Beauty is Almost Always Painful

Beauty is almost always painful...and it always gets uglier before it gets better. A woman looks rough when she first wakes up, but looks worse during the make-up application process with foundation dotting her face, irritated blemishes flaring up, and stray hairs standing on end. This is the phase in which Lucy is stuck.

Oliver suggested to me that we utilize the talents of Build Night regulars, Tyler and Jared, in tearing down my Supra for mud and paint. Tyler is a body-guy (for lack of title) working under the close mentorship of our trusted friend and All Star Body Tech, Ivan. And Jared, is a painter's apprentice at Lexus of Bellevue.

Tyler went right to work highlighting the "problem areas" much like a plastic surgeon before performing a face lift. For Lucy's sake, I kept the mirror away.

They say, "Hindsight is 20/20," and looking back I see that I romanticized the task. I thought "tear down" meant sanding and bondo. Not tedious dismantling of inconspicuous microscopic interior parts and hardware that either break before you finagle them out or get lost when they pop out of place and tinkle and roll across the shop until they finally vanish into a puff of smoke and glitter. So when I requested that the boys not "do it for me" but rather "show me what needs to be done," it was not long before I was pissed off and begging for mercy. I get why Techs and Painters hire these people to do this part for them. Kill. Me. Now. 

Determined to make this build "mine" and no one elses, I trudged forward, completing tear-down of the driver's door. We left the glass in for now, knowing that the vehicle will have to be pushed outside into northwest autumn drizzle to free the lift during production hours.

But the torture didn't stop there. Jared asked me to remove what? I cannot even remember. But in order to get to it I must remove something else. But in order to get to the bolt that removes that something else- I must remove the seat belts and the entire rear interior. And in order to remove the seat belts and the rear interior, I must remove... (you name it). My eyes saw red, and steam burst out my ears whistling like a tea pot. I cursed the 1988 team of Toyota engineers and promised vengeance. Jared's lip started to quiver as he slowly took a step back, then another. Oliver dared to kneel before me whispering what I could only assume was words of affirmation, as I could only see his lips moving. When my hearing returned, I could hear Jared accepting all blame, "It's my fault! I'm a poor teacher! It's all my fault!"

Oliver put words to my thoughts, "You're not a poor teacher- its a crappy (we'll go with "crappy") job."

Turning to me, he carefully said, "This is why I thought you should take advantage of Tyler and Jared. It doesn't make this project any less yours. It just makes the fun part yours and the crappy part theirs." He explained this is what they offer in exchange for the use of our facility, and a screaming deal on their girlfriend's grenaded Scion tC head job. This is why we own and operate an automotive repair facility, because the suicide rate is too high in body work. When he was sure he had talked me off the ledge, he cautiously reached for the flat head screwdriver that I was holding like a dagger, and helped me to my feet.

The Younger Woman

Oliver and I went to a housewarming party in Everett, where he scored a younger woman.
Allow me to clarify. Oliver was playing the room like he does; life of the party. He had already won over the host with his tacky gift- a Hippie Nutcracker. In the time it took him to make his way from the front door of the house to the back door- he had greeted six friends and created four more. Nothing out of the ordinary there. That's how he rolls. The surprise was what happened next. One gentleman who escaped both categories of "established friend" and "brand new friend" -floundering somewhere in the middle- said to Oliver, "I have a '98 Eclipse in my driveway. My wife hates it. Come and get it."
And there it was. *pause for dramatic effect* The decision to dive into the world of DSM's (we had dabbled before- dipped our toes in and found the water to be warm but expensive). Instantly, Oliver had a new best friend and a new project. Lucy and I had a new lady to compete with.
The next day, we found ourselves in Marysville under a massive Evergreen preforming emergency surgery on a tired neglected Eclipse. With the amount of moss and slime on the car it was difficult at first glance to identify its paint color. Upon further investigation we confirmed it was not green, but black-ish.

"I'll be shocked if you can get it started." said Ollie's new friend, Steve.
"Challenge accepted." stated Ollie.
It goes without saying that Oliver resuscitated the car. With no brakes, no clutch, no gas, and no registration, he slowly backed the young lady out from under the tree that had been her home for a number of years. He barked at me to jump in The Starship (our family's Ford Explorer- hey we are practical where we need to be) and follow close.
I followed him to the nearest gas station where he put a few bucks in the tank. 
"Did you just bring this thing back from the dead?" asked some sketchy Marysville transient. 
"Actually, yeah, I did," replied Oliver.
"Should've left it," called the man as he crossed the street.
The look on Oliver's face clearly said, "No appreciation." 
I added, "No imagination."
Fueled up, we were ready for our journey. We mapped out a route that was longer in distance than our usual course- avoiding highway speed and most importantly, cops. Completely comprised of county back roads, this was a gamble with no brakes, a severely slipping clutch and a donut spare. If the car was not up for the task, we wouldn't have a shoulder to rest on, and the cops we tangle with would be county cowboys. But ultimately the fact that cops in the county are sparse (comparatively speaking) and the speed of travel would be a gentle 35-45 mph sealed the deal.
Forty minutes later, we pulled into GTA, dragging swamp scum through the parking lot. Huggies (our intern) greeted us, sobbing, begging us to not make him wash our new addition. 
No sooner did Huggies have Swamp Thing shining like a de-lamming diamond, Ollie had a gleaming new ACT clutch in his hand. 
WHAAAT!? (I inserted a sideways look at Lucy) "Serious!?" I asked her.
If I was my four year old, I would have shouted "NO FAIR!" But since, I'm a grown adult I just thought it and stomped my foot.
"Can you believe it was only $400 bucks?" He blurted.
I choked.
"Baaar-gain!" He sang.
This is how it always starts. The younger woman gets the attention, then the expensive gifts... 
Well, boys, Lucy and I are toting "age before beauty" and we are done messing around.  

I Won't be Part of Your System

Over the course of weeks... Even months, I have become increasingly frustrated with my build. I've been at a standstill. Either there is no room in the shop for us on build night... Or the symptoms of motherhood has overwhelmed me (exhaustion, over extension, packed schedules and financial ruin). More frustrating than the afore mentioned, is the lack of availability of parts and accessories available for my generation of Supra.
Shopping for body kits has proved impossible. There is a very small selection of kits available for the Mark III- no wide bodies outside of Japan. My choices appear to be one of two evils: totally tacky or basically boring. If I like the front end of one set up, the rear looks like a fat chick in a mini skirt. If I like the rear, the front looks OEM modest. Mix and match you say? Can't. The side skirts won't line up.
I refuse to comply with society's taste in aftermarket kits. What is it gonna take to make my own? I get overwhelmed thinking about it.
My opinions on available options in Carbon Fiber hoods are identical to above. OEM or ugly. Those are my choices. Aftermarket for the MK3 features gills. Like a shark. Not the image I am trying to impress. To make matters more complicated, I want sleek head lights; which I realize I will have to fab myself as that too doesn't appear available in the marketplace. But all hoods are cut to accommodate the factory set up.
Round and round I go, figuratively spinning my bald tires on my factory wheels realizing this is why people build their Honda- parts are cheap and plentiful.
In my desire to hear good news I acted as if I had my ducks in a row and asked our best friend forever, Ricky Bobby, to swing by build night for a paint consult.
"What you want, I'm not sure its possible," He told me. Not the good news I was looking for. My imagination betrays me at every turn.
Ricky Bobby promised to spray out some samples for me and assured me that if anyone could do it, it would be him, "I'm the best there is, plain and simple..." You know the story.
I threw in the build night towel and sulked home. I drew myself a bath and sunk in to my eyeballs. I sighed loudly mimicking a motor boat and told myself Lucy and I would overcome this. She will rise like a phoenix. No more obstacles.
Wrong again.

September 2, 2011

When Build Night rolled around again, Oliver was busy cranking out inspections on 24 cars for one of our biggest accounts while simultaneously helping our brother-in-law, John, practically rebuild a Camry that was better suited for the scrap yard than the highway. Needless to say, I was on my own with Lucy.
I proceeded to pull the radiator, condenser, wiring harness and ECU until an old friend showed up with a 120# puppy. That's right, puppy. A Saint Bernard pup that outweighed me. That distraction was sufficient to pull me away from my project.
The following week, the shop was too full for Lucy and I to fit- so, I went home. Again the next week, and the next week, and the next week...

Pulling the Head off the Supra

On August 26th, I found myself at build night again. Baby Vera was again swaddled in the front office- this time with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on to drown out any shop noise. I gloved up and committed to pulling this head.

Drew was back to help with only minimal mention of my hood still being in the way. Oliver was less occupied with other Build Night Participants and was more available to guide me. I had to slap the boys' hands away many times to remind them this was my project. I super duper luper (as my 4 year old, Lola, would say) appreciate their wisdom and guidance- but I want this car to be mine. When she's done, I want to know I did it.
As I dug in, I found evidence of others having been there before me:

Unacceptable.
With the assistance of caffeine and air tools, this job went much quicker than last week!
Once all the bolts, hoses and wires were removed and unplugged, the head was ready for lift off.
Once the head was removed, it was immediately evident what caused catastrophic engine failure. Pistons on cylinders 2 and 3 were warped/melted/damaged (I'll let you look for yourself) from detonation, probably from a previous rebuild done poorly.

Good Piston:

Bad Piston:

Wicked Bad Piston:

So, that answered the question of "Why no compression?" Not that I really cared. I didn't want to build the 7M anyhow. But, Oliver needed to satisfy his curiosity, and so we have.

Open Build Night

On Friday, August 19th, after our first complete week of business in the new location, we hosted our first open build night.
Our friends came- and brought friends- with their toys to work on. Liability waivers were signed in blood by all participants and locked in a vault. 
By happenstance, we had our sister and brother-in-law's Eddie Bauer Explorer in the shop for service so we laid down the rear seats and set up our kids in the back with sleeping bags, popcorn, sippy cups and Lilo & Stitch on the DVD screen.
With the kids occupied, I was ready to roll up my sleeves and pull the head off my Supra.
With Oliver acting as the roving foreman, I got started with very little direction. He was busy instructing people how to use the lift, helping with a brake job on a lifted Toyota, diagnosing a Scion tC, and occasionally barking my direction to tell me what next needed removed. It was slow going. 

When our friend, Drew, arrived on the scene, I had a little more consistency in direction. Course, arguments regarding whether or not Lucy's hood should be removed for easier accessibility were nearly debilitating. Oliver thought there was no reason to take it off; we would have to roll it outside eventually and he didn't want visibly "torn apart" cars residing in front of his building. Drew takes no offense to "torn apart" cars, and made it clear he felt only an idiot would continue to work around that obstacle. As idiots we all marched forward- the hood in place. 
At midnight the air compressor kicked on and woke our sleeping newborn swaddled in the front office. By the time I finished feeding her, my eye lids were heavy and Drew had decided to leave in search of a watering hole. 
Bummed that I could not muster the horsepower to finish pulling the head off the Supra, I decided to call it a night.

Guerrilla Tactics Automotive & Performance moves to Monroe

In early August 2011, we got the keys to our new shop located in Monroe, WA. Nearly 4,000 square feet of bare canvas for us paint our dreams.

We cleaned. We painted. We installed our first lift. And before we opened our doors to the public on August 15th, Oliver's RX-7 was nestled into its new home just outside the office window.

Not wanting to put it off another minute, Lucy and I rolled on the scene in time for our upcoming open build night.

 Let the games begin.

Lucy's Homecoming

On Friday, July 29th, we made the trip to Sumner again- with a trailer this time! My day had come- Lucy was coming home. 

.

Our buddy Damian, owner of Eco Smart Junk Removal, rolled with us- offering the service of towing my car home. Once she was trailer'd, the bill of sale was signed and title was in my hand... we were ready to head home. I held my breath the whole time, unsure if Damian knew how precious his cargo was. 

 Damian got loose on the Snohomish River Bridge coming into Monroe on the 522... but then that's how Lucy got her name- it's only fitting that she got loose on her homecoming... and since nothing made contact: no damage = no worries. Hang on, Lucy... we'll be home shortly!

*sigh of relief* Home Sweet Home! 

Not caring that it was pitch black outside, Ollie and I wanted to determine why she won't start. Is the engine blown like the previous owner suspected? Is it a blown head gasket? Or something more simple? We decided to put some power to the battery and try to start it up. Take a listen with us:

Yikes. No compression. There goes plans of being able to pull and sell a functioning engine to help fund this project. Oh, well. Can't be too disappointed. Knowing myself, a running engine would only distract me- prolonging my engine swap and delaying progress.
Lucy, welcome to the family. You are in good hands.

I Shall Call Her "Lucy"

(This blog is an account of Ronda's Supra build & Oliver's RX7 rebuild, through Guerrilla Tactics' Performance division. Five years ago, Oliver blew up his FD on his way to the latest Superman movie (going faster than a speeding bullet?). It has been sitting in our garage ever since as we had baby after baby with no time or money to rebuild. The time has come. Thank you for following along.)
 

RONDA
Saturday, July 23rd (two days ago), I was wandering through the car show at Formula Drift's Throwdown event at Evergreen Speedway where crowds (mostly young men) of people were bent over the engine compartment of various modified imports. As I was trying to keep up with Oliver who was bobbing and weaving between cars, I heard one young man shout to another, "That's a chick's car!" I whipped around at lightning speed just mean muggin' the fool wearing his backwards ball cap and torn up wife beater thinking, "What a jack-ass!" for dissing someone's hard work whether it was his taste or not. Well, he was apparently a mind reader, because he saw me and clarified, "No, a chick drives that car!" It was a declaration of astonishment. Not an insult at all. 
Y'all, it was at that moment that I realized I drive a Ford Explorer. Don't get me wrong, I love my Explorer. It's reliable, it's comfortable, it's not a mini-van, it's mechanically sound, it seats all my kids- and I've got a lot of kids. But that's where it ends. I drive the vehicle for those reasons. Not because it is "me." I can't take any personal pride in my vehicle other than that I worked hard enough to earn the money to pay for it. It's not "mine" in that my hands where in it. It's only "mine" because my registration says so. 
In short, my first thought was, "I drive a Ford Explorer. (dramatic eye roll directed toward myself) How practical." My second thought, "This is B.S. Next year, someone is going to be saying, 'That's a chick's car!' about my car."
For the remainder of the afternoon I was internally giggling visualizing the look on my husband's face when I pull in the driveway with my new project car.
Over the course of the afternoon, my stomach started doing flip flops in anticipation of my project. It could have been the carnival style Yakisoba I ate earlier in the day, but I was pretty sure it my growing excitement that had my tummy riled up.
By 10 o'clock that evening, I couldn't contain myself any longer... I had to tell someone. I twisted around from my spot in the passenger seat of my Explorer to face our friend Joe riding in the back seat. "I'm buying a car," I blurted out. He nodded courteously and said, "Alright." 
Yesterday, I booted up the computer and hit up Craigslist in search of... something. Not sure what. Supra? RX7? 240? 300zx? I'd know when I saw it, I decided. I sifted through page after page of garbage wishing I could narrow my search- but I didn't know precisely what I was searching for. 
Not that I was expecting to find what I was looking for on my first shopping day, but I was growing weary and frustrated with the amount of money people wanted for their cars that did not run! People, why are you so proud of your broke down jalopy? 
Tiring out, I decided I would finish scanning the page of listings I was on and then move on. Quickly scanning while I scrolled, I was fast coming to the bottom. "Hold up!" my subconscious told me, "Scroll back up." There it was. In Sumner, Washington for $750, his 1988 Toyota Supra didn't run; and with a pregnant wife at home, he didn't have the time, money, tools, mechanical knowledge to diagnose and repair it. 
I was meditating on the photos in the listing when Oliver walked in. As usual, he was half way into a conversation upon his entrance and I was expected to catch up. He glanced at the computer screen and flopped down on the spare bed we keep in the office for guests and continued talking about whatever he was talking about. Several seconds later, he stopped in mid-sentence and asked, "Was that a Supra? Why are you looking at a Supra? How much does it cost?" Because that's how Oliver rolls. He does not ask a question and expect an answer. He asks a series of questions and expects an all encompassing answer. After years of studying my husband I am careful to choose my words based on my desired result. I wanted to appeal to his impulsive nature so I answered simply, "Seven hundred fifty bucks." 
He catapulted upright, "Are we going to get it?" 
"If we do, it's mine," I said.
Perplexed, he asked, "You want a Supra?"
But he didn't wait for an explanation as adrenaline had taken over his body; with phone in hand, his fingers were mindlessly punching in the phone number listed on the ad. He didn't really want to question "why" in case I might change my mind.
90 minutes later, we were in Sumner making a deal. "I shall call her Lucy," I said, "She needs cut loose." (...and so do I) 


OLIVER
So, I walk into the office, listing off important matters I need to discuss with Ronda and my subconscious notes that, uncharacteristically, my wife is viewing photos of a MarkIII Supra and next to the photos a smaller window is open with shopping options for various body kits. Once my conscious mind catches up with my subconscious mind, I snap to attention. Would I notice if she had been body snatched? I'd like to think I would. All important matters I toss aside. This is important.
"What's happening to you right now? Have you been snatched? Ronda, are you with me?" I ask.
"Seven hundred fifty bucks," she replies.
That's all the confirmation I need. Best not to ask too many questions. My fingers frantically dialing the number on the screen, my mind is blown- "I'm getting a Supra," I thought. 
"No, I'm getting a Supra," counters Ronda.
"Where the eff is Sumner?" I ask, not hearing her answer.
Between home and Sumner, Ronda is on her phone researching a 2JZ conversion. I am confused by the rapid turn of events, but I cannot just forthright ask my wife what has come over her. Ronda is like a wild doe, I have to be careful to appear relaxed, docile, natural. I cannot startle her with an aggressive line of questioning for fear of spooking her. I must respect the animal, or risk her making a run for it across 8 lanes of Interstate 405.
We arrive in Sumner, I climb inside the car. Yuck. Blue leather. That's gotta go. I insert the key, the engine doesn't turn. Of course the guy said it wouldn't but with the dead battery allows me no indication of WHY the engine doesn't turn. 
"Who cares?" my wife asks. "We're yanking it out anyway." 
Humph.
I crawl underneath and start manhandling the suspension components, "Seems solid." I comment. 
"Who cares?" my wife asks. "Were replacing it anyway." 
Humph.
I run my hands down the body and sight it for damage. "Body's pretty straight, but the paint-" 
"Who cares?" she cuts me off, "It's gotta be painted anyway." Humph. 
By now, my mind is racing; "What exactly is she thinking?" "Do I even have time for this project?" "Whose car is this?" And, "This is kinda hot."
We come to an understanding with the vehicle owner, and on the way home, I start talking logistics- what needs done, how long its going to take me, what its gonna cost, and on and on... 
"I didn't say you could build my car," she says.
Unsure what to say to that I balk and reply, "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted the best."
"This is my car." she counters.
Is she implying she is building this car? Where do I go from here? She read the question in my eyes. "I'm going to build this car the way I want it... you're gonna show me how." 
Humph. Didn't see that one coming.
Back at the house, I recall the day's events. When I woke up this morning, never did I think we'd be buying a Supra... furthest thing from my mind. In fact, I contemplated the Apocalypse happening first. This is true. I had heard that there was a small earthquake outside Carnation, and another on the Olympic Peninsula. It occurred to me that there could be a volcanic eruption ending the Pacific Northwest as we know it. This seemed more probable to me than my wife deciding to buy a Supra.
Humph.