Cam-arm Misinstall Results in Stuck Pedal, Ride From Hell

Car problems are never fun. But this dark tale, about the wild, adrenaline-inducing ride  DN reader Karl Strauss took in his 1968 Olds Cutlass 442 is a true “repaired by monkeys” tale:

“The car was Baby Blue, Convertible, and hummed like a top. During a trip to the local Tune Up King, the timing chain slipped and the engine ate itself. As I was in college at the time, money was very tight. I called around and found a mechanic at the local Shell station that would put in a rebuilt prime mover.One week went by and I had my baby back - all purring and humming - happy to be in its carport once more. Later that month I was traveling on the 405 Freeway in Los Angeles. It has a notable hill, which is a tough climb for almost all cars, especially that dump truck in front of me - but not for my Cutlass!

The lane to the left was clear, so I swerved over and stomped the accelerator to the floor. It was a true Pedal to the Metal moment.

Soon I was passing the dump truck, the ambulance, the police car - I was rocketing over the crest of Mulholland Pass going well in excess of 100 MPH, and still chewing up the carbon atoms even though I had let go of the accelerator long ago.

I vaulted over the top of the hill, most assuredly leaving the ground at the apex, and down I came with a thunk. Luckily it was close to midnight and traffic was very scarce, but I was beginning to lose control of the monster, and the Highway Patrolmen behind me were none too thrilled, either.

With both feet on the brake, which in retrospect was completely ludicrous as they faded to zip in nothing flat, I made it to the shoulder, missing a sign by a few millimeters. The engine was well over the red line by now, I had no choice but to kill the ignition.

KA-WHAM!!!! The engine shuddered and the exhaust system blew apart in a cloud of smoke, but the engine stopped and smoke rose from every corner of the hood. As I leaped out of the car and ran for cover I was met by a patrol officer running towards the car, fire extinguisher in hand. Carefully, he lifted the hood. No fire -just a lot of steam.

I explained to him what had happened and apparently was convincing enough to avoid a ticket. He was an amateur racer and familiar with my model car. He noted that the mechanic had installed a cam-arm on the Holly 4 barrel upside down, in effect locking the carburetor into wide open once the arm had gotten past point X. He took a pencil and flipped it back, climbed in and started the car. I was ducking for cover in the weeds.

Humm. Purr. Ahhh. I drove home that night with the beejeezus scared out of me. The next morning, I started the car and something was wrong. It  idled extremely rough and clouds of blue emitted from the tailpipe. Uh-oh. In my “Bat out of Hell” rush, the newly rebuilt engine blew rings on two cylinders. A removal of the oil pan revealed a clump of metal all shiny and new. The engine was doomed.

I had the car towed to the original mechanic who acted surprised that any work that he did would lead to such a mess. He even had the audacity to ask me if I had altered his handiwork.

I insisted that he repair the car and he reluctantly agreed. A week went by, then two. On week three I went by the garage only to find it had closed for keeps. My car, hood off and resting on top of the convertible top was just sitting inside the building. Alone.

I called the local police and eventually got my car out of there. I never did hear from the shop owner, and the local DA wouldn’t take the case. I got the hood back on and restarted the engine. Draining the oil and filling it with STP solved the smoking problem, and so I drove the Blue Behemoth for about two more weeks before selling it to a scrap yard.

Lesson learned: You get what you pay for.”