Crankcase Chaos Jay Lynch
Back in 1962, science classes at Eisenhower School always included lectures (and quizzes) on the workings of the internal combustion engine. As a young student, I wondered why we had to learn about a dated technology that would soon be surpassed by jet engines, rockets, solar power, wind and water turbines, and nuclear fission. After all, a rocket engine had just propelled Alan Shepard into space. Hometown Westinghouse was building nuclear powered submarines and the nearby Shippingport atomic power station was producing the world’s first nuclear energy. Even commercial jet aircraft were replacing propeller-driven planes. All this progress made me confident of the quick demise of the internal combustion engine. I remember asking Mr. Radaker, my fifth grade teacher, “If George Jetson doesn’t need to know how a four-stroke engine works, why do I?” But he insisted that gasoline engine cars with rubber tires would likely dominate personal transportation during my entire lifetime. My response: “No way! If I grow up to be a mechanic, I’ll need to know about solar turbine technology, not pistons, crankshafts, and spark plugs. And, if I go to college, I’ll be flying around campus in a jet pack.” Of course, Mr. Radaker was right. Ten years later, while attending Purdue University, my car was a high-mileage, poorly maintained rustheap with an old-fashioned 8-cylinder engine. The Olds Cutlass guzzled gas, oil, and antifreeze. I masked the sounds of its failing water pump with Pink Floyd and Steely Dan blasting from my cassette tape deck. Purdue was (and is) highly regarded for its engineering school. Many of my Phi Kappa Psi fraternity brothers were majoring in enJay Lynch, leaning on his Cutlass gineering and, as you might expect, very well-versed on car engine design and repair. However, as an economics major, I was focused on academic theory and clueless about mechanical realities. My lousy attitude about car engine knowledge (and poor quiz results from Mr. Radaker) resulted in infrequent and second-rate car repair. When a gas station mechanic told me the oil in my Cutlass looked like molasses and smelled like a forest fire, I knew it was time to change the oil and replace the filter. It was a seemingly simple task, so I bought the oil and filter and proceeded to the Phi Psi parking lot. I borrowed a wrench from my good friend Tom Mingee, a fraternity brother, engineering student, and one of my best friends when we graduated from USC High School in 1971. He asked me why I needed the wrench. Knowing my questionable mechanical skills, Tom offered a good-natured, sly snicker when I told him I intended to change the oil in my car. With back-handed encouragement, he said, “Even an econ major can handle an oil change!” I crawled under the car and tried to remove the oil pan drain plug. But it was rusted and wouldn’t budge. After multiple attempts, and bloody knuckles, I gave up. My ego was deflated. I’d have to admit to Tom and the rest of my brothers that I couldn’t even change my oil. However, I started thinking about an alternative. Since oil circulated throughout the engine, there might be another way to drain it. I could remove the oil filter and run the engine, thereby forcing the oil out the filter hole. Then, I could
Purdue University’s Phi Kappa Psi fraternity house in the 1930s, when the coal hole was likely in full use 12
UPPER ST. CLAIR TODAY
Winter 2018
Fraternity brothers outside the Phi Kappa Psi house; Tom Mingee is second from left
