Maintenance
Here I sit, crouched in the doorway of my classic GMC motorhome, hunched over a small dirty motor, puzzling over access to its bearings while a glorious fall day whispers through the open windows. The faint howl of complaint from the furnace motor on our last outing leads me to this moment. I’ve read the sundry newsletters and published data and, finding nothing definitive about the furnace, realize that I haven’t even taken it apart to look at its condition. So, here I sit, squeezing some productivity out of a beautiful fall day that really wants to be spent in the woods under a tree.
For a long time I puzzled over the tendency for tradition in the GMC community to be carried through the retelling of horror stories. Tales of idyllic travels gone awry, daring rescues and the kindness of strangers seemed to form the key difference between a GMC and say, a Holiday Rambler. I know better now, but like everyone else I still like a good story.
In my coach, pulling the furnace from its home under the sink isn’t really much of a deal, and the outside covers yield easily before the wires connecting the various interlocks and safeties are dealt with. I disassemble with approval the rubber connective duct and some clever mounting ideas. This is not so complicated.
There are good reasons for choosing a motorhome as a tool for recreation, and Virginia and I drag them out whenever someone who lacks the adventure gene snickers at our old GMC. But the reasons for buying a “classic” motorhome are somewhat more elusive. It’s certainly not the tinker-factor. You might say that about someone who owned an old British sports car and be half true, but you’d take it back when you watched their eyes light up as they drove it. “Classic” carries much, much more meaning than simply “old.”
The burner and heat exchanger have comparatively little rust which I decide is the result of a life spent in Arizona. Fine with me. I spend time puzzling out the use of the long shaft to drive both the combustion air and heated air blowers, and discover that ease of lubrication was not on the agenda when the thing was designed. Well, so life moved a little slower in ‘73.
The GMC magic lies in the genius of an original design which, despite assaults from reason, economics and aggravation, says “I’m worth it.” Somehow, they managed to nicely balance the long list of compromises which define a particular RV design; just ask any long-time owner. I swear, I’ve walked around our coach in the quiet of the woods at night worrying over the burden of questionable bearings, wheel alignment and leaking windows and heard a gentle, assured “yeah, but I’m worth it” quiet the clamor of all my maintenance demons.
Basically, items have to be removed one at a time, in order, from each end of the long shaft to release the motor ends and reveal the bearings. Happily, the certainty that I’d shoot one of the brushes out the door into eternity proved unfounded, and in due course, the bushings were exposed, inspected and lubricated.
So, here I sit listening, finally, to an almost silent furnace fill the coach with warmth and I realize that its done it again. Yet another gift from an old friend. My GMC, whose very soul is a journey has taken me on yet another, and the minutes have melted into hours and I’ve been transported for a while, like a child happily stringing beads, to yet another place of peace. Thanks again, old friend. Another journey taken, another splendid fall day honored without a mile added to the odometer.
I drive home contented, but glad I didn’t start the engine. That would have reminded me I need to change the oil.
Here I sit, crouched in the doorway of my classic GMC motorhome, hunched over a small dirty motor, puzzling over access to its bearings while a glorious fall day whispers through the open windows. The faint howl of complaint from the furnace motor on our last outing leads me to this moment. I’ve read the sundry newsletters and published data and, finding nothing definitive about the furnace, realize that I haven’t even taken it apart to look at its condition. So, here I sit, squeezing some productivity out of a beautiful fall day that really wants to be spent in the woods under a tree.
For a long time I puzzled over the tendency for tradition in the GMC community to be carried through the retelling of horror stories. Tales of idyllic travels gone awry, daring rescues and the kindness of strangers seemed to form the key difference between a GMC and say, a Holiday Rambler. I know better now, but like everyone else I still like a good story.
In my coach, pulling the furnace from its home under the sink isn’t really much of a deal, and the outside covers yield easily before the wires connecting the various interlocks and safeties are dealt with. I disassemble with approval the rubber connective duct and some clever mounting ideas. This is not so complicated.
There are good reasons for choosing a motorhome as a tool for recreation, and Virginia and I drag them out whenever someone who lacks the adventure gene snickers at our old GMC. But the reasons for buying a “classic” motorhome are somewhat more elusive. It’s certainly not the tinker-factor. You might say that about someone who owned an old British sports car and be half true, but you’d take it back when you watched their eyes light up as they drove it. “Classic” carries much, much more meaning than simply “old.”
The burner and heat exchanger have comparatively little rust which I decide is the result of a life spent in Arizona. Fine with me. I spend time puzzling out the use of the long shaft to drive both the combustion air and heated air blowers, and discover that ease of lubrication was not on the agenda when the thing was designed. Well, so life moved a little slower in ‘73.
The GMC magic lies in the genius of an original design which, despite assaults from reason, economics and aggravation, says “I’m worth it.” Somehow, they managed to nicely balance the long list of compromises which define a particular RV design; just ask any long-time owner. I swear, I’ve walked around our coach in the quiet of the woods at night worrying over the burden of questionable bearings, wheel alignment and leaking windows and heard a gentle, assured “yeah, but I’m worth it” quiet the clamor of all my maintenance demons.
Basically, items have to be removed one at a time, in order, from each end of the long shaft to release the motor ends and reveal the bearings. Happily, the certainty that I’d shoot one of the brushes out the door into eternity proved unfounded, and in due course, the bushings were exposed, inspected and lubricated.
So, here I sit listening, finally, to an almost silent furnace fill the coach with warmth and I realize that its done it again. Yet another gift from an old friend. My GMC, whose very soul is a journey has taken me on yet another, and the minutes have melted into hours and I’ve been transported for a while, like a child happily stringing beads, to yet another place of peace. Thanks again, old friend. Another journey taken, another splendid fall day honored without a mile added to the odometer.
I drive home contented, but glad I didn’t start the engine. That would have reminded me I need to change the oil.
