We all face the same universal problem: there’s never enough time. Not enough time to finish a project, organize the house, or keep the garage from looking like a parts recycling yard. (Although that’s not all bad.) But the biggest time-sucker? Not having enough time to change the oil in your hot rod. How does that even happen? I get that finishing a magazine is a race, but that’s a different lap on a different track with different gears.
This small, clock-wrangling saga began about three weeks ago. The 2nd Annual Hotrods N’ Heroes event was arriving in town, practically in my driveway, and I thought it was a perfect opportunity to take one of my hot rods out for a spin and have some fun. Perfect plan, right? But as every rodder’s dream goes, perfect plans come with perfect Catch-22s. (Milo Minderbinder was one of my youthful heroes.) You want your ride to run smoothly, get you home, and look like it just rolled off the detailer’s rack. Running well? Check. Looking good? That takes a bit more effort, and Sunday is basically a small, oily martyrdom.
I realize, and for those hot rodders who know me, you know that when it comes to wax and polish I’m probably not the best. Now, I enjoy a clean hot rod, but I just don’t get excited about spending hours on it. Still, I know it’s necessary. I set aside time on the weekend to wax the hot rod, vacuum it, detail the engine a little, change the oil and filter—you know, get it ready for summer. Did I mention the amount of oil and the number of filters this project requires? It is more like a bumpy sprint through a parts store, with knees that are basically old hinges and a back that sounds suspiciously like an exhaust leak when I lie down on the ground to pop the drain plug.
But being a well-meaning husband, I thought I’d surprise my wife. First, I’m going to clean her car and do an oil and filter change. Done, then I sat there, looking at my daily driver, tired but running well. Come Sunday, I might as well take care of my also-tired-but-well-running pickup. Ford has effectively placed the oil filter on this V-8 so that you either must dismantle “stuff” that’s in the way or have the arms of a 7-year-old with the grip of an orangutan!
Now, I realize I still haven’t changed the oil and filter in either of our Suburbans. We have two: a 1971 three-door, which is a cool old truck that takes some time to wash, with its mass of steel and chrome. Changing the oil is almost fun. It’s high enough that it doesn’t need to be lifted. Slide under on a creeper and you’re in business. The new model Sub is a bit more challenging. And please tell me why, after 10 minutes of straining, the plug and the filter are no closer to coming off than they were the day before. I swear there is a gremlin that follows me with an impact wrench and truly tightens the drain plugs. Finally, I got that done.
Then comes Suburban number two. Ugh. I should also mention that, with my aging body, changing the oil and filter, getting up and down from under the car, draining it, and keeping the drained oil in the bucket rather than on the driveway has become more difficult. There are trips to the auto parts store to recycle the oil and filters. The proud moment when you poured used oil along the fenceline—those days are over. You tell yourself it’s “environmentally friendly” to compost the old oil. Hey, we didn’t know any better back then, but now we do.
Now, I’m looking at my 1968 Corvette—it takes me back to my high school days, and I really enjoy having it around; it’s my other hot rod. So, I got that car cleaned up and ready to go. Then comes the oil change. It’s much harder to slide underneath. But what gets me is how I cleverly installed the chrome valve covers without considering how I was going to pour fresh oil into the engine. Yep, you must take off one of the valve covers to pour 6 quarts of oil into the small-block. It’s an exercise in youthful exuberance to see how those aging joints, less-than-perfect eyesight, and cramped working quarters can really beat you down.
It should also be noted that no two cars use the same viscosity oil, filters, or drain plug sockets (SAE and Metric). It’s at this point that the gradually descending eyesight becomes problematic.
Still haven’t gotten to the roadster.
As of yesterday, I’m two stubborn gears shy of a meltdown. Knees declare a mutiny. The auto-parts clerk hands me a timecard and asks if I want to clock in for the labor I’ve already logged. And yet … I still haven’t managed the Holy Grail of my plan: the oil change in my own hot rod, the one I’d drive to the edge of summer and beyond. So, here’s the verdict, straight from the keyboard: we need one more day in the week—call it Hot Rod Day. A day carved out for the sacred triage of our pride and joy. No interlopers. No worrying about which “other” car needs washing or whether the tires need rotation. This day is dedicated to you and your hot rod. Period. Drop the mic. MR
