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hexalene · 3 years

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What's your wildest cruise ship story?

Oh shit I meant to post this sooner whoops

I have less “ONE BIG THING” stories and more of like, a series of surreal Events that happened to me over the course of the years and years I went on cruises (my family could go on cruises for free, so we abused the shit out of that for reunions and vacations for a long time)

So here’s a few of those, and I SWEAR TO GOD they’re real, and I might have photos buried somewhere to prove some of them, but idk, that’s like effort.

-I loved wandering around ships super super early in the morning. Like, crack of dawn early. I’d usually go hang out on one of the open floor restaurant areas around the middle of the ship, which had built in window seats you could curl up in. Pillows n shit too. Super comfy. I’d draw and listen to music, ect. One morning, I looked up and saw the Black fucking Pearl from Pirates of the Caribbean sailing by. Did not believe my eyes. It and four other ships, two of which were for non-pirate movies, were being sailed into a bay on the island we were headed to. I did manage to get a distant shot of it when I got on land.

-In 2006 (date relevant) I met two men in two different families, who were not related and had never met, named Tony Stark. As this was before the movie came out, I was left tragically alone with no one to be awed at this strange coincidence with me. One of them was even a dark haired man with a nice goatee.

(The other was a cute chubby grandpa type)

-Given the opportunity to demonstrate how corporations rig the system against the consumer, my father brought me down to the casino level and sat down across from a very fancy claw machine that dispensed iPads and other expensive tech prizes. He told me, “some people will win, and I’ll tell you when they will.”

I was like “okay dad sure” but we sat there for HOURS, and dad would say “okay, this guy will win if he goes for this prize” or “this guy will lose” and finally, “that woman will win an iPad.” Of course, most were losers, but he was DEAD ON every time someone would win. After a while he explained that the machine would only dispense prizes after collecting the money to pay for two more of whatever was won. He’d just sat there and done the math on the people playing the game and when it added up, he’d wait to see what they went for and let me know if they won. It had absolutely nothing to do with skill.

To make his point, he waited, counting out loud the money being put in, before standing up and slapping the button randomly on one of the lower rank prizes. He won an otter box phone case and told me that no one will ever give you the chance to win out at a loss to themselves, so don’t make a bet unless you’ve rigged the game to win. I was 14.

-uhhh what else

-The dance troupe arranged to do shows suffered a tragic undisclosed accident, so the short term bullshit to entertain people in the theatre was an honest to god passenger led talent show. Surreal on its own, but one of the passengers was a contortionist, and ran off to get their suitcase.

Now, they did a lot of fun bendy stuff, very weird, very cool, but they asked for volunteers at one point. I, my sister, our cousin, and two other kids were asked to come on stage. I was the oldest, maybe 12/13ish, my sister and cousin were 9, and the other two kids were between 6-9.

This MADMAN, without straining any of us to bend in any weird or uncomfortable way, managed to fit all five of us into his empty suitcase. I was in the damn thing and I have no idea how he managed it. He then zipped us all up inside and walked around the stage a bit. And it was fine, like not uncomfortable or hard to breath or anything!

I remember getting out of the suitcase clearest of all. We’d all been fit inside so snugly, in this order:

Me, stranger kid 1, cousin, sister, and stranger kid 2. To get us out, he lay the case flat and lifted my sister up. Somehow this like??? Was like those monkey in a barrel toys, we all just neatly unfolded with her, no tripping or falling or anything. That feeling, where one moment I’m staring at my cousins’ feet and some other kid’s elbow, and then I see the dude lift my sister and then all of us just RISE WITH IT and unfold like a flower blooming I have no idea if this makes any sense at all but it felt magical.

- Something bad happened back home, but we didn’t know what. My dad had a business meeting but mom wanted to see the beach. We got off the ship, and like, HARDCORE struggled to find a way to get to a beach, any beach. We were in....Mexico, somewhere in the neighborhood of Chichén Itzá, maybe an island nearby I think? There were some massive ruins somewhere, I remember that much.

While mom hunted down a beach, my siblings and I sat under a giant box fan, near a TV. Something was happening, the employees were changing the channel, trying to find the clearest signal to the American news. I remember looking over at the grainy footage being interrupted by commercials and other signals and piecing together through the static and the employee trying to translate that back home, the 2008 financial crash was happening and that mom’s insistence that we find a beach and have fun was because that business meeting dad had stayed behind to deal with was him trying to make sure we’d still have a house to live in when we got back to the states, and she didn’t know if this would be the last truly carefree time we had before we went home to face the music.

-However, mom’s eternal struggles to find a beach didn’t begin in 2008. The previous trip we’d taken had another Beach Adventure.

That time, it was also just mom and the siblings. I don’t remember why dad was staying behind, maybe a poker tournament or something?

We disembarked and the struggle began. Nothing was in English, other than the scant few signs the cruise ship put out to guide passengers off the docks. However, THIS was not a problem, as I was about as fluent in Spanish as a third grader restricted to the present tense, and this worked well enough to get us around.

There was a massive bus to a beach, just PACKED to the gills with Americans. As we waited in line, a nondescript man came up to us, and said, “that bus will go to a very crowded beach with many other passengers of other ships. I know a better beach, and cheap! I’ll charge only half of what that bus will charge you and my beach is much much nicer!”

You might be thinking that common sense would tell us not to get in a random unmarked car with an un-uniformed man offering an amazing half off deal to a perfect isolated beach in broken English on a largely rural island, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong.

My mother is a sweet devout catholic lady with a hidden core of raw chaos. Her idea of a nice day out in the snow with her tiny children was to strap us in the back, drive to the massive Schnuck’s parking lot, gun it up to 90mph, and hydroplane/drift like a fucking drag racer across the ice, laughing. Common sense does not exist in any normal capacity in this woman.

We spent an incredibly tense, silent, 45 minutes driving into the wilderness packed into a tiny car with no AC, sweating with heat and nerves as he drove us out in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly the driver pulls over. There is literally nothing but trees and cliffs for miles and miles. Mom is clutching my hand, my baby brother, and her knitting needles. The driver runs quickly to the center of the road, leans over, and picks up a huge tortoise that had frozen up when his car approached. He carried it over to the grass, and pat it goodbye.

Before he comes back Mom turns and looks at me and says, “a serial killer probably wouldn’t save a turtle, I think we’ll be okay.”

#uhhhh I have others I guess #I got lost in a partially submerged cave/river system thing and thought I was about to be That White Person in a horror movie #I had a stalker who would wait until I was alone and then try to tell me I was breaking rules or some shit #not sure what his motive was but his wife would help with the stalking #there was another teenager who was convinced we had been best friends in elementary school but I had never lived in Texas #the gift shops could be funny #the kid/teen dance clubs were HILARIOUSLY dated #idk if I ponder this for a while more will come to mind lmao #my favorite thing was the storms when the ships would tilt at wild angles #my dad and I have stomachs of steel apparently so we’d go camp out on the main decks and act as purposefully casual as possible #people would be flailing all over the place and we’d just keep our balance and coffee mugs tilted with the waves #comedy gold #asks!#long post

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thana-topsy · 5 years

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Written in about twenty minutes for this challenge on r/fanfiction: -------- All Dunmer are born of fire and ash--out of chaos and heat--in a moment of both destruction and creation. Neloth was no different.

Yet he remembered very little of his early life, either willfully or otherwise. Childhood was a blur of disjointed sense memories, tastes and colors and sounds, punctuated by a pervasive, bitter loneliness. His mother had lost her mind long before bringing him into the world, her body an airy husk, eyes dulled and vacant. She’d barely been able to nurse, much less hold him as a child. His father was murdered by another member of House Telvanni sometime before Neloth’s twentieth nameday. He did remember thinking it to be an excellent present.

No, his early life was nothing to reflect upon. In his opinion, his life truly began when he first grasped his connection to Magnus.

He’d begun his studies in magicka as soon as he could speak, as was expected of all members of House Telvanni. However, memorizing tomes and reciting spells were the mere mechanics of magic. The bare bones. One could read a thousand and one books on the subject, cast any number of spells, and never once feel the connection in the way Neloth had been able to--had been forced to.

Morrowind is unkind, especially to the young. The landscape is unforgivable. The earth is constantly taking, reclaiming and consuming, inhabited by vicious and feral beasts. Neloth had been trained to listen for the distant cry of the cliff racers, to know when he’d strayed too far into their territory. Yet he still found himself face-to-face with one of the massive creatures, its scream like a needle in his ears, the mangled guar at its feet still twitching, clinging to life… It wasn’t until this moment that Neloth really felt his connection to Magnus.

Pure terror and instinct raced through his body, bright and clear and acidic. Neloth’s magicka surged through him like a wave, as if awakening from a slumber, sweet and familiar. It was like taking the first bite of fresh fruit--breaking the skin of a perfectly ripe plum, the crisp burst of pomegranate seeds between his teeth, the way his cheeks would draw at the gush of nectar. He felt the heat of his spell more than he felt himself casting it. Amidst the pained and panicked shrieks of the cliff racer, Neloth nearly tumbled down the hill in his effort to get away, sliding into a particularly thick bit of sludgy swamp water. He kept moving, wading through the muck with reserves of strength he hadn’t known, pulling himself to the opposite bank. Still panting and out of breath, he flung himself onto his back, filthy and caked with mud. The cry of the cliff racers were distant, now. Gazing up at the pinkening sky, the tiny portals to Aetherius just beginning to twinkle to life, Neloth laughed.

#topsy writes #drabbles #morrowind #skyrim #the elder scrolls #dunmer #neloth #telvanni #house telvanni #neloth: character building #utter nonsense

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bltngames · 6 years

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Review: GRIP: Combat Racing

To me, Rollcage was kind of an unsung hero of the Playstation. Everybody remembers Psygnosis for their Wipeout series, a futuristic racer where you control hyper-fast flying cars, but Rollcage was their B-side in that space. Still a futuristic racing game, but one decidedly more grounded. Not in reality, mind you. But grounded in the sense that you were driving cars with four wheels. Rollcage’s hook was that as long as you were traveling fast enough, and the surface was curved enough, you could drive up walls and even stick to the ceiling. It wasn’t always easy to control (as cars were light with generous over-steer), but I found it to be a blast to play.

Rollcage received two games on the original Playstation and vanished from sight after Psygnosis moved on to bigger and better things, including being bought by Sony, who more or less turned them in to The Studio That Just Makes Wipeout Games.

What this meant for the handful of diehard Rollcage fans was that the series had essentially become contraband. Sony had no interest in letting Psygnosis make more Rollcage games, and even the old Playstation games were off limits for re-releases, thanks in part to their licensed soundtracks.

That’s where GRIP comes in to the picture. Developed by some of the former Rollcage staff, it is about as close as a spiritual successor can get to just being the thing it's paying tribute to. But is it any good?

I got GRIP not long after it entered early access, nearly two years ago. There were always flashes of that same Rollcage brilliance in there, but the game was obviously rough, and each new update felt like one step forward and two steps back. Thankfully, the last minute polish in preparation for the game's full release did wonders, and the GRIP released in November of 2018 feels like a completely different game than it did even just six months ago.

Games are not rated based on how much they improve over development, however.

GRIP carved out a niche for itself where it's very close to Rollcage in some aspects, but wildly divergent in others. Controls feel better, tighter and more realistic than Rollcage could ever hope to achieve, but weapons are slow to lock on, slow to fire, and slow to pick up. I would argue that more than 60% of the weapons I fire at other racers never reach their intended target. Part of that is how fast this game can get -- you can spend half a lap trying to line up a shot with a car that never stays in your line of sight long enough for you to launch your missile. And even if you have a nice, clean lock-on, there's no guarantee the missile won't still slam directly in to the wall or ceiling.

Some of that is the fault of the track design. A lot of tracks in GRIP favor very narrow roadways and cramped tunnels, which looks cool when you fire down them like a bullet, but aren't very conducive to the whole "Combat Racing" subtitle. Often, they aren't even conducive to racing at all. Tunnels are one thing, but narrow roadways are another, and GRIP often expects you to hit ramps at specific speeds and specific angles -- if you're driving too slow, or more regrettably driving too fast, expect to soar into a bottomless pit and dumped into last place with no chance to recover your position. Racing games are all about threading the needle and knowing when to slow down, but when you tie going fast to the player's ability to stick to walls or ceilings, punishing them for going TOO fast feels counter-intuitive. This isn't Forza Motorsport.

GRIP is at its best in its larger, more wide-open environments, and there's only really maybe four tracks in the game (out of roughly a dozen total) that I feel comfortable in. Too many of the other tracks expect the player to drive like a ninja, in a game where you often feel more like a freight train in danger of flying off the rails.

Which then brings us to the nature of the game itself. Being such a speed-focused game, GRIP lives up to the "blink and you'll miss it" moniker. Too often I've been in first place, glanced away from the screen at my television or whatever for merely a split second, only to look back at the game and suffered some sort of catastrophic failure. GRIP demands your full, undivided attention at all times in a way no other racing game really does, if only for how much concentration it takes to successfully maneuver your machine around the track.

You can blame some of that on the computer's artificial intelligence in singleplayer, but not all of it. CPU racers waver between being psychically-aware of their surroundings and being prone to make incredibly stupid mistakes. I assume part of that is just the nature of GRIP itself, as it's tremendously easy to clip a wall or a rock the wrong way and launch yourself sideways down the track (or, again, off a cliff in to a bottomless pit). CPU racers are just as prone to doing this as anyone else, and it's not uncommon to see a computer player go sailing off a particularly tight turn for no other reason than simple physics. It's funny, but it lends an unfortunate sense of chaos. As you progress through the game's singleplayer campaign mode, it can start to feel like winning or losing is mainly a matter of luck.

That sense of luck eventually fades away, as CPU players get more and more generous rubberbanding in order to keep pace with their human racers. Around the singleplayer campaign's halfway point, even if I picked the fastest car available to me and drove perfect races, the computer racers would always figure out some way to blow past me. The game is mostly pretty generous with pushing you forward to the next event regardless of placement, but each campaign tier ends with a rival battle, and on some of the more narrow tracks, combined with the rubberbanding, even just gently brushing against a wall can give the computer opponent an impossible-to-catch 5 second lead and ruin your ability to move on to the next tier. Rubberbanding (or "Catch Up" as the game defines it) can be disabled in the other modes, though, so really, it's just a problem in the campaign.

There are still a lot of things I would change about GRIP, but I can't help but feel affection for the game just the same. This kind of high-octane, rubber-on-the-road, gravity-defying racing game just doesn't exist anywhere else. The sense of speed is very satisfying, it sounds good, it looks good, and like I said at the start of this review, it improves upon its predecessor in lot of ways. Though I spent a lot of time describing my complaints, I cannot consider it a bad game. It's very fun a lot of the time, and often easy to ignore its shortcomings, but every now and then you hit a part that's particularly sour and it can spoil your whole mood.

The warts it carries are unfortunate, but there's literally nothing else out there quite like it. That may mean it's worth putting up with some of its more aggravating problems.

#GRIP: Combat Racing #GRIP #Steam #Rollcage #Psygnosis #review #writing

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lifeafterten · 5 years

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RtN 08: Bhulbule Bhulbule it’s Rocky E’rywhere

Shut the hell up-- That title made you fucking giggle, I know it. Don’t worry I wont tell anyone you fell for one of my dad jokes.

We had to be up early. No skin off my nose-- I was already up. (Shocker, I know.) Another night of me painting mental pictures behind my eyelids as I waited for the sun to come up. Super fun. {heavy on the sarcasm}

I went down for breakfast--- the staff was ready for me. They picked up on my crackhead hours from yesterday, I wasn’t gonna catch them sleepin’ (literally and figuratively) again.

We were a bit on a time crunch-- Hannah and Maxine were to meet us so we can split the jeep cost amongst ourselves, so we needed to have our shit together, again, literally and figuratively.

There was some contemplation on what I should take and what I shouldn’t. I definitely needed my medical supplies (I was basically carrying a mini pharmaceutical on my back) because of my leg, so my pack was already filling up quick. I made some rough cuts-- not everyone can make varsity. Hopefully I was able to cover all my bases. Then again, it’s not like I’ve done this before so what the fuck did I know? Next to nothing. I hoped to Christ my rationale and my common sense was enough. The things we decided to leave behind would be stored at the Hotel.

Soon enough, we were loading our packs and getting ready to skedaddle. Off to Besisahar... God help us.

For the second time on this trip, I longed for a damned seat belt. I seemed to have welded my feet to the car floor and was gripping the edge of the seat. I was squeezing so fucking hard my fingers began to tingle while anticipating hard turns and rough stops.

I was not wrong in my prediction.

The driving is insane here. First off, the roads were not roads they were dirt trails that vehicles decided to drive on for what seems like funzies; shits n’ giggles; lapses in fucking sanity-- Holy cannoli-- Breathe Ashley, breathe...

That’s the fucked up thing about anxiety: it messes with you. Bad. I can look at something and think about a million and one things that can go wrong, like that (please insert finger snap here, thanks).

Our driver was not the friendliest of the friendlies if you can catch my meaning. And he was young. Real young. If the furry caterpillar he was trying to grow on his face was any indication-- yeah, he was definitely in his early twenties if not twelve.

The drive itself had me on edge, since we were so perilously close to the edge about 80% of the time. My nerves were just about threadbare at this point and we haven’t even gotten started yet. But it wasn’t just driving cliff side; it was the near misses, and the constant honking (holy fuck was this kid liberal with that shit-- handing out honks like it was fucking Tic-Tacs) as our driver over took buses, jeeps, and motorbikes alike. He was a very aggressive driver, which I was sorta thankful for. The trip to Besisahar was an estimated seven to eight hour drive. He was able to cut it down to six. But I was almost certain the ride alone had shaved off a few years off my life.

We stopped for bathroom and snack breaks along the way, but I was too tired mentally to muster up the strength to get out of the car. So I stayed in there, slumped at the backseat, reveling at the stillness of it before we went off-roading again. Yes, I considered it off-roading. During those times of rest, Adrian slid into the backseat with me. We talked about nonsense, but I had an inkling he was checking in on me. Well not really and inkling-- the dude literally asked if I was good.

I’ll admit there were moments where I allotted a small head to shoulder touch (meaning, my forehead to his shoulder), only to convey that I was fine. Sometimes I do these things. My actions these days are more honest than my mouth is. I don’t lie about a lot of things, but somehow when it comes to my personal shit and physicality status... lying about it came almost as naturally as breathing. My body status because I was tired of the hovering, and my feelings because I’ve been doing it for so long I don’t know how to stop sometimes. I’m working on it, okay? Half way there I was almost certain that our driver was trying to kill us. I was being dramatic, of course, but I swear to Christ the next time that little shit picks up his phone to talk to someone while he’s playing the Nepali version of Chicken with the other cars; while driving cliff side; while honking like a madman-- I swear I was gonna slap the puberty outta this mother fucker. GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE! I would have screamed if my heart wasn’t in lodged my throat; choking me into silence. My palms were sweating. The relief was palatable once we reached Besisahar.

Since our driver was part Nepali part fucking Speed Racer, we arrived earlier than we anticipated. So the plan to walk to the next location came into motion. “You guys just wanna walk straight to Bhulbule?” Bhulbule was about a two and a half walk from Besisahar, and since we’ve been cramped in a jeep for the better part of our morning... I was not opposed. I had a lot of nervous energy pent up, so some walking might do me some good.

The roads were dusty, but I liked that I was surrounded by green. I thought the rice fields were actually rather pretty. It could be the Filipino in me, but I don’t think my family grew rice-- I think it was pineapples?

I think this mini trek to was a pretty important learning session about the personalities of our group, which had expanded plus two.

Hannah had a very bubbly personality. Lani had dubbed her Hermoine, probably in regard to her accent and the unruly curls that donned her crown. She was short in stature, but her personality was definitely larger than life. She was an opera singer by occupation (amazing), and when she and Zach would break out into impromptu songs it was the sweetest thing. Apparently the girl had a penchant for nicknames for she went from Hermoine, to Hannah-Darling, to finally Hannahpurna. The last one tickled my fancy-- mostly because I’m a sucker for puns or any play on words, really. Hannah was a firecracker with the tendency to “wee” every fifteen steps (total exaggeration, but she did need a few stops, and it was cute). She was very hydrated. How to describe Hannah... She had these curls the color of light brown sugar, and big doe eyes that darted everywhere like she wanted to take everything; experience everything at the same time; all at once. She had a wonderful lilt to her voice that sounded almost musical-- whether it be because of her accent or her occupation-- either way it was pleasant, and made it even more hilarious when she would say some off the wall shit.

Maxine-- I had dubbed her Maxie, because... I’ve always wanted to call a someone that-- was from the Netherlands. I can’t say I know much about the Dutch, but Adrian tells me that they’re the nicest people. Next to Canadians, I imagine. From what I learned from Lani-- Maxine was involved in research for exoskeletons for paraplegics, and I am awed by... everything? Can I be awed by everything? Fuck, I guess I am. Max was quiet, but sure of herself--- The best kind of quiet confidence. I felt she had good energy. She was tall and blonde.. and apparently gets sunburned easily. I liked her high cheekbones and the strong, sharp angles of her jawline. At first she seems a bit severe, but when she smiles her eyes crinkle at the corners that’s when you really see her shine, and Max smiles a lot. Shit. We’re getting a bunch of bright people now. I’m getting nervous. Just kidding. ... Kinda-- ANYWAY!

Then we have Lani. Her optimism was infectious and you can just feel her excitement just to be here. And I’m glad we’re here-- glad I was able to see it with her; be here with her. I’ve never quite described Lani have I? Hm... She’s probably one of the most beautiful people I know. Her physical beauty is as effortless as the inner. She doesn’t need to try, she just is. She’s tall, she’s almost graceful in her movements until she remembers she has limbs and almost trips or hits something. (Why we’re actually friends.) She has her own demons to contend with, but she’s not like me and lets it fuck with her-- thanks to her optimism. It’s like she has a full reservoir of the shit. She drives me up the wall with it sometimes-- because I’m just allergic to things not fucked up apparently, but I’m glad I have her in my life. Perhaps when my bitterness dwindles as I fumble along this path of self-whatever-the-fuck maybe, just maybe, that optimism can rub off on me. Now onto the brightest of the bright-- dare I crown him the King of Sunshine, Zach. I have nicknamed him Zackerooie, because he’s just so damned adorable. Swear to Christ I have never met a more positive human being in my entire life-- and I was fucking surrounded by them back home. I appreciate the eye contact he gives when you’re in conversation with him. All smiles and bright blues just aimed at you. It’s neigh impossible to not adore him. He’s just a genuine person-- a rarity. Back home, genuineness appears to not only a be fallacy but an actual needle in a damned haystack. It’s like when someone calls themselves humble nine times out of ten they are anything but. When someone has to compliment themselves, that’s usually a huge red flag.

And alas there was Adrian. Adrian likes to pick on short people-- I’m not short by any means (pretty average for my ethnicity and gender-- thank you), just shorter than he is.

I will concede that we certainly have our similarities (insert your “no shit, Ashley” here). Which makes sense on why I found him to be so infuriating. We bickered. A bit. A lot. Fuck you, fine-- we bickered most of the time. It wasn’t too bad. I only half joked / threatened him with bodily harm. Then he’d say some stupid shit like I was too small to do dick, which made me actually want to punch him in the daddy bags. Repeatedly. In rapid succession. Just to make sure such assholery will not dare procreate. But during my observations I found that he is a lot more... thoughtful than I had initially pegged him to be. And let me tell you, my initial thoughts of him were not very flattering-- he kept picking on me, okay! It’s 2018 goddammit, no bullies allowed! In any case, we can safely say that Adrian is blunt; that Adrian is opinionated, but I found that his actions didn’t often match what his mouth was saying. There was a lot of “who cares” or “I don’t care” or “that’s someone else’s problem” or my personal favorite “whatever”. These things weren’t easy to spot, but when you’re trailing in the back of the group or existing in corners... You tend to catch on to how people really are relatively quickly.

But I started to note these things and the more I learned, the easier he was to understand. But then again he has probably the longest eyelashes I have ever seen-- which switches me back from understanding the guy to being annoyed by him.

I finally crossed my first bridge. I was anticipating/dreading, actually. Had a thing about heights, even though technically I’ve never really put myself in a situation where I would have to deal with heights. So does that mean I was scared if the idea of heights? Interesting thought. Well we were about to test that theory considering now I was looking at it dead in the face.

“You good?” Adrian asked me.. again. “Fine. Just panicking internally.” I found myself admitting honestly. Wow, that made my mouth feel weird. I don’t know what made me say it, but It felt strangely freeing, but considering I was still panicking I didn’t dwell too long. I’ll fuck with that shit later.

My ears were full of the water flowing under the bridge. I concentrated on putting one boot in front of the other, just look straight ahead. Don’t look down, if I stepped in shit (seemed to be... everywhere) I would dutifully scrape it off on a brick, or a rock, or an Adrian if he continued to piss me off. Or a Lani that kept smirking at my plight. Plotting which person to rub my just-in-case shitty boot on helped me across. I don’t know what kind of person that makes me, but it fucking works.

Zach was the captain of our merry band of misfits. He had the book. He had the map. He controls the futu-- Okay, sorry, that’s too much I know. But we basically followed his lead. He was great at getting the skinny from the locals (he has one of those faces). But we appeared to be following the Book (context: he purchased a trekking guide through the Himalayas from Lonely Planet. So when I say “The Book”, I mean the guide book-- not the bible, I didn’t finish Sunday school-- don’t know how to read it). The Book suggested we stay at two places: - Thorung-la Guest House - Heaven Guest House

It was getting late, so we went to the closest one:

Taking a shower was... Interesting. I couldn’t get my leg wet (as was my only requirement from my wound care doctor for her to give me the green light to fly), so I was basically doing some weird lean in butt fuck cold water (until I figured out how to use the heater) while keeping my leg elevated and away from the spout. Which is why my right leg is great at balancing. It felt nice to wash off the dirt. Took me a while to dress. My body and my leg.

I don’t think I packed enough warm underclothes. Just a few thermals and a rain jacket. I still had my down, but hardly think I can trek with that shit on. During the day it’s relatively warm, night is what kicks me in the vajeen.

In any case I walked down to beer and Dal Bhat.

I had brought a notebook down to write in (it was Lani’s diary and while she took pictures I wrote) and sat down. Everyone was already finishing up their plates-- considering the size of the plates-- considering the size of the plates, they were either hungry, or the food was bomb, or I was slow af getting dressed. I would guess the latter.I was already cold as shit. During dinner I was shivering and clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Although the teeth clenching could have been me biting my tongue whenever Adrian would remind me, for what seemed like the billionth time, it would only get colder. Or how he couldn’t believe I was already feeling that cold. Dude. I’m an island girl. The lowest the temp goes is 70 and that’s only if there’s a storm a’brewin’. So you bet your sweet ass this bitch was cold! Although I could not complain about the dude too much... He did try his best to keep my Island Popsicle ass warm throughout dinner by rubbing my arms. Maybe he’s not a bastard... still an asshole. A warm asshole.It was about seven or eight when everyone started turning in. I was reluctant because one, it was early, and two, I don’t sleep. Adrian was commenting that he couldn’t sleep too early because he’d wake up in the middle of the night. So it felt normal to agree when he asked me if I wanted to stay downstairs longer. One: it was early. Two: At this point I had buried myself under his arm and merged myself into his side like some weird warmth parasite. God that man was so warm. So we stayed up talking shit--bickering--whatever. I saw my first firefly (one of many firsts on this trip). I know what you’re thinking-- it wasn’t fucking romantical. Gag yourself. In fact I felt rather silly for admitting I haven’t seen something as apparently common. We don’t have those bugs on the island. Adrian kept his teasing to a minimum-- thank Christ-- and we eventually made our move back up stairs. Zach and Adrian’s room was across the hall from Lani and I’s.

I mumbled a quick goodnight to Adrian as I turned (left) into the... empty room. The room was empty. Where the hell was Lani?

I’ve read multiple books about a “sinking feeling” in your stomach when you mentally ask a question you already knew the answer to, but you hoped that maybe this bitch was in the fucking bathroom or something and, in fact, did not stay in the room across the hall leaving a now pretty sleepy Adrian bedless. I quickly pitter-pattered my way to the other room (right). My eyes had already adjusted to the dark enough to make out an Adrian standing in at the door way. He looked like he didn’t know what to do. Fuck if I knew what the fuck to do.

I had a belly full of Dhal Bhat and I had my fill of Adiran Warmth to last me... Just a couple more minutes if I didn’t get under warm covers soon.

“Lani?” I whispered at the dark lump I thought could be her. I don’t know what kind of Zombie/sleep cracked out Lani this was, but she moved fast. Like the zombies in World War Z fast, like I Am Legend Zombie fast. “Are you okay? I’m sleepy. I’m gonna go back to sleep. It’ll be okay. Mm, love you. Night.” She had said this over my, “What? Uh. Okay. Are you-- aaand you’re laying back down. Okay.” I stood there staring at the Lani-Lump. Incredulous; unsure; mostly confused.

This. Fucking. Cunt.

Deep breaths Ashley. This isn’t a huge deal. Except that I haven’t allowed anyone to sleep in the fucking same room with me for over a year-- besides my hospital stay.

That didn’t count.

I had drugs. I, at the moment however, did not have drugs. To his credit Adrian did ask if I was okay with us rooming together. ... Fuck it. Whatever. It was fine.

It was cold as shit outside; it was dark; I now (apparently) had an extra bed... He may as well use it, right? I mean, he wasn’t a complete stranger-- he actually seemed pretty cool when he wasn’t busting my balls.

I told myself I was fine with it. Actually, I told myself to stop being a little bitch. He wasn’t going to bite me. And if he did I’d have a reason to beat that ass. The possibility of violence made me strangely okay with it.

So we went to bed. It did not take me long to realize that usually bodies warm the sheets before it stays warm throughout the night. So whatever Adrian Warmth I had left dissipated once I slid under the sheets. Fuck. You. I knew I was going to be miserable the whole night. I rubbed my feet together in hopes the friction would help. No help. My feet were cold.

“You cold?” I heard the question from the bed across mine. Adrian. Didn’t trust my mouth to speak so I made a negative mouth sound of “nuh-uh.” Have you ever heard a silence that was deeper than silence...? Like someone was quietly judging your idioticy from across the room? Well, he as nice enough to not verbally call me out on my bullshit. Both he and I knew damn well I was cold as fuck-- but my stupid mouth still lied about it. Pride? Probably.

I saw his blanket open up, motions of his hand to hurry up and get in. I hesitated. Of course I did. I hesitate about everything. Fucking Pride... Stupid. But I couldn’t resist-- my bed wasn’t doing me any fucking favors-- so I did what Lani... and Kristin... and Jessie were always fucking telling me to do.

Go with it. (I had way too many free spirited friends..)

And fuck you, once Adrian dropped the blanket around me and I was immediately surrounded by that delicious, precious warmth, I swear that man could have asked me to kick a puppy and I would have done it gratefully. Okay maybe not-- but I would have heavily considered it. How the fucker got his bedding that comfortably warm in such a short amount of time I will never know. Or I didn’t ask. Fuck it man, I was just happy that I was warm. That’s his super power.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but it was the first sleep I’ve had since we landed in Nepal. I knew needed that sleep. So I’ll say this: Thank you, Adrian... You fucking asshole. What? Gotta keep it balanced. TBC...

#Road to Nepal Part 8 #Blog #Life After Ten #Travel #Nepal #Bhulbule #annapurna circuit

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chameleonspell · 7 years

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186: boundaries

The mountains of northern Vvardenfell were an unforgiving place, riddled with caves and gouged with deep, volcanic trenches. The latter, known locally as foyadas, were perilous to navigate, their steep sides granting travellers no escape from swooping cliff racers or marauding kagouti packs. No escape from the impressive acoustics, either. "Sixty-third came a Bosmer whore, toothy and stout, What goes in a Wood Elf's mouth doesn't come out! Sing ohhh, the loves of Boethiah! The ninety-nine loves of Boethiah!" It was only their second hour of hiking since breaking camp, but Iriel was already pondering self-targeted Silence spells, or, failing that, the sound-muffling properties of shalk resin.

"A Hist, twenty-eighth, spread its roots for a view, At least, that's what we think it was trying to do! Sing ohhh, the loves of Boethiah! The ninety-nine loves of Boethiah!" More than getting beetle-gunk permanently lodged in his auditory canal, Iriel was afraid of being passive-aggressive and spoiling the mood. Julan was in the kind of high spirits he usually only reached with the aid of at least four bottles. That said, Ire's tolerance had limits. "The fourteenth was a Sload with reversible tube, The thing about Sload is, you never need--" "You sang fourteenth already!" Ire couldn't keep the anguished betrayal from his voice. Julan glanced over his shoulder. "Did I?" he remarked blithely. "Yes! I've been keeping track! But it wasn't a Sload, it was something lurid about a Khajiit who was flexible enough to reach any part of his anatomy with his tongue." Iriel sucked in his cheeks, suddenly pensive. "I'm beginning to understand why Dro'Zaymar didn't require my company, that night in St Delyn." "Huh?" "Never mind. Are there really ninety-nine verses?" "'No, of course not!" "Oh, thank Mara." "There's far more than that, because if you run out, you make them up as you go along!" As Iriel closed his eyes and moaned, Julan gave him a condescending look. "Ire, you say filthier things than this all the time." "I know, but with these awful tavern songs, I'm always waiting for the next 'hilarious' thing that'll hit me somewhere it hurts. Humour like this depends on using other people for its punchlines." "Look, the one about the Nord girl with the plaited moustache I got from Sottilde, so--" "I don't care!" "I skipped all the verses about Altmer!" "I've already composed them in my head via guesswork, and upset myself, so you needn't have bothered!" "Lighten up, Ire. I sang the bit with the Dunmer who married a guar, didn't I? Nobody's safe with this sort of song." "Let me try one, then." Iriel chewed his lip for a while, then sang: "An Ashlander maid, sacred clit-rings on show, They have twelve words for 'fuck me' and no word for 'no'." To his satisfaction, Julan's face immediately darkened. "That," he said, "was over the line." "EXACTLY!!! Because you know where that line is! Stop pretending you do for everyone else!" Julan threw up a hand. "OK! Fine! Let's sing your one about the dead baby in the pond again, that'll keep our spirits up!" Iriel watched him march on ahead, skipping over rocks in his path, already humming the opening strains of The Kwama Miner's Daughter. Perhaps there was nothing extreme about Julan's cheerfulness, Iriel considered. Perhaps anyone would appear cheerful in comparison to himself, and the creeping dread that tugged, tar-like, at his heels with every step. His spirits require no support, while mine are beyond salvaging. What are we doing? What am I doing? What am I letting him do? "You're certain we're in the correct foyada?" Iriel ventured, when they stopped at midday to eat. He knew Julan's answer would be 'yes', regardless of truth, but that was why he'd asked - a desire for reassurance at any price. Every grey, lava-bitten channel snaking down from Red Mountain looked identical to him. "Of course!" Julan, grinning broadly, began indicating landmarks with a stick of scrib jerky. "I've spent my life in these mountains! Those pointed rock spires down there are Airan's Teeth, so this is Yamus bel-Shannarai, the Valley of the Wind. It's obviously the 'teeth of the wind' that stupid riddle was talking about." Ire allowed himself to be reassured. It was true, they were only a couple of hours south-west of the Grazelands, and from there, it was only a few more miles along the coast to the summer location of Julan's mother's camp. To Iriel's relief, Julan had expressed no desire to visit. "I've never heard of any secret shrines to Azura around here," he was saying. "I'd have thought Mother would know about it. But I guess that's why it's secret." He rolled his eyes. "Sheogorath knows why that wise woman had to make it a whole stupid riddle. We passed the test, didn't we? These old women love messing with your head for the attention, but you shouldn't encourage them." "I was just relieved she didn't want to stick needles in me," said Ire. "You can do all the talking, next time. You have a promise of guest rites, after all, it was your choice not to come with me to--" "I know, get off my back!" Julan was still grinning. "I want to have this proof from the cavern, first. Then I'll go to the Urshilaku and show them, explain that I'm the Nerevarine, and you were only helping me." He set his jaw at the distant horizon. "I'll show Mother, too." You could still say something. You could repeat what Zainsubani told you about his father, try to-- He knows! He's heard it and rejected it, so all you'd be doing is telling him you believed the word of a stranger over his! Faith, Ire. You said you were going to have faith in him. Yes, but... ugh! Walk, just walk. The foyada seemed eternal. It ran broadly south, but as the incline increased, it began a slow, fern-frond curl around a huge rock spur. They scrambled uphill through flowering heather, swarming with tiny copper moths that rose like dustclouds as they passed. As the day wore on, Iriel's exhaustion grew, but Julan's optimism remained undentable. "I've been thinking about this guest-rites thing," he said, at one point. "One of the most well-known prophecies is called The Stranger. That's where the famous line about Incarnates comes from: 'many fall, but one remains'. But it also has lines about the tribes welcoming a stranger to their hearth. And guess what? The Velothi word for stranger, hlarmut, can also be translated as guest, and that's the word used in guest rites!" His eyebrows leapt as he beamed into Iriel's impassive face. "So me receiving guest rites might be part of the prophecy! For the first time in forever, I'm making real progress!" Iriel made a noncommittal noise and faked the need to focus on the placement of his feet. I said I wouldn't stand in his way. I said I couldn't protect him by showing him I doubted him. I said I had to trust him, even when he's wrong. Noble sentiments, so idealistic. Bodu saw through that guarshit straight away. What use is any of it, if he's dead? In the afternoon, they climbed above the ashline. Crossed into the high places, where the storms whipped constant torrents of ash from the crater of the volcano. They had goggles from the Urshilaku with shalk-wing lenses and tight leather straps. Ire wrapped his blue silk scarf around his nose and mouth, followed by another less permeable one of soft, grey racerskin. Even Julan was forced to cover his face, though Ire could still hear him humming, whenever the wind dropped. They clambered over piles of scree, and verdant explosions of bittergreen. Sometimes, a gust of wind would catch Iriel unawares, and he'd have to cling to the nearest bristling tendril until Julan rescued him, grateful his netch gauntlets kept the spines out of his skin. Everything is so fragile, so precarious. Any moment, something could tear him from me. Every step we take, a crack could open up between us. Could swallow either of us... or both. We killed an ash vampire, but we almost died a dozen times and it's only going to get worse. Where's the line, Ire? He knows. He stood across it, that night you tried to attack the Council Club. You lecture him about boundaries, but where are yours, now? You always do this. You fuck things up one way, then you overcorrect too far in the other direction. You're not "having faith" in him, you're enabling him. And if you keep going, you're going to watch him die. But what else can I do? In the crags, they passed through a cliff racer nesting ground, empty now the chicks had all fledged. Iriel felt small bones crunch beneath his boots, and forced his gaze upwards, stomach turning. Julan was already bouncing over the top of the next ridge. I don't know how to help you. I've found plenty of ways not to do it. I don't want to mock you, deceive you, lecture you, patronise you, manipulate you, order you, guilt-trip you. I won't have you feel my love as a chain around your wrist, dragging you from your hopes and dreams into cultureless domesticity, like Shani tried to do. Is this all that's left, letting you pull me into the mouth of hell with you? I don't want to watch you die, but if the choice is this, or leaving you to die alone... I owe it to you. I owe it to you to be wrong about staying, instead of wrong about going. "Huh." Julan had stopped, and was scratching his head. The foyada had ended in a narrow clearing, rock faces on all sides. There was no sign of a cavern, or an opening of any sort. "I don't get it." He pushed up his goggles, the cliffs largely shielding them from the ash. "It must be here, but we've checked the entire length of the valley." "Can we rest?" Iriel's bag had slipped from his shoulders, and he looked ready to drop into the ash next to it. Julan nodded, and they settled themselves against the rock face at the foyada's dead end. Ire loosened his scarves, and shook out the ash, until it made him cough so much he stopped. Julan passed Ire the waterskin, and waited while he drank, watching with such intensity, it was all Ire could do not to choke. He settled for spilling it down his chin, and shooting Julan an exasperated glance. Julan returned him a smile of pure affection. "I know this has been hard on you," he told Iriel. "And I don't just mean the climbing, I mean everything. I know I've been hard on you, too, and difficult to live with. I want to apologise, and to say... you don't know how much it means to me, that you're here." Please let a crack in the rock open up, because I want to crawl into it. "I could do this." Ire heard Julan's voice, and dimly felt him cradling his hand, through his gauntlet and haze of impotent despair. "I could actually succeed at my mission! I never felt this way before, never in my whole life. It's amazing, and it's all because of you." Oh. Great. "I never imagined that anyone would do this for me, would share my burden like this. You're so strong, Iya, far more than me, and far more than you realise. I love you so much." Ire knew he couldn't respond without crying, and then having to explain why. And then falling apart completely, begging, drenching Julan in guilt, exchanging all his confidence and devotion for doubt and resentment again, and to achieve what? A temporary victory, at best. He gritted his teeth and looked away, into the rising blush of the sunset, at the lone star appearing over it. Vasa bel-Azura. Viatrix said love and faith were the same thing. That faith let her follow, when reason failed. But... she was talking about a god. What do gods ever have to lose? The mountain groaned, and, as if answer to his prayer, he felt the rock behind him shift. Iriel might have wondered how the liminal boundary operated, without a monk and a pulley, but at that moment, there was nothing in his mind but a sense of hollow inevitability. They walked down the passage hand in hand, a distant, submarine glow luring them into the depths. Julan was vibrating with anticipation, Iriel numbly docile. The cavern that opened around them was a temple. Luminous, numinous, stalactites and stalagmites ringing it like pillars. In the centre, surrounded by green and violet mushrooms that shone like altar candles, was a kneeling female figure, carved from the rock. Julan's eyes were fixed on the statue, his mouth slack. "Azurammu," Ire heard him breathe. Azura's stone eyes were cast down into her lap, where her hands were resting, upturned and open. Towed nearer, Ire saw lichen patterning her skin and moss softening the folds of her robe. Julan clutched convulsively at his arm. "Look!" Iriel followed his gaze. She had worshippers. Around the edges of the cavern, motionless figures were huddled at stiff angles, bent at the knees and neck. "They're bodies!" Julan let go of Iriel, and moved towards the nearest form. "This one's been given full death-honours... more than for a khan, even. Are they heroes, legendary champions? I've never seen soul-bindings this complex." He began going from corpse to corpse, squinting and gasping. Iriel hadn't moved, was still hovering at the centre of the cavern, paralysed by discomfort and dread. The statue loomed over him, all benign expression and benevolent hands. He hated it with every fibre of his being. There was something glinting between the statue's cupped hands. A silver band. He leaned closer. A silver band... with a moon and star on it. He almost shouted to Julan, but stopped himself. Something was bothering him about the ring, and a second later, he realised what. It wasn't enchanted. It was impressive to look at, the six-pointed star nestled into the elegant curve of the crescent moon, but it wasn't magical. Not imbued with any sort of spell, let alone a soul-scanning murdercurse. I could be wrong. Daedra can be subtle, after all, and my judgement isn't what it was. But... I can still sense the arcane, and there's simply nothing here. I can feel the amulets on the corpses across the cavern, but not this ring. Nibani Maesa said that to gain the proof of Nerevar, I had to find the moon and star. But if she knew the cavern was here... why is the ring still here? Why hadn't they already retrieved it, kept it safe? Unless... it's just another sinyesh, a test-thing to retrieve. Iriel stared again at the circle of metal in the statue's hands. How can it be a proof, if it's not magical? She must have known it wasn't magical. That anyone could wear it, and-- He saw a trap. He saw a glittering snare. A manacle, to drain freedom, and replace it with blind, dutiful obedience. "Mephala!" Julan's voice drifted from somewhere behind the statue. "There's even more bodies! And they must be really powerful spirits, the amount of bone charms holding them to this place is... incredible. Iya, I think this place is a tomb for failed Incarnates!" He saw a poisoned chalice. If I'm wrong, and it is cursed somehow, it will kill him instantly. If I'm right, and it isn't, it will cement his confidence, and lock him on his course. Make him the willing dupe of this reborn soul shell game, or whatever it is these wise women are playing at. Either way, it kills him. Quick or slow, it kills him. The stalagmites and stalactites were no longer the pillars of a temple. They were ranks of pointed teeth, ready to snap closed. "What have you found?" Julan was approaching from the back of the cave, and Iriel's pulse hammered against his throat. Too late now to hide it, lose it, pretend it had never existed. He suddenly heard Viatrix, again. 'Some things They did so we might not have to. So we might receive the lesson, without paying the cost.' Iriel picked up the ring. At the flash of silver, Julan's eyes went wide. When he saw what Ire was doing with it, they went wider still. "No," he said hoarsely, beginning to run, catching his shoulder on a stalactite, forcing past it. "STOP!!" This time, I chose it. I betrayed him with both eyes open. The Moon-and-Star slid past Ire's knuckle, and settled around the base of his left middle finger. And nothing happened. There. I was right. I know it'll hurt, to find it was all meaningless. That he'll be disappointed it's not the proof he wanted, that it's been nothing but a huge set-up. At best, he'll be furious with me for taking the risk. At worst, he'll despise me forever, for sabotaging his destiny, and he'll have the right. But at least he might live to do it. Ire began releasing the breath he'd been holding. Then he saw Julan's face, and it froze in his chest. Julan came towards him. Silently, slowly as if underwater, his eyes fixed on the ring on Iriel's hand. When he reached it, he stopped. Took Ire's hand in his, gently, reverently. He ran his fingers along Iriel's knuckle, then across the ring. Then down the length of Ire's finger, and off. Iriel couldn't speak, but when Julan looked up, their eyes met. There was no trace of anger in Julan's face. Only something of the condemned man, in the split second after the trapdoor opens, and before the noose pulls tight. He nodded slowly. He squeezed Iriel's fingers. Then he ran from the cave. "WAIT!!" Ire's self-possession returned, as Julan reached the cavern entrance. Stumbling down the tunnel after him, Ire saw the stone door begin to grind downwards. He launched himself towards the shrinking wedge of rose-gold light. "COME BACK YOU IDIOT IT'S NOT ENCH--!" The rock wall descended the last few feet just as Iriel hit it face-first. next: 187: mother previous: 185: courage beginning: 1: numb

#howtodisappearcompletely #i can't tell you the tune to this one sorry #it's just a weird ditty in my head #you just need to know it's annoying

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itsworn · 6 years

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Quick Tech: The Ethanol-Friendly Q-Jet Rebuild How-To!

It’s no secret among hobbyists that ethanol-blended gasoline can compromise the fuel system in older vehicles, and the rubber seals within the carburetor are generally the first casualties. To avert such issues, some owners seek service stations that dispensing only pure gasoline to avoid ethanol all together, but that isn’t always possible depending upon where you live. Most states require retailers to label pumps dispensing any gasoline with ethanol content greater than about one percent by weight. Some require no ethanol declaration whatsoever. And then there are other states that mandate that all pumps dispense ethanol-blended gasoline.

So how certain are you that the gasoline you’re pumping into your classic car is truly ethanol-free? You’ll likely be surprised to learn that according to a 2018 U.S. Department of Energy report, 98 percent of all gasoline sold in our county today contains at least some ethanol. Yes, 98 percent! How can that be? Well, there are two major contributing factors. Not only are most refiners blending up to 10 percent (E-10) into commercially-available pump gas to increase octane rating and reduce consumer cost, ethanol replaced Methyl Tertiary Butyl Ether (or MTBE) as a gasoline oxygenate in the 2000s and at least one percent is generally blended into what remains of that number.

The Rochester Products Division of General Motors developed the highly-efficient Quadrajet for select 1965 model year applications. It became GM’s four-barrel of choice in ‘67 when multiple carburetion was banned on all but Corvette. As the Quadrajet evolved over the years, some functions moved to computer control. It was ultimately replaced by fuel injection during the late ’80s, but not before several million had been produced. It remains a popular hobbyist choice and can be easily modified for compatibility with today’s ethanol-blended fuel.

Using corn to produce automotive fuel instead of as a food source is a hotly-contested topic in America. No matter how you perceive ethanol and its vast inclusion in today’s gasoline, hobbyists must acknowledge that the corn-based alternative fuel is a permanent fixture in our foreseeable future. With ever-changing regulations we may not know when or where we’ll be forced to feed our carbureted vehicles ethanol-blended gasoline. Preparedness is the best defense against fuel system vulnerability and if your car is equipped with a Rochester Quadrajet, here’s how you can ready it for ethanol-blended gasoline.

Ethanol Basics Ethanol (or ethyl-alcohol) is a renewable resource that’s largely derived by fermenting corn grain. The biofuel burns quite cleanly and has an octane rating of 113. All of that makes it an acceptable fuel for internal combustion engines. While ethanol has been around since the 1800s, it wasn’t until the ’70s gasoline shortage that refiners began blending it with gasoline to lower cost at the pump, increase octane, and reduce tailpipe emissions. Regulators have limited refiners to a maximum capacity of 10 percent (by weight). E-10 remains commonly available today but recent news from Washington suggests that a widespread increase to E-15 is on the horizon.

The ’77 Firebird that this particular Quadrajet was originally installed on began experiencing operational issues. The off-idle flat spot during normal driving conditions pointed to the accelerator pump. Our suspicion was immediately confirmed upon removing the air cleaner. The accelerator pump was stuck at the bottom of its travel within the main body.

Since its introduction, auto manufacturers scoffed at ethanol-blended gasoline because ethanol possesses approximately one-third less energy content than gasoline. That means more of it must be consumed during each combustion event to perform an equal amount of work. As the federal government pressed automakers to reduce emissions and increase fuel mileage during the ’70s, ethanol-blended gasoline made already-lean fuel mixtures even leaner and it negatively impacted economy.

We suspected that ethanol-blended fuel had attacked the accelerator pump’s rubber seal. After removing the airhorn and working the pump upward, we found its seal swollen and deformed. These are common characteristics that result when ethanol contacts incompatible materials. This particular blue-colored seal is generally included in commercially-available rebuild kits and is marketed as ethanol compatible. The obvious deformity tells otherwise!

Ethanol attracts moisture and that can create issues in vehicles that sit for long periods, but the greatest threat ethanol-blended gasoline poses to older vehicles is its propensity to damage rubber. It can attack fuel hoses and the fuel pump, but carburetor internals seem most susceptible. The accelerator pump seal and needle valve can swell, shrink, and/or harden, and floats can sink. The rubber components found in most commercially-available carburetor kits are not always compatible with ethanol. At least one source, however, offers specialty kits specifically for this purpose, and the cost is quite reasonable.

Preventative Solution Noted Quadrajet expert Cliff Ruggles has been rebuilding and modifying Rochester’s most popular four-barrel for 40 years. Ruggles made carburetor work his professional career in 2003 when he opened Cliff’s High Performance in Mount Vernon, Ohio. Today, Ruggles rebuilds, recalibrates, and restores Quadrajets for a variety of vehicles ranging from stock applications to racers running 9-second quarter mile times in the F.A.S.T. series.

Cliff’s High Performance offers a variety of high-quality Quadrajet rebuild kits that feature seals and floats that truly are ethanol compatible. The company is so confident in its accelerator pump that it backs it with a lifetime warranty. Basic kits begin around $25 while those containing virtually everything needed for a complete rebuild and visual restoration can exceed $100.

“Shortly after we opened, ethanol-blended gasoline became widely available and we started having trouble with accelerator pump failure,” Ruggles said. “The buna—or neoprene—rubber seals were replaced by seals our suppliers dubbed ‘ethanol resistant.’ We thought the issue was resolved, but found that they, too, would swell when in contact with ethanol. Some would fail quickly while others would be out there a few months, but we saw a high enough seal failure rate that we had to take action. Our new seal is a very high grade of fluoroelostomer. It’s tougher than alligator hide and doesn’t swell, shrink, or tear in today’s fuel. We also changed the pump springs to those with custom specifications to improve performance and reliability. We are so confident in our accelerator pump that we offer a lifetime warranty and haven’t had a single failure to date.”

Tearing into the carburetor to install a rebuild kit presents the perfect opportunity to recalibrate its fuel metering circuits. Generally set quite lean from the factory, Cliff’s High Performance can supply for your Quadrajet at extra cost new primary jets, and primary and secondary metering rods to improve vehicle performance.

Whether your vintage vehicle is fueled with ethanol-blended gasoline or that marketed as ethanol-free, today’s gasoline is quite different than what your Quadrajet was originally calibrated for. “Not only has gasoline changed, the mid-to-late ’70s calibrations were extremely lean because of emissions regulations,” explained Ruggles. “To accommodate modern pump gas, we find stock engines with their original carburetors respond very favorably to richening primary fueling by 5 to 7 percent. To accomplish it we generally increase primary jet size by one number and often use a primary metering rod with a smaller upper section diameter or different tapered section to provide a wider range of adjustment from the carburetor’s Adjustable Part Throttle (or APT) system. That effectively increases fuel delivery to the engine throughout the entire circuit.”

With proper modification, virtually any Quadrajet can be an excellent performer. For those looking to modify their Quadrajet for such an application, Cliff Ruggles, owner of Cliff’s High Performance wrote the book on the topic. How To Rebuild and Modify Rochester Quadrajet Carburetors, published by CarTech Books, retails for $26.95 and expertly guides you through every step of the process.

Richening the idle circuit isn’t always needed, but some applications will respond well to it. “The first indication that the idle circuit may be too lean is when the mixture screws have little effect on idle quality,” Ruggles said. “We verify this by tipping the choke flap, which artificially richens the air/fuel ratio. If the engine smoothens out, we know the idle circuit needs to be richened. We accomplish this by measuring the idle tubes and increasing their size by .002- to .003-inch. We generally then like to see the channel restriction between .050 and .055 inch. Your mixture screws should then allow for proper mixture control.”

Conclusion With some basic hand tools and a couple hours’ time, anyone can quickly and easily prepare their Rochester Quadrajet for improved functionality on today’s gasoline. And whether you’re forced to run ethanol-blended fuel or simply choose to for personal reasons, the rebuild kits available from Cliff’s High Performance are deigned to provide you mile after mile of worry-free operation at a reasonable price.

The post Quick Tech: The Ethanol-Friendly Q-Jet Rebuild How-To! appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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#IFTTT #Hot Rod Network

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