The engine sat there on the stand, seemingly glowing in the low morning light that streamed into the shop: a flat-head, 327-cubic-inch Packard inline eight, circa 1950. In its heyday it was one of the finest engines Detroit ever built, producing 150 hp and 270 lb-ft of torque. It idled so smoothly you could balance a nickel on its edge atop the block's head. It was big and beautiful in a way that never made sense for a passenger car. It was unabashedly American.
Mine had logged more than 100,000 miles and was due for a major overhaul. But engines are complicated things and require expertise to assemble properly. Luckily, I'm an auto journalist, and I know lots of people who've built engines. And with the Detroit Auto Show coming up, I figured a lot of these guys would be in town. So I sent out a few invitations and called in some favors. Word spread, and soon I had an engine-building party on my hands.
Assembling a short block is the closest thing to a sacrament we car guys have. It's the heart of the engine—the block, crankshaft, bearings, and pistons. That's a 10-minute job in the factory, but we'd need to take our time. And crude old behemoths require a delicate touch.
I'd pulled the engine from a rough 1950 Packard Super Eight I bought for $1200 from a dying man who wanted to find it a home. The sedan had rusted-through panels, a thread-bare interior, and a rotted gas tank. I'd walked away from it the first time, but the owner called me back and told me he'd scrap it if I didn't take it. Despite its looks, it drove well and kept pace with traffic on the way home.
The day before the auto show was sunny and warm for January. As people arrived for the build, I cleaned the shop spotless. That's important when assembling an engine—a metal shaving in the wrong place can ruin a bearing. On hand were Jim McCraw, who ran Hot Rod magazine in the 1970s; Car and Driver's Aaron Robinson, who once rebuilt a Lamborghini Espada V-12; Automotive News' Richard Truett, who has more British engine builds under his belt than is sane; and a few other industry stalwarts. The experience level of this motley crew varied, but everyone shared a desire to help resurrect my rare masterpiece. Plus, it would be a chance for us to share years of accumulated wisdom.
We gathered around the engine block with bagels and coffee, marveling at the 300-pound slab of hardware while also figuring out where to begin. McCraw, who has seen his share of builds, set about sorting the parts with such neatness that the shop resembled an operating room. Truett arranged the tools. I prepped the block with brake cleaner and compressed air.
We started on the crankshaft bearings and progressed to the rear main bearing, which serves two functions: controlling forces from the crankshaft and the transmission, and keeping the oil in the crankcase. It's fitted with a graphite-impregnated rope that seals the crankshaft—old but reliable technology. The factory service manual specifies pressing the rope into place with a round wooden block. We didn't have one, so I plucked a co*ke bottle that looked to be the right size from the trash. The idea of using garbage to finesse the seal drew incredulous snickers, but it worked. It then took four of us to hoist the 3½-foot-long crankshaft into position.
It didn't fit. Since there's no elegant way to jam an ill-fitting part into place without breaking something, we carefully removed it for examination. A micrometer revealed that the faces of the thrust bearing were oversize. Robinson identified the issue as intentional: The part needed to be narrowed by hand to fit the crank, an idiosyncrasy he learned rebuilding his Lamborghini. Truett cautiously tapped out the bearing, but it would need to be shaved down with a fine emery cloth. Since nobody wanted to screw up something so delicate, the task was left to me. I applied light, even pressure until I'd removed 0.02 inches—about the thickness of 10 sheets of paper from this magazine—from each side of the bearing. This time the crankshaft dropped in as if it belonged.
Mounting the bearing caps was straightforward until we got to the rear main cap. I noticed two keystone-shaped slots that looked awkwardly empty. We searched the gasket kit and found two pieces of balsa that we'd mistaken for packaging scrap. The group stared in disbelief as I tapped them into place.
After oiling and stuffing the pistons into the bores, there was only one thing left to do. We couldn't end the party without testing the crankshaft with a pry bar. If it didn't turn, that meant something was binding. Everything would need to be stripped down and parts sent to a machinist, shattering the collective dreams of a shop full of gearheads. I gently pulled the bar and nothing moved. However, it just needed more muscle, and soon it was turning with a satisfying lope. Sure, the build had taken 4 hours, but it concluded with a smoothly rotating short-block assembly. We all watched as those polished valves and eight massive pistons did their syncopated dance.
The next day, at the auto show, the party was the only thing anybody wanted to talk about. Assembling a hunk of obsolete pig iron had become a bigger conversation topic than the new Corvette Z06. We auto journalists sometimes forget the long story. The news may focus on the most high-tech features of the most expensive cars, but revisiting the industry's glorious past is nourishment for the soul.
The next day, at the auto show, the party was the only thing anyone wanted to talk about.
