of 425 hp, if I remember correctly. There are no roller rockers, turbochargers, intercoolers, multiple valves, variable valve timing, enlarged( or is it 'enraged' ) fuel injectors, a rev limiter, or polished aluminum stuff anywhere under the hood, other than a funny looking triangular air cleaner that is chrome on top. Some sleight of hand inside of the engine has occurred in the cam area which causes the melody that it emitted from the huge exhaust pipes to sound kind of like a big pop-corn popper when the engine is at idle. The rear axle was forceably removed from a Pontiac, I think, and narrowed, and held in place by a four link setup with coilovers. She sits fairly level. She has wheels painted the same gold color as the car, with small chrome hubcaps and black wall tires that look kind of utilitarian in nature. The rear wheels are now wider than original, but not so wide as to call undue attention. In a weak moment, somebody plumbed in a system to introduce a mixture of chemical and gasoline to help the engine generate a little more heat when the occasion becomes necessary. It has an old style 'T' handled shifter on the floor of the car, inbetween the seats, that has a couple of electric switches attached to it so that a knowledgeable driver can apply only the front brakes of the vehicle, or engage the chemical spray system, or even somehow put the transmission into two gears at once so that one may rev the engine in preperation for accelerating away from a standing start in what might be described as the 'Ultimate Neck Snapping Experience' to the unexpecting. In another weak moment, an overdrive unit was bolted to the back of the transmission so that a lower gear ratio in the rear axle could be utilized to facilitate forward velocity, and then overdrive may be used to motor down the highway without over revving the motor. Pretty cool stuff.
 
When one drives the old girl with light of foot and the respect a 50 year old vehicle deserves, she motors down the road comfortably and relatively quietly with fairly smooth shifts and only a slightly higher revving of the motor as one pulls away from a dead stop. There is a subdued rumble that eminates from the vehicle at all times. I drive down to the south end of the straightaway and pull onto the grassy area by the side of the road. Its cold out, and I leave the old girl idling, the big pop corn popper sound sending tingly sensations throughout me body because I am aware of what these youngsters are about to witness. The hamstermobile comes rattling down the lane and comes to a jerky stop. It fell off of a cargo ship, I surmise, some years ago on its trip to the new world. It seems to have some white fiberglass fenders and doors now. Looks like the windows are plexiglass too. Sounds like a big rotary lawnmower as it sits there and runs. Racer W revs the poor little thing to the rev limiter and just holds it there and looks in my direction. Rumm, rumm, rumm, rumm, it squeeks. I smile. Racer W's friends shake their noggins up and down. Racer W guns the little guy again and again while somehow opening the wastegate of the turbo and causeing the hamstermobile to make an amuseing sneezeing sound. As Racer W tries to whittle some rubber off of the front tires and onto the tarmac there, he purges his spray system with little clouds of vapor shooting up. Racer W looks in my direction with all of the confidence in the world. "I'd like to offer you boys some insight" I drawl. The youngsters look at me with contempt and disdain. "All of the chrome and polished metal in the world dont mean no big increases in horsepower". " Always remember this" I say, "Horsepower sells cars, Torque wins races". The youngsters snicker amongst themselves as I walk to the old girl and climb inside. I drop her into drive and pull forward onto the road, up to the white line. I pull up on the 'T' handle to engage low 1 in the trans and depress the brake pedal while holding down a button on the shifter that controls a selonoid that locks hydraulic pressure toward the front brakes so that one may heat up the rear tires by spinning them so as to increase the stickyness of the rear tires. Smoke erupts from the rear tires as the big old motor hovers around 3500 rpm. I let loose the button and drive forward for a moment to apply some sticky rubber to the road. I open the door and back up over the sticky spot. "Any of you guys want to ride with me?" I ask. The youngsters look at me with furrowed brows but say nothing. I shrug my shoulders and close the door. While I could use some extra weight over the rear wheels, I am confident that Racer W would not even think of adding a passenger or three to the hamstermobile.
 
At this very moment, I'm feelin perty good about myself and my wrangling Racer W into a small contest of speed. All of his friends are present and are going to witness well over 500 horsepower catapault the old girl down the road with sheer brute strength. "What the He**" comes a very familiar voice through the open drivers window. It's Mrs Jim. " Oh no", I say out loud. "Oh yes", she replies and motions to me to step toward the rear of the car, She has an unnerving habit of showing up out of thin air sometimes. I should have been more observant. I place the 'T' handled shifter into park and set the brake and exit the car and step back behind the vehicle. "Hi Honey" says Mrs. Jim, her normally shiny blue eyes are a dull gray. (A bad sign). She puts her hands up like she is going to put them around my neck but puts both hands around the throat. She goes for a kiss but grabs my protruding lower lip between her teeth but does not quite draw blood. "I thought you were shopping?" I cough "Apparently" she replies. "I thought you were going to be good" she growls while pushing down surprisingly hard on my foot with her heel. "Well", I say, "for the most part, I am." "I just felt the time was right to teach Mr. Racer W here a lesson" "Been planning this for a while, have we?" she asks and her eyes flash to green(sometimes a good sign, sometimes bad). She grabs my hand and digs her nails into my palm as she turns to face Racer W. She thankfully lets go of my hand and places her hands on her hips as she berates Racer W for his driving habits and warns him against future escapades. Racer W smirks at Mrs. Jimway and I can feel the temperature coming off of her climbing quickly into the red. I quickly offer up the small print of my wager with Racer W concerning his future behavior should I be victorious over him in the imminent race, to try to prevent a meltdown from Mrs. Jim (Always bad). I detect one corner of her mouth turn up ever so slightly. She looks at the hamstermobile, then to the 62, then to me.
 
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