The Wanderers build


I suppose first I should update the actual project. I bought another one, a 94.... the next deal is a motor build

pictures to follow


FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nick-named The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goodie known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.
Let's bring you up to date: Carl and Emma decided to do a little wandering, and headed back into the hills to explore and possibly find a good camping spot. Unfortunately, when the trail got tight and twisty, a wayward stick poked a whole in the radiator of The Whale. Then the worst news possible: When Emma went inside the suburban to fill up a few jugs from the sink, she found out that they were out of water!
We join them now as they're trying to figure out what to do:
Carl rummaged around in the tool box and extracted a small box full of various tubes. "Aha! Here we are. I got some Aluma-Seal and I got a tube of Dr. Whiz Rad-O-Plug. I think I'll try that Rad-O-Plug; it only cost me 99 cents at the swap meet in El Paso."
Emma shook her head. "I don't think you should experiment with something unknown. I read that article in Off-Road Magazine about cooling system tricks and tips, and they said Aluma-Seal was one of the best things you could use." "Emma, who's the mechanic here? One way or another, I'll get that leak fixed. But the real problem is where are we gonna get some water?"
"Well, if you had read that article, you might know that we can use just about any kind of liquid to get us back to that gas station near the highway. See? It says right here where somebody used a mixture of Gatorade and motor oil in the radiator in an emergency."
Carl scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm. We've got all kinds of liquids in The Whale. Why don't you get as many liquids together as you can, while I fix this here radiator?"
After reading the directions on the back of the container of Dr. Whiz Rad-O-Plug, Carl mixed the epoxy and the hardener together, stirred the substance with a stick and then dabbed it in and around the hole in the radiator. In about five minutes, the gray wad had hardened like a rock.
Emma lugged a cardboard box out of The Whale and set it on the ground next to Carl. "Here's everything I could find. I hope there's enough."
Carl rummaged through the box. "Let's see ... salad oil, club soda, tomato juice, Italian dressing, Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Soda, after-shave lotion, a bottle of cheap wine, a quart of milk and two six-packs of beer. Two six packs of beer? Emma, are you nuts? There's no way I'm gonna waste perfectly good beer in a radiator! Now you put that beer back in the fridge, and we'll make do with the other stuff."
Emma started to say something, but instead, just sighed. Carl got busy pouring all of the liquids in the radiator after starting the engine.
The Whale idled contentedly as he opened up the various cans and bottles and emptied the contents into the radiator. First the tomato juice, then nine bottles of chocolate soda, then the milk and so forth. By the time Carl poured the last container - a large bottle of Kraft Italian dressing - the mixture in the radiator was a vile looking brown soup that smelled really bad.
After about ten minutes, the thermostat opened and the murky solution started burbling through the cooling system. Carl peered in the radiator spout and watched the liquid circulate, then stuck the cap back on, satisfied with his handi-work.
"Emma? I got it all fixed up, so button up all that loose stuff and let's get rolling. I wanna get back to that gas station and flush this crap out of the radiator before it turns into a pudding or something weird."
Two minutes later, Carl had The Whale turned around and started back-tracking on the trail. He kept an eye on the temperature gauge, and it seemed a little bit on the high side, but otherwise OK.
Then, right before they reached the smooth dirt road, a huge billowing cloud of dark brown steam belched out of the grill and through the gaps where the hood and fenders met. In a moment, visibility was completely lost, as the windshield got covered with the murky solution.
Carl slammed on the brakes, shut the engine off and started cursing loudly. He scrambled out, popped the hood and immediately got covered with a wet, hot, slimy mixture that was blasting out of the "repaired" hole in the radiator.
Emma stood back a safe distance and shook her head sadly from side to side. "I told you not to use something unproven. That article in Off-Road was very specific about that, and ..."
"Aww, put a cork in it, Emma! I'm not too happy about things in general right now, and I don't need you rubbing it in. Take a look at this mess!"
And a real mess it was. Brown liquid dripped slowly off the underside of the hood, and where it had hit hot parts on the engine and the exhaust, it was hardening like burnt cake batter. Carl was covered from head to foot with a substance that looked a great deal like gravy drippings.
"Emma, don't say a word. Not one word. Just go in the back of The Whale and get that tube of Aluma-Seal and a can of plug and contact cleaner."
Emma stifled a giggle and disappeared inside The Whale, while Carl wiped as much of the mess as he could off the engine compartment and windshield with rags and paper towels. Emma returned with the toolbox and the contact cleaner, and the copy of Off-Road. "Dear, maybe you might want to read this article now, because I don't think we have any liquids left."
Carl grabbed the magazine and went over to sit on a large rock to read it. Hmmm. Maybe all was not lost, after all. The article said that in an emergency, even oil could be used. Carl rummaged around in the back of The Whale and found a half dozen plastic bottles of oil, three quarts of trans fluid and some small cans of power steering and brake fluid.
He carefully poured the various fluids in the radiator. "I wonder if we'll have enough? Nope. It's still below the hole in the radiator. Dang blast it! We still need a couple quarts of something."
Emma went inside The Whale and came out a moment later with the two six-packs of beer. "Here you are, Carl. And I don't think you can argue about it now."
Carl stood there with his jaw hanging for a long time, then suddenly brightened. "Emma, there's no way I'm gonna waste all that beer. But I will recycle it! Now let's go inside The Whale, sit back, relax a bit and let me drink all that beer."
Emma seemed confused. "But if you drink it, how are you going to get it in the radiator?"
Carl smiled widely. "Back when I was in the Navy, there was this Warrant Officer by the name of Red, who told me that you couldn't buy beer. You could only rent it. I'm going to put his philosophy into action."
A startled look came over Emma's face. "You don't mean ... you can't mean!"
"I certainly do mean it. I'll guarantee you that ten minutes after I start drinking those beers, I'll .... uhh ... have to answer the call of nature, so to speak. And what better place to do it, than inside the radiator? I think old Red would be proud of me for coming up with this solution."
Emma was utterly shocked. "If you think I'm going to sit around here, waiting for you to fill up your bladder, so you can take a leak in the radiator, you're out of your mind! I'm going to go inside and watch television and don't you dare come inside until you're done with that nasty business. My mother warned me that there would be strange and trying days in any marriage, but I never thought it come to this!"
Emma went inside The Whale and slammed the door shut. As she sat there watching the soap operas, it was very hard to ignore the sound of pop tops being opened, and every 15 minutes or so, a sound much like running water. Emma sighed and turned the sound of the TV up a notch. It looked like it was going to be a very long afternoon.




So to update, I bought a 94 Suburban to go with the 85 Suburban (because every two person family needs at least one car per person per day of the week).

It needs a motor, I scored
so I found a motor for my 94, 234,000 miles but it runs and has a 30 day warranty.* Bad news, they were wrong....*

this is the number for a stock 94 motor

this is the number of a rebuilt, upgraded and far better motor

they didn't clean the motor - that's not 234,000 miles :)
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The plot thickens, the Jasper motor (the 'broken one') has the later block.... I'm really going to be interested in what I find when I pull it apart.

As I'm running out of room, it's time to start junking the junk
new motor goes to be installed

I have one motor that came out of a 95 one ton. the guy was replacing the starter, and broke a bolt.... then tried to fix it himself (and failed, badly) to the point that the block is pretty much junk. I always thought it was just a stocker, but no - .010 overbore

which works out really well if I rebuild another block that needs oversized pistons.
spiderman has nothing on Detroit Diesel engineers

should have the 94 back tomorrow


FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nick-named The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goodie known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.
When we last left our friends, they had just come through a harrowing punctured radiator experience that Carl solved in a thoroughly disgusting manner (See OR November/93 for the tasteless details) that had Emma in a foul mood for days afterward.
In order to calm Emma down, Carl figured that maybe a little side trip off-road and some healthy recreation might be in order.
"Say, honey-pot. What say we git those dirt bikes off the bumper racks and take a nice trail ride? It's been some time since we wandered around on two wheels."
Emma just crossed her arms and pointed straight ahead with her chin.
Carl had The Whale on cruise control at exactly 58 miles per hour as they headed north. He knew damn well that no highway patrolman was going to stop you for a lousy three miles per hour, and it sure was fun bending the law a little bit, if not actually breaking it. "So, whaddaya think, sweety-pie? Just a romantic little trail ride. Maybe we can even find a deluded stream and do some skinny dipping. Hee, hee!" Emma shook her head and smiled, in spite of her foul mood. "You mean "secluded" stream, not "deluded" stream. When are you ever going to learn to quit mangling the English language?"
Carl rolled the window of The Whale down and launched a huge brown brackish wad of chew at a speed limit sign. The wad hit about seven inches off center, and he realized he had not allowed for the slight headwind when calculating his spit trajectory. "Hey, never mind all that grammar stuff. Howsa 'bout you and me taking a break and having some fun? C'mon, my little meadow muffin, let's roll the clock back a few years. Remember that time back in '86 when we stumbled across that neat hot springs with the waterfall? And I chased you all over the place, buck-nekkid?"
Emma blushed a bright red and giggled uncontrollably. "Oh, Carl! You devil! It's a good thing no one saw us running around like a couple of teen-agers."
Carl emitted an evil little smile. He knew he had her on the hook. "Well, no wonder I chased you all over that hot spring. If I recall, you had just lost about 15 pounds with that new acrobatics tape from Cher, and was lookin' good!"
Emma giggled. "Oh, Carl! You mean "aerobics" tape, not "acrobatics" tape. You might not believe it, but I'm nearly the same weight now as I was back then. For the last month or so, I've been knocking off the guacamole dip and tortilla chips and eating rice cakes dipped in hot sauce instead."
Carl nodded his head knowingly. "Hells-fire, I knew something was up. You been lookin' real good as of late. It's a good thing we're married, or I'd be spending all of my spare time chasing you around. So, my slender cupcake, what say we take in the perfect trail ride?"
About an hour later, Carl saw an interesting dirt road and pulled off. He drove for another 20 minutes and found a nice flat area to park in. There were nicely wooded hills not too far away; the area looked pleasant. In fact, just about ideal.
Carl unloaded his big 600 KTM four stroke dirt bike from the rear bumper rack, and Emma's shiny little Hodaka from the front. Twenty minutes later, they had their riding gear and helmets on, and both gas tanks topped up. Carl had their swim suits, towels, and lunch stuffed in his back-pack.
Right before they fired the bikes up, Carl got the keys to The Whale and turned to Emma: "Listen, my turtle-dove of love; I'm gonna stick the keys to The Whale in the gas cap flap just so you know where they are."
Emma bristled. "Carl! That's the very first place any car thief would look. You simply have to find a better place than that."
"Huh? Well, I guess you're right. OK, I'll stick 'em under the lip of the rear bumper."
Emma gave a disgusted look. "That's the second most obvious place. You can do better than that."
"Hmmmm. Aha! I'll just put 'em on top of the roof. No one would ever think of looking there."
"What if the car thief is tall? The first thing he'll see is the shiny car keys glistening in the sun. And when we come back from out trail ride, The Whale will be gone. Think, Carl, think."
Carl scratched his head for a while. "How about this? I just stick 'em up the exhaust pipe!"
Emma sighed. "That's the third most obvious place. Everybody does that!"
Carl spit a large wad dead center on a nearby rock, and thought. "Okie-dokie. I'll stuff them behind the license plate."
"That's the fourth most obvious place they'd look. You've got to do better than that. After all, this is our home, and we have to protect it."
Carl shrugged his shoulders. "Jeez, woman, you're making it tough. Well, what about sticking the keys in the gap in the hood under the wiper blades? No one would ever look there."
"Honestly, I think you're putting out flags just telling potential Suburban thieves where to look. If anything, that place is more obvious than the first four places. You've simply got to come up with an original place to hide the keys."
Carl thought real hard; hard enough to where his head almost hurt. Then it came to him in a flash: "I got it! I'll just dig a small spot under one of the tires and bury the keys there. Then I'll cover it up with dirt and no one will never ever think of checking there."
Emma didn't appear 100 percent convinced. "What if someone sees the freshly moved dirt?"
"Don't worry about that. I've got an idea that'll make the traces virtually invisible. Just trust me on this one. Now just fire your bike up and let's go have us the perfect trail ride."
And a wonderful trail ride it was. After riding for less than a half hour, they discovered a small bit of paradise in the hills: a small stream emptied into a pool of crystal-clear water about waist deep. It was shaded from the sun by over-hanging trees and pine-needles lay on the ground in a foot-thick carpet.
Carl and Emma frolicked in the water, splashing each other like kids at play, then lay back on their towels on the pine-needle cushion, and let the sun dry them off. They ate their lunch and shared a small bottle of Thunderbird wine.
As the sun started to drop, they put their riding gear back ion and back-tracked to The Whale. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the camp-site; The Whale was still there, its tobacco stained flanks glistening in the late afternoon sun.
Then Carl gulped visibly.
"What's wrong, dear?"
Carl smacked himself on the forehead and let out a groan. "Well, I did it, Emma. I screwed up as much as a person can do."
"How's that, dear?"
He sighed. "Remember I told you I had an idea to protect the keys hidden under the tire?"
"Well, I think that technique had a basic sort of a flaw in it."
"How so, Carl?"
"OK. Now, don't get mad, but here's what I did. I scooped out a little hollow under the tire and stuck the keys there. Then I got in The Whale and let it roll backwards about a foot to cover up any signs of disturbed dirt."
"And then I put The Whale in park and locked the doors. Emma, we got the keys buried dead-center under the left front wheel of our Suburban!"
Emma didn't say anything, but did start smacking Carl on the head with her helmet.





When we last left our friends, they were headed in the general direction of Canada, but had been distracted with various side trips. Since they had no real schedule to keep, this was no big deal. That was one of the great benefits of being retired and living out of a traveling 4x4: you did what you wanted, when you wanted.
In fact, Carl tended to lose track of what was happening, since he never bought a news paper and whenever he watched television, it was usually WWF Wrestling or Road Runner cartoons. We join them now, as they wander (what else?) in a generally northward direction.
Carl leaned back in the conformable captain's chair with his legs stretched out. As per usual practice, the cruise control on The Whale was set at 58 miles per hour, exactly three miles over the posted speed limit. Carl's philosophy was clear on this: "Ain't no state trooper chicken-crap enough to write you up for three miles over the limit. It's jist enough to irritate 'em."
Carl yawned, belched heavily, and then quietly passed some gas. To cover himself, he thought quickly: "Did you see that dead skunk alongside the road back there? Musta been the size of a German Sheppard. Pheeeeewww! Enough to make you gag."
Emma wrinkled her nose. "Ugh! It's awful. And for some reason, it smells like pepperoni."
Carl suppressed a smile. Faked her out again! "Say, Emma. Why don't you turn that radio on and see if you can raise a good country station? A coupla good Willy Nelson songs right about now would be nice."
Emma fiddled with the knobs on the intimidating Blitzkreig Watt Blaster radio, and finally found the tuner. She rotated the knob slowly:
... turn, turn, turn ... squack ... squeal ... " ... coming in at number 19 on the Top 40 list, is Shoot The Cops In The Head, by Ice Water Jones and the Rap Killers, up last week from number ..."
... turn, turn, turn ... " ... so if you've always wanted to be a mortician, now's your chance! Just send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to Famous Morticians School, right here in Tulsa ..."
... turn, turn, turn ... " ... and quit losing money with low interest back savings. Forget gold and silver. Yes, the real way to make big bucks, is with plutonium investments. Did you know that you can't make nuclear bombs without plutonium? That little known fact can give you the inside edge on real ..."
... turn, turn, turn ... " ... so why pay more for groceries? C'mon down to Finsters Food Fair, where you can get three bunches of rutabaga for only 49 cents, and not only that ..."
... turn, turn, turn ... " ... tuned for the six o'clock news, brought to you by Lucky Lube, where you can get your oil changed in 20 minutes or less, and then roll the dice to see if you pay double, or get it free. Only in Nevada, it's Lucky Lu ..."
Carl sighed. "Ain't there nuthin' good on, Emma?"
Emma fixed him with a sharp look. "It wouldn't hurt you to find out what's going on in the world today. Let's just listen to the evening news for a change."
Carl grunted.
" ... and the President said today that his budget plan will help the economy in the long run, and that the American people will be able to handle the increase in taxes ..."
Carl got read in the face. "Dammit! I knew I never should have voted for Nixon. He promised not to raise taxes. And now look at this: increased taxes!"
Emma shook her head from side to side. "Carl, Nixon isn't president any more."
"Hmmmph. No wonder, what with raising the taxes and all. Who whipped him? Goldwater? Hubert Humphrey?"
"Not quite. They got a new guy in named Clinton, from Arkansas. Some kind of New Age person. He wants gays in the military ... that sort of stuff."
"What's wrong with that? You gotta have gates in the military. If you don't, all sorts of weird people will get in to the bases. Not only that, you gotta have big tall fences with barbed wire on the top."
"Not 'gates', Carl. Gays. Oh, never mind. Why don't we just listen to the news, and maybe we'll find out something interesting. After all, how many times can you listen to Willy Nelson singing Whiskey River?"
"I dunno. Two hunnert? Three hunnert? I never get tired of it. So what's your point, Emma?"
"Oh, never mind. Just shut up and drive. Maybe, in spite of yourself, you'll learn something."
" ... news is brought to you in part by the best little lake in the area, Lake Finster. Swimming, boating, fishing and just plain fun, are part of the activities at Lake Finster. And not only that, if you just stop by and fill up your tank, you could win a free inflatable boat. Located just three miles off Highway ..."
Carl snapped to attention. "Look, Emma! There's a sign! We're only a few miles from Lake Finster. And we're low on gas. Who knows? Maybe we can win that inflatable boat. That boat we got on the roof is getting pretty old and crusty. It sure would be nice to get a boat that's not only new, but maybe half the weight of our old rig. What the heck... let's give it a shot!"
A few minutes later, The Whale rumbled up to the gas station at Lake Finster. Carl filled the tanks of The Whale up, then walked inside the station to check on the boat contest: "Say, what's the deal on winning this here inflatable boat?"
The attendant set down his worn copy of Hustler and handed Carl a card. "Just scratch off any three of the 15 squares. If you get three boats, you win. If you get two boats, you get a free pint of night crawlers. If you get one boat, you get a free plastic whistle. Good luck, partner."
Carl extracted quarter out of his pocket and thought real hard for a moment, then scratched off one square. Wow! A boat!
He closed his eyes, poked a finger at another square, scratched that one off, and got another boat! "Emma! Git your buns over here! I already got two boats. If I get a third one, we're gonna be floatin' high! Wish me luck!"
Emma rubbed Carls' thinning crew-cut for luck, and watched intently as he scratched off the third square.
Carl let out a loud whoop. "Hey! I got it! I won the boat! Lookee here! Hot damn!"
Emma's eyes bugged out. "How'd you do that, dear?"
"Well, I sort of thought it out real careful and used my scientific mind to calculate exactly where the winning squares would be. The rest is history."
The attendant sighed. "Lady, he closed his eyes and picked the last two boxes. This wasn't exactly no rocket science move."
One hour later, Carl was opening a very large cardboard box right next to the edge of Lake Finster. The first thing he extracted from the box was an instruction manual. "You got to follow these things closely, Emma. It's not like blowing up a raft. These modern devices are made out of Kevlar, Mylar, Poly-butyl-stuff, PBS, PVC, and God knows what else. Too much air, and we could blow this thing all the way to Montana. Not enough air, and it'll sink like a claw hammer. So stand back, shut up, and let me set this unit up."
Emma did indeed, stand back. Carl followed the instructions like a free-lance brain surgeon doing a mail-order brain transplant.
He inflated the boat carefully to exactly 80 p.s.i., using the air compressor built into The Whale. Then he installed the small engine, using the supplied hardware, taking extra care to torque them down to exactly the indicated specs. All the goodies were bolted down as per the instructions. His thick forefinger followed each line and each word.
One hour later, the boat was ready.
Carl fired up the five horsepower engine and let it warm up. He did a double check on the brackets and fittings, then smiled: "Emma? Get your buns in the boat. We're goin' to take 'er for a spin on Lake Finster."
Emma looked at the bright yellow inflatable boat. "I didn't realize it was so big. Gosh, it's impressive! But shouldn't we put that little cover over the air valve?"
Carl studied the boat for a moment, then flipped through the manual. "Nope. It don't say nuthin' about covering that thing up with a stopper. This here is a Your-O-pean boat, made in Germany, and these people make a good product and a good manual. I go by the manual. So hop in and I'll launch this here sucker."


Emma gingerly stepped into the boat and sat down in the bow.
Carl got a good grip on the stern and wiggled it into the water. In a few moments, the bright yellow inflatable was floating high and dry. Carl fired up the motor and they churned off toward the center of Lake Finster.
About one minute out, the yellow boat started sitting low in the water. Two minutes after that, it was sitting alarmingly low.
Emma leaned over the side and looked at the air valve. A steady hissing sound was emitting.
She tried to point this out to Carl, but he was busy working his way out among the many water craft on the crowded lake. Three minutes later, water was lapping over the edges of the center of the boat, and even Carl was forced to admit that fact.
Sixty seconds later, the middle of the boat was sagging like an over-ripe banana, and the front and the rear were pointing up into the sky.
Another minutes passed, and Carl realized that a real problem was in the making: "Swim for it, Emma! We're sinking!"
Emma bailed over the side and doggie-paddled for shore, while Carl tried to turn the water-laden craft around.
When Emma was half way to the shore, she saw the boat sag heavily in the middle and Carl dive head first into the water.
Unfortunately, he hit a mud bank about two feet below the surface.
Fortunately, the safety patrol saw his feet waving in the air, and extracted him before he ingested the muddy bottom.
Later on, as Emma sipped on a Yoo-Hoo chocolate soda, she reflected on the fact that they were able to sell the boat for $200, which almost covered the rescue fee.


so here it is in its rattling, dented glory


notice all that awful rust.... terrible, no?

so driving it home was scary, very scary - it does need a rebuild of the front suspension and maybe shocks.... and perhaps another brake or two... but the friend who helped me on it suggested it was a tire issue. He was right
I put these beauties on and it drove better

I know this might sound odd, but despite having two sets of those original wheels on there - I kind of like these, wonder if I can find poverty caps (or just leave them with a cleanup)

I always love finding stuff in new vehicles... the guy I bought it from... a pastor, who related that his son said "it just stopped" ... thinking the kid needs to listen to his dad a bit more


what is kind of funny is there was a Pastor who was a former gang member that wrong "The Cross and the Switchblade." It was a good influence on me, so maybe this kid is following that too

anyway, the 85 is up for sale and the denali is going to be rendered to parts after this weekend... what I don't know is how much, what features, and how to advertise the 85... I should keep it, but then again, I want to narrow my project and the focus...


when turbos go bad. This is forensic, but here we go
the old motor....



driver's side isn't too bad - you can even see the cross hatch marks in the bore

not sure why there's oil in number 4, but oh number 8, that turbo hated you bad

even the head got into the action...

and yes, I junked the motor - the wall was scored


Is the AMG GEP Optimizer 6.5 an option? Those sometimes show up on the govt surplus auctions

yes, those are an interesting motor because the company who is doing the work is Navistar. Navistar used to build all the Ford medium duty trucks, now they're building all the GM medium duty trucks.... so the question is does that make the GM motor a Ford motor now? are they better now because they're a GM motor (again)?

the optimizer motor is the GM motor with all the updates. One thing to be wary of, though, is those motors became increasingly metric over the course of their existence. The original motors were pretty much all SAE bolts, then Metric heads on SAE bolts, but once Navistar took over, more became metric. That doesn't mean they don't interchange, but it does mean that when you put bolts into the motor you really need to pay attention to how the bolt fits.... screwy, for certain, but not a huge issue until you get Bubba and his 1000 ft lb impact gun trying to drive a SAE bolt into metric thread.

This might help to conceptualize the idea. When GM owns, or lets another company produce under license, the motor; they control (approve) changes. Once it's sold or sent away (the 6.5), the new company may make changes that conflict with prior versions... for example, Toyota licensed to build the 250 ci motor for the FJ40, thus those motors actually interchange a great deal with the 230/250 GM motors. By 1976-78 MY change, the motor became different enough that very little interchanges. Another motor, the 215 ci motor that British Leyland/Rover bought - same thing, even now you can bolt GM heads (or the Bosch EFI to the older motor) to the updated Rover block, but inside the motor, a lot changed. Yet another motor, the Buick 225/231 - sold to Jeep, then bought back from Jeep, so there is tons that interchange - and makes for an interesting swap - you can put the supercharged 3.8 motor in a 60s CJ.... even though the motor is quite a bit different.....
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Most Gm and domestic vehicles started going metric around 1980. Seems that Navistar made the appropriate improvements to the 6.5, allowing it to survive life in up-armored hummers prior to the next generation hummers. I'd gladly tolerate superior metric fasteners and and a windowless block with forged steel crankshaft.

pay particular attention to GM's use of metric heads on SAE bolts, it is a trap for the unwary most especially on the 6.2/6.5 motors. GM changes only for 2 reasons - obsolescence or it didn't work. It's part of their claim to fame and also one of the maddening things when things that should fit don't because they changed at some point. you're right, in the early 80s they started using metric fasteners in body panels and interiors; but there are even engine parts in an LS that are metric head/sae bolts on some motors... that becomes even more confusing when it's the 6.2, which was a complete redesign to replace the failed 5.7 - but strangely there were parts that came across (e.g. the injection pump) to the new motor. It's part of where the confusion stems between what Oldsmobile built (5.7) and what Detroit built (6.2/6.5). Once GM pulled out of the 6.5, they lost control of the revisions so you need to be sure which motor you're getting. Surplus motors come in all flavors and design changes. At this moment, the best is the 599 block (casting number) because of the internal changes.

Fun fact about GM's reluctance to change - the lifters in this motor are roller lifters.... that are interchangeable not just the diesel but with roller SBC, BBC, and LS motors....




FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nicknamed The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goody known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of much trouble as possible.
When we last left our wandering friends, Carl had just sunk a new inflatable boat he'd won in Lake Finster. At this point, Carl was not in the best of moods. We join them now as they're eating at the Dew Drop Inn Diner:
"Carl, I wish you'd calm down a bit. You're gonna explode some of those veins in your head if you let little things get to you."
Carl took a huge bite of his Triple Dew Drop Burger, and replied: "Fwell, vettt me fut fings nnn iz fropper ferfecktvv ..."
Emma sighed. "If I told you once, I told you a zillion times please don't try to talk with your mouth full. I can't make out anything you say."
Reaching in his mouth with one large finger, Carl extracted a huge plug of chewing tobacco, and deposited it on the side of his plate. Some brackish brown juice seeped in the edge of his stack of french fries. "There. That's better. Forgot to take my plug out while I was eating."
Emma shuddered. "I still don't know how you can do that! How on earth can you have a wad of chew the size of a frog in your mouth, and still eat food at the same time?"
"Hey, it's easy! Watch. You put the plug high up in one side of your cheek, and keep your tongue between the food and the plug, then gobble away. It takes a little bit of practice." Carl popped the soggy wad of tobacco into his left cheek, making him look like a crazed chipmunk, then took a huge bite of the burger, which bulged out his other cheek. The sight would have made any pelican envious.
Emma raised her eyes skyward. "Please. Not while I'm eating!"
Carl replaced the plug on the plate, where it resumed seeping into the french fries. "You know what bugs me, Emma? I can live with the fact that I sunk that new boat. That ain't so bad. But I was really countin' on doin' some fishing. It's been a long time since I dropped a line in the water. And what could be healthier for you than fresh fish?"
"Well, it would certainly be better for you than that grease-burger you're eating. And those 30 weight french fries. And that side order of fat bacon. And that other side order of sausage."
"Aw, c'mon Emma. A man's got to have some protein in his system. You don't want me to wither away."
"Wither away? You'd be better off eating a tub of wheel bearing grease." Emma shook her head from side to side as she watched Carl eat a fistful of the french fries all stained with tobacco juice.
Carl smiled. "You know, we ought to eat here more often. These french fries have got a good kick to them. Anyways, like I was sayin', I still want to do some fishing. And we still got our old boat on the roof of The Whale. That guy at the dock says the fishing is great here at Lake Finster, so what say we give it a go tomorrow morning?"
Bright and early, as first light hit, Carl unloaded the old boat in the water, paid a small fee to the launch attendant, and fired up the 10 horse Sky King motor. Lake Finster was a good-sized chunk of water with a lot of small coves and inlets, and Carl headed for a likely spot and baited up a hook for Emma (she didn't like to touch the night crawlers), and then got out a variety of the latest lures for himself.
After a half hour of futile fishing - not one nibble - Carl moved the boat to another spot.
The same story. Nary a bite.
After a half day of fishing, they headed into shore for lunch. Carl cornered the bait shop man. "I thought you said the fishing was good here, buddy? Well, I ain't caught anything. And all I've done is drown two dollars worth of worms."
The bait shop man scratched his scruffy chin. "Can't explain that. You got damn near the whole lake to yourself. This is the first of the week and there ain't but two other boats on the water besides yourself. Maybe you ought to try some lures, pal?"
Carl grunted. "Hells-fire, I threw everything in the water but my tackle box. I used an Atomic Wriggler, a Mighty Minnow, a Bass-O-Matic Bomber, a Flying Fin, an Orbiting Ogre and a Spinning Sizzler, all to not avail. Then I tried cheese balls, salmon eggs, cat fish bait, plastic worms, fake bugs, fake fruit flies, fake butterflies, fake crickets, fake minnows, real minnows, real bugs, rancid bacon, bread dough, dragon flies, foam frogs, chromed tadpoles, spoon baits, feathered jigs, regular worms and night crawlers the size of hot dogs. Nothin' worked. Are you sure there's fish in this here lake?"
The bait shop man pointed at the multitude of pictures hanging on the walls. "See these? All of these lunkers came out of this lake, including this nine pound bass and this here 22 pound moose of a cat fish. Why, just the other day, I got my limit of trout in seven minutes. Maybe you just out to give up and try some dynamite, pal."
Carl got a crafty look in his eye and went back to The Whale while Emma finished up her Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda.
A half hour later, they were back out on the lake, throwing lines back in the water. Apparently, no one else was having much luck, either, as the other two boats packed it up and headed for the loading ramps.
Being a stubborn type, Carl kept on keeping on. Emma had long ago given up, and spent the time reading her latest issue of Popular Knitting from cover to cover, which had a feature story that compared various knitting needles, head to head.
As the day wore on, Carl noticed that the bait shop man closed up shop and drove home, followed by the launch ramp attendant. "Well, Emma, we got the whole lake to ourselves now."
Emma looked up from her magazine. "Big deal. The only thing we've caught is three flies that I swatted. What next, oh great Bass Master?"
Carl grinned from ear to ear. "I'll tell you what's next. We're gonna get us some fish, one way or another. And I got just the thing to get the job done. Take a look here!"
With that, Carl extracted a stick of dynamite from inside his shirt.
Emma was shocked. "Carl! You can't be serious! Fishing with dynamite is against the law!"
"So what? This here place ought to be against the law, what with charging people to get in, and no one can catch any fish. I just want to get my money's worth, that's all. We'll go over to the far part of the lake, get a quick limit my way, and eat good tonight."
Emma folded her arms over her bosom and got a grim look on her face. "Carl, I don't like this at all."
Twenty minutes later, Carl pulled the boat into a secluded cove, then dropped his anchor into the water to check the depth. "Hmmm. About 25 feet. This should give us a good cross section of fish, if there's anything in this stupid lake at all. Now pay attention, Emma, so you can see how a real fisherman gets things done when them stupid fish ain't biting. First thing we do, is see how the current is running. Now we're at a spot where the lake empties into a river. So what we do is toss the dynamite upstream, and then when the fish float to the surface, we just scoop 'em out of the water with our net as they float toward us. What could be simpler?"
Carl took the stick of dynamite and carefully trimmed the fuse. "Ya see, I shorten the fuse so it'll have about a five second burn. That's about how long it should take to reach the bottom. But the real trick to this, is to weight the stick down so it'll sink. So I'll just tie a sinker to the dynamite stick, to keep it from floating."
Carl wrapped a piece of fishing line around the stick, then tied a sinker to the end of the line. He extracted his faithful old Zippo lighter out of his shirt pocket, lit the fuse and tossed the stick of dynamite about 40 feet upstream.
"Now, you just watch and hold on to the net, Emma. There'll be a boom and the water might rock a bit, but at this distance, we're safe. My Uncle Fred used to do this all the time up in the hills of West Virginia."
Carl settled back in the boat, and waited.
Almost exactly two seconds later, the stick of dynamite bobbed to the surface right next to the boat. Clearly, the piece of fishing line that held the sinker on, had slipped off, thereby freeing the powerful stick of explosive.
Carl grabbed Emma by the shoulder. "Jump, woman! We got big trouble!"
The Wanderers jumped ungracefully into Lake Finster, just as the stick of dynamite bumped up against the side of the boat, and rested there. They paddled furiously away from the boat, and were about 20 feet away when a loud WHHHUUUUUMMMMPPPP! sound went off. Carl turned around just in time to see the wooden boat blast up into the air like it had hit a World War II mine!
A medium sized wave helped wash them to the nearby shore. Emma clambered up the bank and sat there, numb. Carl let out a whoop of delight! "Look here, Emma! There's a cat fish floating toward us. Hand me the net."
The doctor finished putting the bandage on Carl's head, and washed his hands. "Well, now. How did you get that nasty cut, sir?"
Carl looked sheepish. "Well, doc. My wife accidentally banged me on the head with a fishing net. You know how women are. They just don't know much about fishing."


the new HX35 turbo.... because, well, turbo... also, for those who are curious - this is a stock, 5.9 Turbo like on Dan's truck.

remove side cover

it was expensive, but it looks really good

So the ring.... they put it in there to cut down on the turbo whistle.... not sure why anyone would ever do that...

before removal

bigger is always better

cut the flange off so I can slip the hose over it

and back together

basically the point is faster and more boost. The 6.5 will handle 11 safely, and several routinely run 15 psi. Turbo is capable of more.... I say no, my wife is going to drive this too and I really don't need the headache that max boost gives...

for those who like videos - this is the guy I'm copying
much thanks random Youtuber!!

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