The Ups and Downs of Pipes

It’s a funny thing about all aftermarket performance parts that muse the shopping catalogs and Internet pages for your fav ride. They all promise power gains. They all promise “bling”, a new term of my (or maybe even younger generation) that hints at the cool factor, but always leaves mea feeling a bit like I want to stand up and walk out. Don’t get me wrong, I like some bling, but a spoiler that makes your car look like a shopping cart is just stupid looking unless it’s on an Audi S1 Sport Quattro, then in literally brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes I think there is something very wrong with me, but I swear it’s the only time I budge….Group B rally cars from the 80's is always a tear jerker. Anyway, on with the parts. They all promise easy installation. I bought in.

I purchased a set of pipes (turbo down-pipe and up-pipe) for my Impreza and waited anxiously for a free evening to install them. This was my first mistake, the evening part. I rent a shop on the outskirts of San Francisco at the old Navy grounds, read, “totally deserted” after 6 pm. I anxiously went after a dinner at around 7 pm full of energy and desire, dreaming of power gains and easy installation, as I had not worked too much on the Impreza before. I settled in and as I waited for the engine to cool down I decided to first change the plugs. Let’s just say the engine was ice cold by the time I finished. The plugs are a total biatch to change but after some fiddling and actually getting to know the car the remaining 3 took the same amount of combined time as the first one.

This should have been my warning that starting a major exhaust upgrade on a turbo charged car well after 9 pm. It started all according to plan and on time. I thought I would have the stock down-pipe unbolted in 1 hour (as we had done on a friends STI). The bolts were all pretty rusty do to heat and as I struggled with continuously having to lift the car up and down due to not having the proper tools (small thin wrenches etc.) and crawling underneath (I am not as “swelt” I used to be and my jack only lifts up the car enough to change the tire). By the time I had wrestled the down-pipe like a beast I looked like the crocodile man on the Discovery Channel….pants stained, sweat out of every orifice, panting and fingers looking like spicy raw Italian sausages. I looked at the mess on the floor and decided right there and then that I would probably not install the up-pipe if I had to go through this again. A feeling that I wished I gave some thought to some hours later. I looked and looked at the steel fortress of pipes, wires and components that stood between the up-pipe and me. For a moment in the silent shop I thought I hear it laughing at me. From any angle (top, bottom, wheel well or across the room) it was barely visible. My back and I had a small sit down and decided on a game plan. It was simple. Unbolt 7 bolts securing the short but potent beast, unbolt the engine support, lift the engine a few inches and dispense with the stock horsepower robbing embarrassment. It was 1 am. I set to the task and by 2 am I was sitting back down not having touched one bolt, but removed many heat shields, crossover pipes and brackets which I swear were designed with one purpose in mind – to guard the up-pipe like Satan’s disciples at the gates of Narnia. Then came the bottom heat shield. The Fuji Heavy Industries engineers apparently decided that everyone has a range of oxygen sensor sockets in their toolbox. I was the only asshole that did not. I had however a small and possibly experimental set of sheet metal shears and they might as well been cuticle scissors. After another immeasurable amount of time trying to remove the bolts guarded by the iron curtain I decided to resort back to Plan A and cut the shield with my cuticle scissors. In the next hour I felt the full spectrum of human emotions from deep Satanic anger, through hysterical laughing and babbling of a mental patient to just plain vegetative mental state of staring at the metal fortress and feeling like I had to slay a tiger with a toothpick. Like a prisoner digging a tunnel with a teaspoon I clawed at the thick metal when finally I cut through it. Exhausted I lay on the floor and wondered about world politics for a moment. A moment of euphoria engulfed me; I thought it was all just a matter of bolts for now. I was running dangerously low on cigarettes.

It was all bolts and they all came fairly easily. The up-pipe had finally budged and I could feel it stirring in the iron cave. But still it was a long way from coming out of the car. In order to remove it, the procedure is to unbolt the engine mounts, lift the motor slightly and remove the pipe. I crawled under the car for the millionth time. I saw the bolt. I froze. It looked suspiciously stripped. I optimistically sprayed it with WD-40 and waited staring dumbly at the rounded edges. I went to my toolbox and prepared my killer combo….the Mac “big gun” ratchet I treasure and my finest socket. It was late, I lost track of time by this point. I engaged with the bolt gently at first. Trying to coax it first with song, later with vulgar words. It was still stripped and by the time my last and final knuckle looked like raw chicken it was finally totally and completely round. Unfit for any tool at my disposal. I proceeded to use every technique I know of from heating, cooling, spraying, and notching to beating it senselessly with a hammer like a caveman. I lay in a pool of my own sweat with 5 pounds of grime in my eyes totally spent. I thought passed my mind…maybe I’ll fix the taillights of my classic Saab so I could drive home and rest, but looking at the mess around me I decided against it as I would probably never come back. I looked inside the engine bay again. The Impreza engine looks like a full size Eiffel tower smashed down to a cube. I started weighing my options. The only one was to remove the turbocharger, which is connected it seemed to absolutely everything. An hour later I held in my hand the turbo and stared into the void where it was trying not to think how I was going to put it back in. The rest was like a bad dream laced with vivid images of stubborn bolts, ill fitting flanges, bastard brackets sharp like razors and stubborn bolts that seem to constantly commit suicide by jumping into the void of the engine bay and never hitting the ground below. If something falls under the car it has a tendency to roll to the exact geometric center just out of reach. I was having visions and hearing voices, later it turned out to be a morning delivery person, who walked by hurriedly and looked very frightened at the sight of me, the creature of the oily night.

At 9:30 am (13.5 hours later) I started the car and drove home, not enjoying any of the power gains and just trying not to crash into anything.