Tyranny of Tools

Tyranny of Tools

TDC

KEVIN CAMERON

MUST HAVING TOOLS AND SKILLS condemn us to involuntary servitude? Is having tools like owning a van, which entitles every friend who wants to move a piano to call and ask for a favor?

Many years ago, my uncle bought a terrible used car that he often lent to me. I was in his debt. Knowing this, he made the following proposition: "This car needs work. It's smoking, and it's down on compression. I'll buy the parts, you do the work. Whaddya say?"

What could I say? He had a cleanfingernails executive job, and I was a lowly student. Aye, aye, sir. What fun to fight the sludge inside as I lifted off the valve cover. I pressed on with the work, performed in the street in front of his house, and one day, it was done. The car ran decently. My cousin and I used that car to support his kart racing (two-strokes!), and I drove it home on alternate weekends to pursue a fading romance. Chalk it all up to education.

Years later, when other vehicles smoked and lost compression in their turn, I stepped up as if by reflex. This seemed to say, "I am hard-working and self-sufficient, and I know the value of a dollar." I lay on cold concrete floors. I drilled out rusted manifold studs until all that was left of them was their spiral threads, which I pulled out with needlenosed pliers. Ho-ho, how able I am, I thought as I cleaned up the threaded holes with a tap and then blew out the chips. New studs screwed in smoothly. I made a complicated setup of a warped exhaust manifold so I could mill all six ports to a common height, putting an end to the fit ftt-ftt of leaking exhaust. Satisfaction.

In the meantime, my shop and its tools were building crankshafts, modifying cylinders and making exhaust pipes for racing motorcycles. Plenty of shop work.

Like my uncle before me, I bought and drove terrible used cars in the name of thrift. Oh, what fun to change a water pump in a New Jersey Turnpike service plaza in light rain. And bring worn brushes back into full-time contact with their commutator in rural New York. To jury-rig a temporary fuel-pump diaphragm cut from something found in the trunk. Imnrovisational jazz.

One day, it hit me. I don't have to do these nasty jobs just because I can. Cold concrete is not my bed. Having the tools is not the same as having the obligation. And then, at 196,000 miles, my most recent car sent me a message: oil in the coolant, coolant in the oil. Feeling the old impulse to tear into the problem, I stopped myself from picking up any tool. The man who runs the radiator shop loves these Berettas. I'll give it to him. And I did.

Then, I bought a new car for the first time in my life. Auto design had changed a bunch while I was pressing together and aligning all those twostroke cranks, modifying RD400 cylinders and driving low-tech cars with carburetors and points ignitions. No matter what the temperature, the new car's electronic fuel-injection system allows the engine to start, idle and run normally. I can just drive without the obligation to periodically mill an alternative universe from solid billet, using a wide array of tools. I no longer have to speculate whether that little chewing sound is a U-joint or wheel bearing failing. There is no little chewing sound. Just the normal noises allowed to exist by the Noise, Vibration and Harshness group of my car's manufacturer.

And so I have thrown off the four wheel aspect of the tyranny of tools. No wonder people trade their cars when the fan belt squeaks.

But there's more. Too often, I have gone to my shop to fix something, only to find that the tool I need to use needs repair itself before I can begin the work. Here, I can make this pattern using my saber saw (which radio-carbon dates to about 1970). The motor runs and the slide goes up and down, but the threads are stripped in the blade holder. By reflex, I am reaching for the nextlarger set screw and tap that matches its thread. I'll have this thing working in a jiffy. Half an hour later, I am wondering why I didn't use that time more wisely: to drop the non-working saber saw in the can and drive to the hardware three miles away for one that works like my new car.

I am certainly able to replace the cracked or damaged electric cords of my quarter-inch drill motor and circular saw. But I haven't done these simple things because they're tiresome and there ought to be a difference between having useful tools and gradually becoming the curator of a museum of industry. My uncle gave me that drill for my 14th birthday. I rebuilt it once after years of use, and I renlaced the cord. Enoueh.

There is still pleasure in hand tools: the graceful, functional shapes of Snapon combination wrenches, especially the small ones that are so slender and elegant; the obscure specialization of my Robinson safety-wire twister, veteran of many racing seasons. In the years I've had that twister, the jet-engine industry has carried out an extensive program to cut maintenance costs, and a major item has been development of self-retaining fasteners that no longer require safety wiring. Sounds like something Dorna might dream up for MotoGP!

Parts of the tyranny of tools can't or shouldn't be avoided. Households fall apart if no one fixes things. Wives want a shelf in the upstairs bathroom. Out come tools and the jobs get done, though not necessarily on the schedule desired. A month ago, I had to use both my lathe and milling machine to make a part for a screen-door latch. Why not just buy and install a new one? I looked. The new one was ugly. That reminds me, I should put in a new water filter. But what if the shut-off valves are permanently corroded in the open position? I'll give it a try rieht now.

Piece of cake: Both valves were free. To celebrate, I'll get out some tool catalogs and find a saber saw. And how about a battery-powered drill instead of extension cords trailing everywhere? What a novelty! Hey, how about a gas welding torch whose hoses are supple, rather than stiff with age? That way, I could easily direct the flame, rather than feeling I'm fighting a powerful spring. Who knows, with such easy-to use equipment, I might need to make a two-stroke exhaust nine.