Better Motoring Through Chemistry

Speaking from experience: Prednisone.

Yes, the drug.

A few years back my ’97 T-bird’s V8 had, for several months, been making a noise not unlike a diesel engine. This was greatly distressing because the Ford Modular 4.6 was celebrated as a proven reliable workhorse; had my hoonage really been too much for it, undoing my gratuitous –if sometimes guilt inspired- maintenance of same? Given the cacophony of marbles it greeted me with, I supposed it was possible. But poking and troubleshooting and nearly cutting my ear off with the radiator fan revealed it could only be one of two things:

1) Water pump. Easily fixed, no biggie.... except there were no leaks, no cooling / overheating problems, no drivability issues, nor any other symptoms to correlate this hypothesis. Meaning it alternately could be a…

2) Front crank bearing. Baaaaad juju. Yeah, don’t dare even think about that. What was I saying again? Right, let’s go back to #1!

Later, during a visit which equipped me with all manner of 1950’s technology and boredom at my in-laws' farm, I removed the serpentine belt and tensioner, got set to remove the pulley from the water pump shaft to access the mounting bolts behind it, and… the blasted pulley bolts securing the thing would. Not. Come. Off. Absolutely nothin' doing, not even with a 24" farm-size (tractor) ratchet. Not even with a cheater on that. Not even when I swallowed my pithy city-boy "pride" and asked my brother- and father-in-laws for some help and added muscle… to their amazement and my frustration, that sucker just would not budge!

Realizing I didn’t have much time to ponder or force the situation - considering the same car had to get me back to the city in an hour or so - I made the rare call to just throw and leave it to chance. "F*** it: if it’s the water pump, it will eventually get so bad as to be more obvious and I’ll just address it at that point, with more time and tools. If it’s the crank bearing, well, it almost won’t freaking matter because the rest of the motor will be shot anyway. So I’ll drive it ‘till my hand is forced by the motor bleeding antifreeze or exploding."

Secretly I almost hoped for the latter, as it would have transformed my ride into a bona-fide spiritual Bluesmobile. Thusly hoping for an excuse to lean out the window and clean oil off the windshield with my shirt, I drove it as such - for another 25,000 miles in 18 months – but neither scenario transpired. The car ran absolutely fine in spite of my sometimes, er, questionable efforts to the contrary - it just sounded totally and completely odd while doing so. I came to love its symphonic box-o-rocks running song, its "I'd rather been a diesel" split personality. It never let me down, even though by all rights it probably sometimes should have. But the noise mystified both friend and foe alike.

In March 2007 I ended up with a systemic reaction to poison ivy. Did you know it’s possible to be immune to poison ivy? I didn’t, but Anna did. And she neglected to inform me of this as we cleared out our fence row, since she needn’t worry about any random bastard leaved assassins lurking throughout the mess. Cued by her carefree attitude, I wasn't paying a lick of attention either of course… but a week later I had, in the words of our stunned doctor, "the most inconceivable poison ivy infection I’ve ever seen.” Having far exceeded the window for traditional remedies, the only cure for my newfound misery was a heavy, intense, three-week course of Prednisone.

For the uninitiated, take it from me: Prednisone in high does will FUCK YOU UP.

Insomnia. Insatiable appetite. Irrational irritability. Plus a bit of good-ol-fashioned ‘roid rage made me an intolerable mothereffing bastard for a week. So much so, that my poor wife decided to take our 2-year-old girl and spend the weekend at her parents’ in order to get the hell away from allow me to recover peaceably sans distraction and aggravation.

It worked to an extent, but with innocent family gone, I needed a new target for my irrational frustrations. I returned to my attention to the Diesel Thunderbird. Feeling newly aggressive, bored, OCD, and hyperactive, I was suddenly not the least affectionate toward my now "stupid loud effing POS car". I was freshly armed with a bunch of new Craftsman ratchets I got for Christmas. And my trusty 8-pound sledgehammer.

I approached my quarry, sitting so meekly in the driveway. She stared back meekly, knowing what was coming yet accepting fate as always. I choked back reservation, knowing this was for our mutual best interests. Opened the door, popped the hood. Removed the belt. Put the ratchet on the pulley bolt… wouldn’t budge. Took a breath, let the Prednisone-flavored rage fully course through my veins, then beat the everloving #%^&%# out of the thing with the sledgehammer…

…and (after repeating the process on all 5 bolts) was rewarded with the prompt gushing of slimy old coolant and bloodied knuckles (the score was thus even, you see).

The prize now in my clutches, I thrust the motor's disemboweled heart into the air, sunlight glistening green on its dripping impeller blades, and exhalted a cry of triumph.

Prednisone. For when it absolutely, positively, has to come the #*@& off, consequences be damned!

(Upon further review: the water pump impeller could not even be turned by hand! It was virtually seized… and had been for who knew how long by that point! How the car ever managed to run for even a week like this - let alone almost two years - is a long-standing mystery that may never be answered. A new water pump turned freely by hand and cured the noise issue once and for all. I kept the old one as a trophy, and plan to mount it on my garage wall complete with plaque: a testament to the miraculous gilded soul of a car that just refused to die and never let me down. She went on for another 18 months and 6,000 miles before I had to sell her, and she'll always be dearly missed.)