Learning to Use Power Tools

Learning to Use Power Tools

Part 2 of a series on the restoration of a 1961 Triumph
By Jan of West Virginia Bikers

The black, oily frame of the Triumph was now lying silently on the cardboard floor of the garage. It's wheels lay in a pile to the left, it's engine and transmission to the right. The box of parts and pieces was covered. After only a couple hours of work, the motorcycle was completely dismantled. What had taken John weeks to build many years earlier, had ended. A new phase had begun.

Before I came to the garage for the evening's work, John welded a box-like piece onto the frame to better stabilize the gas tank. It was the only part of the frame that looked new.

"Now, you take off all the old paint, oil and bondo," said John. Again, I got that glazed-over look in my eyes, wondering just how this was to be accomplished. Wire brush? That will take forever.

I guess I wasn't a very good student, because it looked like things were going to start getting harder, so I conveniently had to go to the bathroom. After staying there awhile, I came back to the garage. The doors were now open and the frame was sitting on two sawhorses in the driveway. A big, yellow electric cord ran to the sawhorses and attached to the end was some kind of hand tool with a round wire brush at the end.

John gave me preliminary instructions, "Wear your safety glasses. It's easy. Watch" , and turned on the thing that looked like a grinder. Yep, looked pretty easy when he did it. He handed it to me and again went inside to the warmth of the house.

"OK," I thought, "if I can run an electric mixer, I can use one of these tools." I hit the 'on' switch and away I went. It was actually fun. The old paint was disappearing quickly and it seemed like I'd be riding in no time.

That is until I found the brush couldn't fit into the corners and didn't seem to do a great job on all the old oil caked on the bottom of the frame.

About this time, my husband came outside and answered my question. He had a funny-kind-of-smile on his face and said, "The sandblaster will get that. You can do that tomorrow."

He seemed like he was a little proud of me, and that made me smile. Yep, I was gonna do this for sure now.

After a good night's sleep, I was ready to take on the sandblaster. After using it for a few minutes I realized there are a few things that John didn't tell me about sandblasting………. 1) Sandblasting in the wind is not for whiners; 2) Remember how bad you hated it when kids threw sand at you when you were little? This is worse; 3) Sand finds its way into every crevice of your body………no wonder he was smiling.

All of a sudden, I was wondering if this were a test of not only my ability to finish a started project, but of marriage in general. There were two words to describe sandblasting - nasty and gritty. Just the opposite of what I had in mind when I visualized myself riding this new machine.

As you can see in the picture, the frame was sitting on top of two sawhorses. Sand is blowing under my safety glasses, so I'm squinting; sand is blowing in my nose, so I'm holding it with my fingers; sand is trying to get into my mouth as I breath through a small little slit I've left open to keep myself alive.

Just when I think things couldn't get worse, the sawhorses collapse. Not just one, but both of them, crumbling like toothpicks onto the ground. I have the sandblaster in one hand and my arm wrapped around the frame with the other. I try screaming for my husband, as I can see him standing in the open door of the garage. "Help." He can't hear me. The radio is turned up to drown out the noise of the air compressor and he's walking around oblivious to my dire need of assistance. I try mentally willing him to look my way. That doesn't work. I'm afraid to drop the sandblaster, and I'll be damned if I drop that frame I've cleaned so well.

Finally, as fate would have it, he looks my way and comes running to my rescue. I'm sick of sandblasting. I'm sick of being gritty. I'm cold. My fingers are numb. Yep, I'm whining at this point, so it's time to go inside for a bath.

Feeling great, I emerge, wrapped in a fluffy towel. John asks the obvious, "Feel better now?" Duh. I feel like a new person. Probably with a lot of new skin as I'm sure the old layer of skin vanished with all the sand. I comb my hair. Bits of sand remain on the comb. I know I washed it well. My ear itches. Removing my finger, I find it's covered with sand. I might have started whining again at this point, I'm not sure, as I noticed John turn up the volume of the television and open another beer.

After digging more sand out of my ears, I wondered if sand might be packed clear through to my eardrums. I picked up my dirty clothes and found sand falling out of my socks (my socks too? How did sand get there?). I grabbed my tennis shoes and began beating the sand out of them on the porch. Now, everything was clean again.

First thing the next morning, I drove the kids to the school bus. But first I slipped my bare feet into my tennis shoes. Yuck. I had sand between my toes again. Two weeks later my shoes are still harboring stray grains of sand.

Now, I can really see why so many people use the local body shop for this stuff.

Jan is a resident of West Virginia, the boss of Hawk Mountain Trading and the webmaster of West Virginia Bikers. To learn more about her, check out her biography or visit her web site.

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