Pillsbury + 1 year:

[GlytchMeister]

Glytch wrestled the trundling Uhaul up the dirt driveway to Devan's ramshackle house and workshop.
Well.
It wasn't really a house. Strictly speaking. It was more of a pile of scrap that had been artfully arranged to provide juuuust enough shelter for Devan to say "eh, that'll do."
It was made from driftwood, lava rock, rusting corrugated metal, packed earth, cracked and discarded cinder blocks, an occasional brick, and a roof made from thatch, though the underside had been lined with plastic sheeting, because Devan didn't really know how to properly thatch a roof. An old, creaky windmill stood over the heap, and a new addition since the last time Glytch had been here: a solar panel. Both were hooked up to one of the most questionable wiring jobs Glytch had ever seen, which led to a bank of five car batteries sitting on a crooked coffee table, covered by a tarp.
The pile was, fascinatingly, extremely sturdy. It had survived every storm the sea could throw at it. Glytch secretly suspected this was due to the fact that the pile was, in fact, sitting below its natural angle of repose already, so Mother Nature couldn't really do much more to it.

Inside, once you stopped noticing the construction materials, it was fairly neat and tidy. The floor was packed earth. Off to one side, a hammock hung from the beams holding the roof up. Devan's shirts hung on wire hangers on a rope, and his pants and other foldable clothes sat in a broken fridge with no door.

Another area in the shack was devoted to food and water. High above the pile on the mountain behind was a large set of makeshift rainwater collectors. A single pipe, pieced together from junk, led down from the central tank and split to a sink and a shower. The toilet was an outhouse a good distance away from the hut. Food was either dry, canned, salted, or some other manner of preserved that didn't depend on electricity.

In fact, the only things in the entire area that were using electricity was an old NOAA weather radio, an even older regular radio playing classic rock (AC/DC's "TNT" at the moment), and a phone charger for a hilariously old virgin mobile flip phone, which was held together by duct tape, zip ties, superglue, spit, and prayers.

The rest of the inside of the heap that was Devan's abode was dedicated to his craft: absurd instruments. And his craft took up about 80% of his room. Devan was currently riding a heavily modified bike that was hooked up to a makeshift drill press Glytch had helped him design a few years back. The drill press was locked in "CNC" mode, and Devan was manipulating a wooden plaque with his bare hands as he carved something in cursive into the wood with the drill.

Glytch waited calmly until Devan finished and raised the drill bit before he spoke, so as to avoid startling the craftsman and ruining his project.

"Hey man. I got the truck here, is she ready to go?"

[FreeFlier]

After that lead-in, I can't wait to see "her" . . .

--FreeFlier

[GlytchMeister]

After that lead-in, I can't wait to see "her" . . .

--FreeFlier

Aw, man, she's a doozy, but she isn't going to get dressed up until the party itself. You'll have to wait a while...

Unfortunately, one of our number is under a helluva workload, so that's the main holdup... I believe it will be letting up soon, though.

Also, we may have had a lapse in inspiration, but I think the fire is starting to rekindle again.

Stay tuned!

[Dave]

Hmmm. A maker of exotic instruments, living semi-wild under feral conditions.

Nah. Couldn't be.

[GlytchMeister]

You know, sometimes I wonder if the concept of convergent evolution applies to ideas too. People in completely different situations, with absolutely no connection whatsoever to one another, coming up with almost the exact same idea.

I swear, this happens to me on a monthly basis. The one I'm still sore about most is the Assassin's Creed hidden blade.

Harrumph.

[Sgt. Howard]

You know, sometimes I wonder if the concept of convergent evolution applies to ideas too. People in completely different situations, with absolutely no connection whatsoever to one another, coming up with almost the exact same idea.

I swear, this happens to me on a monthly basis. The one I'm still sore about most is the Assassin's Creed hidden blade.

Harrumph.

In 1975, I applied for and received a permit to build a one-off submachinegun for purposes of R&D. I had come up with a clever design and wanted to see how well it worked.
It was a bitch. Unreliable, fussy POS that went through several modifications a great deal of time and money. One day at the range, an old ex-Marine saw what I was working with and commented, "Haven't seen one of those in a while,"
I asked him to clarify- he referred to it as a 'Reising'. This was before internet. I researched it...

I had re-invented the Reising Submachinegun of 1941... which was also a POS. Turns out, they did they same modifications of design that I had to do... but still couldn't make it reliable

[FreeFlier]

I spend a lot of time at work stopping re-invention of the wheel . . . "We tried this in '91, '95, 2001 and 2005 . . . the fundamental flaw is -"

--FreeFlier

[Dave]

You know, sometimes I wonder if the concept of convergent evolution applies to ideas too. People in completely different situations, with absolutely no connection whatsoever to one another, coming up with almost the exact same idea.

Almost certainly, yes.

You can argue that this is an application of the Pigeonhole Principle. There are only so many combinations of major ideas... there are more people around than that... and so it's impossible for every person to have a unique combination of ideas. "Idea collisions" are mathematically inevitable. It gets worse when you're looking into subjects like humor, which often seem to involve the juxtaposition of two or more concepts in an "unexpected, offbeat, but strangely appropriate" way... like "feral musician". There are only so many combinations which make sense as a funny... the rest are obvious, meaningless, or not-funny in some other way.

It's similar to what Spider Robinson wrote about in his short story "Melancholy Elephants": there are only so many unique and pleasant melodies possible. We don't create melodies, we "mine" them from this limited resource. (Spider has made his story available to the public under a Creative Commons license, which is both cool, and absolutely appropriate given the concept of the story).

You could also consider it as a working-out of Plato's concept of ideals... that there is a cosmic, perfect, ideal Feral Musician embedded in the structure of the universe, and that all of the feral musicians we encounter are simply projections or instances or shadows or crude images of the One True Feral Musician. And, since the ideal Feral Musician is out there, it's inevitable that people will think of him (or her) from time to time, and believe that they just came up with the concept.

"Who knows what music lurks in the hearts of the feral? The Shadow knows!" (cue evil laugh)

I spend a lot of time at work stopping re-invention of the wheel . . . "We tried this in '91, '95, 2001 and 2005 . . . the fundamental flaw is -"

Yup. "The only thing we learn from history, is that we're terrible at learning from history."

[Warrl]

I spend a lot of time at work stopping re-invention of the wheel . . . "We tried this in '91, '95, 2001 and 2005 . . . the fundamental flaw is -"

Sounds like you're, specifically, stopping the reinvention of the SQUARE wheel.

[FreeFlier]

I spend a lot of time at work stopping re-invention of the wheel . . . "We tried this in '91, '95, 2001 and 2005 . . . the fundamental flaw is -"

Sounds like you're, specifically, stopping the reinvention of the SQUARE wheel.

That too . . . there's also a lot of "Why are we designing and building this at great expense when we can buy these from Acme Widget for $11.95 each plus tax and shipping?"

I once had someone want me to design and build a custom screwdriver to install special bushings without damage . . . they got all upset when I told them to order 1911 grip bushing drivers from Brownell's for $7.85 each, plus shipping and how many did they need?

For reasons I won't go into, the paperwork to do a design would have cost $5000 before we laid down a line . . . then we'd have to do the design and get them fabbed at great expense . . . we'd have been going further in the hole with every one we made.

AFAIK they never did buy them, they just kept fiddling around with half-measures.

--FreeFlier

[GlytchMeister]

"GLYTCH! Great to see you, man! How was the flight?" Devan jumped up from his stool (which wobbled profusely) and gave Glytch's shoulder a friendly smack.
Glytch shrugged. "Nothing special. A bit cramped, but that's what happens when you fly coach."
"Schyah, no kiddin'." Devan rolled his eyes and led Glytch to an alcove where he kept some of his projects. They passed the rotary violin (bike pedals chained to a complicated gearbox that drove six drums, each acting as the bow for a single string. One hand controlled which drums were engaged, the other hand controlled notes with a set of levers), a fifty-stringed guitar arranged like a piano (the notes were controlled by five pedals underneath), an Echo Drum (even Glytch wasn't sure how it worked) and a myriad of other strange instruments Glytch had never seen before.

Devan was the same age as Glytch, but he didn't look it. His skin was closer in appearance to old shoe leather that had gone through the tanning process two more times after having been worn by a farmhand for thirty years. The lower half of his face was covered by a dark, scraggly half-inch beard and the top of his head was covered in similarly haphazard but clean and straight hair.. Devan never really shaved, he just cut his beard with a pair of old scissors whenever he got irritated with it. His face used to be round, still soft-looking from remains of baby fat back in college, but now his cheekbones and chin jutted out in sharp relief, and his eyes had taken on the steely hardness gained from living as he did.
At the moment he was wearing faded green swimming trunks. And that was it. His torso and back rippled as he moved. He wasn't especially beefy; in fact, he was rather skinny - there was just absolutely no fat.

"She's back here... Hold on, the banshee's in the way." Devan hoisted a massive bellows attached to some sort of reed instrument over his head. The entire thing must've weighed two hundred pounds... It was definitely heavier than Devan or Glytch, but Devan moved as though it was little more than twenty pounds.
"Uh, d'you, uh, need help with that?"
"This? Nah. You'll have to help me with the Lady though. Even when she's empty, I don't like lifting her on my own."
Glytch felt the singularly unpleasant sensation of impending doom. "You... You've made... improvements... To her, haven't you?"
Devan smiled wide, a grin Glytch knew all too well.
"Now hold it right there, Devan, I'm supposed to be the mad scientist. Musicians don't get to smile like that."
Devan chuckled. "Mad musicians can, though. What can I say, it rubbed off on me. You have only yourself to blame, mister 'I corrected my physics professor.'"
Glytch grumbled a bit before they came to a 2-meter cube of wooden crates. "Damn, man, what the hell did you add?"
"Oh, you'll see."
Glytch heaved a sigh and wished Devan was para-aware... He did not look forward to heaving all of these to the truck. Very quickly, Glytch locked onto his truck with his phone and turned it around with the VORP system, covering the sound with a loud sneeze.
Devan straightened and cocked his head. "Did you hear something?"
"Huh? Nope." Glytch lied through his teeth.
"Eh, whatever."

...

The moment they got outside with the first crate, Devan set his end down and stared at Glytch. "How th'hell did you get it backed in?"
"Very carefully."
Devan shook his head in disbelief. "Well, I guess it's a good thing. We only have to carry these half as far now."
"Exactly."

[Just Old Al]

AN: Thanks to Shneekey for the help with Prroul's dialogue...

Find a bus.

How hard could that be? Old, usable Greyhound or the like, simple and all mechanical. NO problem. As the younger folk say, easy peasy.

For the tenth time that day Al cursed himself for getting suckered into this at the eleventh hour.

The problem was simple – after the party, Prroul and his new student needed to reach the West Coast, there to board ship for the Orient, and from there to his home in China.

Simple – that is, if he could be moved by magical or high technological means. However, this was not the case.

“I need to learn to keep my mouth shut…” Al grumbled, as he started his search yet again.

It had come up as Prroul and his student had been talking, as they helped with the moving.

“Sensei, when and how are we traveling?”

“We will travel as I always have – likely on foot to San Francisco, then via ship to a port, then foot again. Avoiding major cities and other civilized areas where we might be seen. Fortunately, you are able to cook your game quickly and efficiently, so we can forage faster, likely making relatively good time.”

“Won’t that take a long time?”

“Time is relative. A few months to the Coast, avoiding urban areas will take more time, particularly as you approach the population-dense west coast, but I have an associate who can get us on a boat without appearing on the manifest in short order. Should be no more than a year or two to reach where we wish to go. With a certain amount of fortune we should be able to travel in trucks and shorten that, but no more than a year or two.”

With that, Al’s natural problem solving urge came out, much to the eventual detriment of his peace of mind.

“Prroul, mate – pardon me for eavesdropping, but I heard what you told John. Seems to me we could shorten that first leg considerably with a bit of assistance from me and this lot.”

“This is your home, Sergeant-Major – apologies are not necessary for paying attention to things in it. What do you propose?”

“Simple enough. Do you remember when I picked you and Eme up at that motel when you first arrived? We could get you to the Coast much the same way.”

Prroul thought hard – finding the best way to express his doubts without offending his host. “I doubt your 'best girl' would do well on a long trip with the load that was in it, between John and myself. Also, stops along the way would be difficult given the small quarters in the rear.”

“Oh, no – Clara’s too small and frankly underpowered for that job. However, there are much more comfortable vehicles available that could be tailored to the task without much effort – and I have the team to do it.”

“This sounds as though it would involve considerable expense –I do not want to impose on your resources unduly.”

“Not as much as you’d think, given the task at hand. I’m not saying it’s a two-phone-call Bob’s yer uncle thing, but I have a feeling I can get MIB to handle the costs – given what it will cost them to keep an eye on you on your trip it’s a good cost and manpower trade-off. Would you be offended if I did some digging on this? I do realize that this is your situation and not mine, but please allow me to assist if I can to lighten the tedium of the first leg of your journey.”

“I would not be offended in the slightest – though I am concerned that yet again I am taking you from your work.”

“Prroul, mate – it has been a pleasure having you and Eme here – please let me help to show my appreciation. The Estate has never looked better since you and she took over the forestry – it’s wonderful.”

“Then, Sergeant-Major, I accept your offer of assistance. Please do not put yourself to too much difficulty, though – if necessary we can travel as I did reaching here.”

With that, Al left them to their work. Next day, Al made a phone call to his favorite MIB Director.

“Director Oduya’s office.”

“Is the Director in? This is Al Richer, calling for himself, and I’d like to speak to her if possible.”

“One moment, Mr. Richer – I’ll see if she’s available.” The phone went silent, then picked up a moment later with Brandi’s cheery voice.

“Al – good morning! What can I do for you?”

“Simple – I’m going to solve a problem for you, but MIB is paying for it.”

“Oh, DO tell. Let me guess – this has to do with one of your houseguests?”

“Indeed. Master Prroul is going to be leaving after the party, and he and John are planning to walk – walk, mind you – from here to San Francisco to catch a ship for whatever port he wants to go to.

I am proposing we shorten this up – and that Greg and I haul their arses to the Coast.”

There was a momentary silence, then an “I’m listening.” from the far end. Brandi seemed a bit wary of any solution involving Al and Greg and machinery – wonder why?

“Very well, then listen to this. I buy and refit an old VistaCruiser or MCI or what-have-you overland bus into a simple camper – nothing fancy, but self-contained life support for four for the trip. 70-75 miles an hour will have them to the Coast in less than a week, and then whatever time there is to get them on the boat.”

I’ve done the math on this, and it’s simple. You pay for this little adventure, and you and your agents can effectively stand down and relax as opposed to spending two months scrambling to keep an eye on those two.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone – which went on a bit longer than Al was comfortable with.

“Honestly, Al – this sounds too good to be true. Can you and Greg do this?”

“Why not? Prroul is a perfect gentleman, and John is quirky but a nice lad, really. The big thing is dealing with the interface between them and the mundanes – and that’s not a problem if you and your lot keep the gendarmes off us and cover us along the way if needed.”

“That’s doable. OK, go ahead. Keep a cost accounting on the outlay and we’ll cover you for it and the trip – and the bus is yours at the end. Not like we’ll have a use for it.”

Now, coffee in hand and a rising sense of irritation in his breast, Al hunted for a bus to meet certain criteria.

1. Highway cruiser – no local route buses.
2. All mechanical – which means nothing past 1985 or so.
3. Good condition – the budget was not going to tolerate engine refitting or the like.

Everything else was moot – as long as it ran well and did what it needed to do as a bus and met the above criteria it would do.

Hmmm.

“MCI motor coach, in Orlando, FL. 1989, recently overhauled Detroit Diesel and Allison automatic transmission. Rear lavatory, flatscreen TV, video system.”

That would work, but too far. Transport would be expensive.

“1987 MCI - This coach is Located in Arcadius FL It runs and shifts normally, but It is sold “AS IS – WHERE IS” With all Known & Unknown Faults. Third party mechanical inspection is encouraged. Financing NOT available.”

Oh – that is RIGHT out. Nonono. If it was for himself Al would survey it and perhaps go for the reconditioning – but not for this job.

Hmmm…what about this?

“ 1977 Eagle Entertainer - The coach is 40 feet in length 96" wide, 8V71 Detroit Diesel, ONLY 72,000 miles since NEW Engine & Transmission Installed. Automatic Transmission, P/S, Drives and Rides Great, 3 TVs, Front lounge and Rear Lounge, Rest Room, 4 Roof A/Cs, Water Cooled Diesel Gen Set.

Located in Mineral Wells, Texas”

Damn. Nice beast – too damn far.

“1983 MCI-8 motor coach – executive conversion.

Originally made as an entertainer’s tour bus, this is presently owned by a ministry who was using it for gospel tours. Fitted with a kitchen and bath and bunk spaces as well as a rear stateroom, the coach has also been refitted with a Detroit Diesel 8V92 and an Allison automatic transmission – all mechanical units with a good record of service in the transport industry.

“It is presently in Muncie, Indiana and is off the road but arrangements can be made for temporary tags for test driving. Price reflects interest in sale.”

Al picked up the phone – we have a winner….

[Sgt. Howard]

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with a flat tire and a worn fan belt."

[Dave]

So it is written...

When the young man reached adulthood, he found himself restless, and discontented with what he found around him in his village. Feeling the call of the distant world upon him, but lacking knowledge of that world, he was uncertain how to proceed.

He spoke with the elder sage who lived just outside the village. "Uncle," (for such was the term of respect his people used) "how shall I choose my path in life? How shall I know which way to travel?"

"Young man, at times like this, it is proper that you should seek a sign from the Fates who shape the lives of each of us. Go to the top of the highest hill you can see from here, throw a reed to the wind, and see from its flight and landing what the Fates are saying to you."

And so the young man sought to do.

As he drove upwards on the rutted road towards the hilltop, he was granted a quick and powerful lesson: that the Fates are sometimes regrettably poor of hearing. For, before he reached the hilltop to throw a reed, his truck threw a rod and shuddered to a noisy halt.

All who heard of his mishap were in agreement: the Fates had spoken, had said "Just where the hell do you think you are going, hmmm?" and that the young man should remain in his home village.

In the face of such a powerful omen... and the fact that not a single wrecking yard in the entire province had a usable pushrod of the right type... the young man could only agree. He remained, married his childhood sweetheart, eventually inherited his father's small business, and still lives there to this day.

The elder sage is said to have remarked, "The one who wishes to truly explore the world must be firm, must be resolute, must be courageous, and must damn sure check his oil level at least once in a while."

So it is written.

[FreeFlier]

Just one note . . . I've never heard of an internal combustion engine throwing a pushrod . . . not to say that it hasn't happened (I'm sure it has, somewhere) but that every case of throwing a rod I've ever seen or heard of it threw a connecting rod . . . and that requires a replacement engine. (Or creative kludging . . . seven-cylinder special ahoy! )

If you're lucky, the head(s), manifolds and crankshaft are still usable . . . if unlucky, it might have taken out the rest of the vehicle too! (Unlikely, but possible . . . usually by setting it afire.)

--FreeFlier

[GlytchMeister]

Loading the Lady onto the truck took about an hour - every box was almost too heavy for Glytch to manage. Devan didn't break a sweat until they were halfway done. Devan provided a simple lunch of two freshly caught and prepared feral chickens cooked with fire-heated lava rock on the inside while grilled over a campfire. It wasn't half bad, especially when garnished with a bit of three-finger poi.
Devan ate about three-fourths of his chicken, while Glytch devoured the whole thing, despite the somewhat gamey taste of the meat.

Manual labor always made Glytch very hungry.

Once the truck was loaded and Glytch had tied all of the crates very securely in place, the two sat on the ground and drank guava juice for a while, catching up.

"So things have been going better for you lately, huh?" Devan said once Glytch had stopped panting.
"Yeah... a guy I know got mixed up in a major problem and called me in for some help. I ended up hanging out with him and his friends for a while and I guess I impressed them. Once things got sorted out, they more or less offered me a truly magnificent job - they give me a lab and whatever toys I want, and I do whatever I want with it, and they get dibs on whatever I come up with."
"Dang, dude, that's a helluva deal."
"No kidding."
"Who are these people?"
Glytch gave Devan a meaningful look. "I'm not at liberty to say."
Devan smiled and tapped his nose conspiratorially. "Gotcha. That's cool."
Glytch tapped his glass to Devan's. "Indeed. Best pay I've ever had, too. Got a little house, a better car, some toys... It's nice."
"Gotta keep your toes in the dirt, man."
"Yeah, I know. It's been pretty hectic, y'know?" Glytch took a deep breath, savoring the clean air.
"Just another reason to go out camping for a while."
"Tell ya what, once I get her to the airport, I'll go find my beach. Eh?"
"Didn't you almost die in the process of finding it the last time?"
"Details." Glytch flapped a hand dismissively. "I've been spending a lot of time with my face glued to screens and my hands playing with tech. It'll be good for me."
Devan stuck his feet out in front of him and wriggled his toes. "I don't know how you can deal with all that, man. I can barely stand going into town to ship an instrument off to a buyer."
"That's what happens when you're only half country boy. Where you lay your head is home."
"Just remember you aren't all city slicker."
"Oh, no chance of that happening." The two friends sat in silence for a moment. "Hey, I noticed you got a solar panel. Welcome to the twenty-first century." Glytch grinned.
"Har har. I got it and a few more batteries last month. I'm gonna get a laptop or something next time I feel like going into town... Thinkin' of doing a bit more publicity on my instruments."
"Can't you afford a house with utilities and stuff?"
"Yeah, I can probably get a respectable mansion by now, but why the hell would I want that? I wouldn't know what to do with it."
Glytch blinked. "A mansion?"
"Yeah. Didn't I ever tell you how much these things go for? I had one guy offer to buy the Lady for three hundred thousand. Can't for the life a' me figure out why..."
Glytch felt his heart rate quicken. He was suddenly very glad he wasn't going to actually be driving the truck with the Lady in the back. "Damn. Maybe it's because there's only one?"
"Well, he also said it was because I have a reputation for... 'irreproducible quality.'"
"I guess that explains it." Glytch knocked back the last of his guava juice and stood. "Well, I'll be going. Thanks for the chicken and for helping me load the truck."
"Sure, no problem. You should come out here more often, now that you can. You're already looking healthier."
"I think I will. See you around."
"See ya."
Glytch climbed into the truck and pulled out his phone. Once he had the contents of his truck scanned, he VORPed the crates, coconut husk packaging, and the disassembled Lady to the staging area in his lab at MIB. He cranked over the truck to cover the sound of the teleportation.
Once he was sure the Lady was safe, Glytch put the truck in gear and drove back down the dirt path, waiting until he was out of sight and earshot of Devan before VORPing himself and the truck to an out-of-the-way alley close to the Uhaul garage.

[GlytchMeister]

*VORP!*

"What the hell?" Xera stared at the cube of wooden crates that had just appeared next to Glytch's stage. "Now what?"
Rachel approached and breathed deep. "Whatever it is, it smells nice."

[GlytchMeister]

Once Glytch returned the truck (ignoring the suspicious looks from the guy at the desk), he headed into another alleyway and VORPed himself to a very special place:

Hanalei Bay.

His family, back when he was too young to know things were screwed up, had come to Hawaii as part of a ploy by his father to throw money at his family to make everyone deal with him longer.

Despite the tarnished nature of the memories, they were still some of the best memories Glytch had... Before he had found this new family, his memories of the vacation in Hawaii had been the only major pleasant memories he had involving family.

Glytch admired the view of the bay from where he stood under a palm tree (after kicking the tree a few times to check for coconut bombs) for a moment before heading off toward a small shack that rented ocean kayaks.

Renting a kayak was a simple matter of signing a piece of paper that said the provider of said kayak was not responsible if Glytch died horribly followed by an exchange of cash for a kayak, a paddle, and a life vest.

"Stay away from the caves out at the rocky bits, I had this one kid almost... Drown..." The kayak guy squinted at Glytch, then his eyes went wide as dinner plates.
"'Sup? Guess where I'm going."
"Dude, please don't, your dad gave me hell-"
"Not to worry." Glytch grinned. "He's not around, and he doesn't know." Glytch checked his phone. "And whaddaya know, the tide's about to turn. Perfect."
"...lemme write some extras on that contract."
"Fine..." Glytch handed back the contract. "I'll be ok."
"I don't trust Murphy, and that means I'm not taking chances with you, mister deathwish." The kayak guy handed back the paper and pen. "Sign again and initial after every edit I made."
Glytch did so. "Happy?"
"No, but at least my ass is covered."
"That's the spirit. See ya in a while. Might be tomorrow, I might fall asleep."
Kayak guy blanched. "Whatever, I don't wanna know."
Glytch left, chuckling as he went.

[Just Old Al]

Just one note . . . I've never heard of an internal combustion engine throwing a pushrod . . . not to say that it hasn't happened (I'm sure it has, somewhere) but that every case of throwing a rod I've ever seen or heard of it threw a connecting rod . . . and that requires a replacement engine. (Or creative kludging . . . seven-cylinder special ahoy! )


--FreeFlier

Rubber-band engines (timing belt) if an interference fit, will do it if the belt goes away in operation. It's a not-uncommon failure on older LR turbo and NA Diesels if the maintenance schedule isn't observed.

When it hapens oftentimes the pushrods get pretzeled and the rocker arms on the offended valves break. Surprisingly, they can usually be repaired by replacing those parts without removing the cylinder head. Damn tough engines.

[FreeFlier]

Just one note . . . I've never heard of an internal combustion engine throwing a pushrod . . . not to say that it hasn't happened (I'm sure it has, somewhere) but that every case of throwing a rod I've ever seen or heard of it threw a connecting rod . . . and that requires a replacement engine. (Or creative kludging . . . seven-cylinder special ahoy! )

Rubber-band engines (timing belt) if an interference fit, will do it if the belt goes away in operation. It's a not-uncommon failure on older LR turbo and NA Diesels if the maintenance schedule isn't observed.

When it hapens oftentimes the pushrods get pretzeled and the rocker arms on the offended valves break. Surprisingly, they can usually be repaired by replacing those parts without removing the cylinder head. Damn tough engines.

The gasoline engines that I knew of that had that problem, if it happened you were changing pistons and frequently heads too, and sometimes the con rods would break the cylinders too.

Once the cylinders were holed, it was strip the engine for parts and get a replacement.

BTW, it wasn't always poor maintenance . . . sometimes in winter when a blizzard blew through, snow would pack around the timing belt and lock it up . . . then it broke when someone tried to push-start the car.

--FreeFlier