Engines We Will Never Fit

The imaginary garage has suffered its first serious disagreement. Tiny wants to put an engine in something which, in my opinion, should retain at least a passing relationship with the people who designed it. He says that is a surprisingly conservative position for a man who turbocharged his Miata at home.

He has a point. I dislike that particularly because he knows he has a point and has begun waiting for me to acknowledge it.

We resumed the discussion in the engine control room during a quiet break. I enjoy this room enormously. It contains real work, real instruments, and the subdued confidence of people monitoring machinery that would not fit in any building I have ever called a garage. It is also one of the few places aboard where a detailed conversation about oil pressure feels geographically appropriate.

The proposal

Tiny's plan involved a compact old saloon, a large modern V8, and an entirely optimistic account of how easily the transmission would fit. I asked about the tunnel. He said we would make one. I asked about the differential. He said we would change it. I asked at what point this stopped being the original car.

"When it becomes better," he said.

We then spent a very enjoyable amount of time discussing things that would prevent it becoming better. Cooling, brake balance, weight over the front axle, where the exhaust would go, and the tendency of enthusiasm to conceal a truly dreadful wiring problem.

I drew a rough layout in the notebook. Tiny corrected the position of something with the pen still in my hand. This is now how we collaborate: I propose a sensible obstacle, he proposes an unreasonable solution, and we both enjoy discovering whether it could be made less unreasonable.

Kev contributes

Kev listened while checking something entirely unrelated to us. Eventually he asked why we wanted so much power in a car intended to be enjoyable rather than frightening.

I said that was exactly my argument.

He said, "You were talking about more boost five minutes ago."

I had hoped the machinery would have covered that part.

He made the case for an engine that starts every time, temperatures that stay where they should, and a gearbox chosen before the project becomes an expensive sculpture. It was difficult to dispute any of this. It was also difficult not to hear a lifetime of experience beneath the apparently casual advice.

I told him about a particular afternoon with the Miata when a stubborn fastener had transformed a small job into an evening, then into a weekend. Tiny had a similar story. Kev had a considerably larger one and told it with fewer adjectives. We agreed that every completed engine job contains at least one moment when the owner wonders whether walking would have been wiser.

A review upstairs

Later, Priya looked at the notebook while we had tea and coffee. She studied the sketches, asked which car was supposed to be mine, and listened to my explanation of the proposed swap.

"And who is stopping you?"

"Money. Space. Practicality."

"So nobody sensible, then."

She handed it back with a smile and took a biscuit. I could not tell whether that was encouragement or a diagnosis.

We are well into the Pacific now, moving east and gradually north, with Japan far behind and America still nowhere near being a view. The real engine continues to do its work without asking for a more exciting installation.

My imaginary garage, meanwhile, requires a larger budget, better ventilation, and someone prepared to tell Tiny no. I am not confident that person is me.