Turbo Diesel Registry
Issue link: http://read.uberflip.com/i/594528
70 www.turbodieselregister.com TDR 90 PEARLS Today I bought a new house. Well, given that it was built in 1920, it's only new to me. I've been shopping for an older home—you know, one with character—for the past two years. There have been half a dozen near misses, but this time I was able to agree on terms with the soon-to-be-previous owner. Maybe the prior deals fell through because I was too picky, too stingy, too easily spooked, or just unfortunate enough to encounter a series of unreasonable sellers. In any case, I'll have moved by the time you read this. I've never bought an older home before. It's a different experience and requires a different mindset. Every house I've owned until now has been new or nearly new construction. All the plumbing and electrics have been fresh and up to date. I've never had to worry whether the insulation was adequate, whether there was termite damage, or whether the floors were sound. And what do you mean, that's not drywall? Oooh, it's plaster... sure, I knew that. As old homes go, this one is in spectacularly good condition. New roof. New-ish plumbing and electrics. One completely new bathroom and one that's been partially updated. (Its sink remains a relic with separate hot and cold spigots.) The hardwood floors are more perfectly smooth and level than those in the house I'm leaving, which is a mere nine years old. Amazingly, this property has been well cared for throughout its 95 years of life. It's not a restoration, which would cost twice as much; it has simply aged gracefully with the help of steady TLC from it's three previous owners. The stained and varnished solid wood doors everywhere are original, carry all the '20's hardware, and have never been painted. Indeed, none of the woodwork anywhere—window casings, doorways, fireplaces, cabinetry—carries the shameful burden of six thick coats of cracking, peeling paint found in every other house I've considered from this era. The bones are solid. Even though some of the framing appears almost delicate compared to modern standards (while other sections look massively overbuilt), it has already proven itself capable of withstanding a century of weather and weight, yet looks none the worse for wear. According to every inspector and contractor I had look it over, they really don't make 'em like this anymore. According to every inspector and contractor I had look it over, they really don't make 'em like this anymore. But, obviously, nothing is perfect. There's virtually no insulation in the attic. The large basement's usefulness is greatly limited by the absence of exterior access. And there isn't a level spot anywhere in the driveway or garage; the former is lumpy and sloped, and the latter has an ancient, uneven brick floor left over from an even older building. So, I'm going to have to get used to a very different set of working conditions when I eventually settle in to do some wrenching. Garage space—in terms of both quantity and quality—has always been a top priority in my previous home selections. Vast expanses of polished concrete and virgin Sheetrock have been the norm. But contemporaries of this new purchase, at least in the areas where I've been looking, usually have no garage at all; two-bay structures like this one are exceedingly rare. So, even though it's tighter, has bare studs all-round, naked rafters overhead, and the aforementioned wavy bricks underfoot, this garage represents no lowering of my standards, when translated for the historical period. Nevertheless, something as simple as rolling a floor jack into place will be a challenging task. Do they make lift kits to give my jack's rolling chassis more ground clearance? Challenge is, of course, an ever-present feature of motoring, and one that's essential to the enjoyment most of us derive from driving and wrenching. Rather than dreading the inconveniences of my new garage, I'm getting excited about the problem-solving adventures on which it will send me. I will have to create a flat work surface somewhere, somehow, though I'm determined to preserve the brick floor. I'll figure out some way to set up shelving and a bit of wall space without damaging the rustic aura of all that bare wood. Perhaps one day I'll even complement this garage's interior with a vintage vehicle! Right now the space has serious charm based on its age. For me, that's a matter of mystery and imagination, since I have no idea what has actually transpired there. I think of old photos of racing machines squeezed into sheds with mechanics huddled over them, working effectively and enthusiastically with none of the luxuries I've always taken for granted. Will I tap into that rough-hewn spirit as a matter of necessity? Will I absorb it simply by being surrounded by exposed timbers of nearly twice my years? Reflections on the human side of the man/machine relationship by clinical psychologist and motojournalist, Mark Barnes, Ph.D.