Netgear57

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First off, I’d like to apologize for leaving the story open for so long; I’ve had lots of requests to finish, so thank you to all that have read about my adventures with the Celsior.

Where we last left off, I had just dropped off the disabled Celsior with Lutz. It had been about two days, and he called and asked me to come in to talk about what they found. This didn’t bode well with me, and I prepared myself for the worst as I walked through the doors of his shop. I saw my car sitting on the lift with one of his mechanics working under the hood, while he explained to me the work they had done. That’s when I noticed it – the car was running! The glorious 1UZ-FE V8 was again back to its smooth and quiet self! The car had jumped timing just before I was set to replace the timing belt/water pump. Lutz also found one my camshaft position sensors had tested out of spec, so being the perfectionist he is, he went ahead and replaced them both, as well as the radiator, as he had found a slight leak. I was ecstatic, and couldn’t believe the work had been done so quickly.

Then came the bill, to the tune of $1,800 (maybe more, I don’t remember), which I couldn’t be happier to pay. I had my car back! As I drove away from the shop, the car felt as good as new, and it nestled into its spot on my driveway again, ready to take me to work in the morning.

About a day or so later, I had my family in the car, and we were coming back from my son’s taekwondo lesson. As I pulled into the driveway, I rolled the window down for some reason. Inside my safe cocoon of sound proof metal and glass, I couldn’t hear it, but now that the window was down, it was evident that a *sound* was coming from the engine bay.

As I popped the hood, my mind wandered and I again heard the voices of demons and my wife. Why must I be tested this way? With my spouse looking on puzzlingly, I donned my stethoscope and placed it on the idler pulley. Bingo. My mind left the dark place, and the next day I purchased both the idler and tensioner pulley for good measure.

Around this time, my friend in San Antonio was getting ready to celebrate his son’s first birthday, and I thought “Wow, how fun would it be to take a road trip in my newly fixed, 25 year old Japanese car?” What could go wrong? The Friday morning before the birthday party, I packed up my family and we began our journey from El Paso to San Antonio. My wife reclined in her plush passenger seat and my son napped in the back, as I started putting miles (or kilometers?) between us and El Paso. When we arrived at the first “major” city, Fort Stockton, my wife decided she needed to use the restroom. I pulled into a gas station, got out of the car to stretch, and noticed it smelled like a car was burning oil. I went inside and used the restroom as well, and when I came back out my wife asked “Is the car smoking?”

The demons immediately returned.

There were definite wisps of smoke coming from the undercarriage. I moved the air suspension switch from NORM to HIGH to try and get a better look, but all I could ascertain was that I had developed a transmission fluid leak. I had to make a quick decision, and it seemed my best option was to turn around and try and make it back home instead of continuing on, as home was the closer destination. I purchased a quart of transmission fluid and left the gas station, turning on my left blinker to enter I-10 *West*, defeated. I kept my eyes on the rear view mirrors as much as the road in front of me, ready to pull the car over at any sign of smoke and evacuate the car. At that point, my attitude towards the situation had changed to a very Ivan Drago like one: If she burns, she burns.

Thankfully, the God of Bomex was watching over us: we made it safely back to El Paso, straight to Lutz’s shop. I left the Celsior in his care once again, and walked back home. He called me later that day to inform me that he had found the source of the leak and had corrected it. I brought the Celsior home again, happy, but with a little less glint in my eyes. Driving old cars is tough, and I had three RHD projects I had to keep running.

Sadly, the story ends abruptly here. The Celsior was sold locally on July 20, 2020, for the sum of $6,750. It is survived by a 1991 Nissan Silvia K’s (KPS13), and a 1992 Toyota Land Cruiser ZX (HZJ77).

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Editor’s note: This Understeer series tells the story of CCF contributor Netgear57’s 25 Year Law-imported 1991 Toyota Celsior, from the shores of Japan to the side of the road in El Paso. Check out Part One and Part Two if you haven’t.

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“No. No, this isn’t happening,” I tried to convince myself. The Celsior’s strength that had brought me up the mountain was waning: the previously nearly-imperceptible hiccup was now felt like a slight misfire.  I made it to work and limped the car into the parking lot, defeat once again looming in my soul as I sat at my desk and pondered what the cause of the issue could be.  As I mentally diagnosed the car, I made several trips outside to inspect the engine to lend credence to my theories.  Unfortunately, not a single one panned out.  I surmised it may be a wire leading to the crank or cam position sensor, as the engine bay for the 1UZ is quite cluttered, and leaves little room for error regarding wiring position.

I left work early and took the long way home, as the misfiring had now grown quite severe, and I didn’t think the Celsior would be able to make it up the mountain.  My destination was the mechanic shop I had just picked the car up from, and I went in to talk to the owner after I arrived.  The misfire was now so bad, the car sounded like I was shaking a can full of coins as I drove.  I’d never heard anything like it before.  
Now, I know there are stupid people who want to blame the last person that worked on their car for everything, so I was very clear that I was not blaming them for the misfire that had developed, however there likely was a refrigerant leak that would need to be addressed.  With my tail solidly between my legs, I called my wife to pick me up from the shop.  So began The Great Wait.

I waited.  And waited.  Then waited just a little bit more.  I don’t really remember how long this shop had my car, but it was at least 2 months, maybe 3.  Then came the call.  “Hey, can you come pick up the car tomorrow?” Hell yes I could.  I happily had my wife drop me off, excited to get behind the wheel of my luxury sedan again after so long.  I was greeted with a dead battery, and after using the shops charger and getting it started, I discovered the misfire had not been resolved.  The owner had not told me they were giving up, and I had assumed the car was repaired.  I went and verified this with the owner, and yeah, they were giving up.  My thoughts lingered on the judging veers and remarks that my wife was no doubt going to grace me with as I limped the once mighty Celsior out of the mechanic’s parking lot.

During The Great Wait, I started driving my S13 Silvia to work, and as the summer months approached I discovered my once-working A/C had been reduced to a hot air recirculation device; I decided to remedy this.  I went to a shop that was poorly reviewed online, and decided to give them a shot after speaking with the owner.  This is how I met MY mechanic, Lutz Fuggmann. 
Lutz is a retired engineer, a little bit over 6 ft tall with a full head of white hair, and speaks in a heavy German accent.  His shop cleanliness rivals most airplane hangars, and all four of his bay doors remain closed at all times because Lutz cannot be in the sun.  I didn’t ask the reason, but I assumed it was vampiric.  I quickly figured out why his shop is rated so poorly: Lutz does not give a fuck.  He will do the job correctly, and charge you accordingly, and this doesn’t fly well in El Paso, TX.  His passion for vehicles is evident, and the Porsches in his bays spoke of the clientele that do put up with him.  He converted my Silvia from R12 to R134a and had the A/C once again blowing cold. 
When I picked up the car, Lutz scolded me for not driving the car enough. Like a doctor, he gave me instructions to drive the car at least once a week or at the very least idle until up to temp.  I assured him I would meet his demands.

So as I’m limping away from the shop that gave up, I know exactly where I’m going.  I drive straight to Lutz’s and park the Celsior behind his shop.  I go inside and regale him with the tale of my Celsior, and the shop that gave up.  This lights a fire in his belly, as Lutz has an innate hatred of “garbage shops” that “can’t fix anything”, which had been the subject of one of his rants on a previous visit.  He assured me he would figure out what was wrong with the car, and I left the keys with him as I walked home, feeling confident that Lutz would no doubt get me back on the road.

But at what cost?

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-Netgear57

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About a year and a half ago, I imported a 1991 Toyota Celsior Spec C from Japan.  I had been looking for a nice LS400 for a while, and given the prices that good low mileage examples were commanding, I decided my money would be better spent importing one, since Japanese imports are generally better maintained and taken care of when compared to their American equivalents.  I also wanted to try my hand at importing, and figured I would start with a less expensive car in case I just completely fucked up the import process and ended up getting the car crushed.  So began my adventure with “the most reliable car ever built”.

The day the truck delivered the Celsior to my house, I was ecstatic.  Months of looking for the right car, bidding, and patiently waiting for a cargo ship from the land of the rising sun was now over. For under $6,000 American, I had an auction grade 4, Black Jade Metallic, 130,000 km Celsior sitting in my driveway. 
Like nearly every imported vehicle, the Celsior arrived with a dead battery.  I left it trickle charging overnight, and was rewarded with a battery that held charge and did not need replacement.  After a few cranks, the Celsior sprang to life and I took it for its first drive around the block.  I fell in love with the smooth, quiet ride, and overall comfort I felt driving it, as well as the relatively unobstructed greenhouse that you simply can’t find in modern vehicles.  The justification to my wife (“Oh, I’ll just import this one to see if I can do it and sell it for a slight profit”) quickly left my memory (but not hers) as I happily envisioned my new, cool daily driver shuttling me to and from work.

I made note of the things I wanted to get done, namely a tune up and oil change, and also noted that although the tires looked great and had plenty of tread, their DOT date showed they had been manufactured in 2006. 
After a relatively simple registration process, I now had a title and a license plate for my RHD beauty, and a newly arrived package from RockAuto containing a few oil filters, air filter, spark plugs, wires, distributor caps (yes, caps), and rotors (yes, rotors).  I enjoy working on cars, and will usually tackle most jobs myself, so doing the tune-up myself was a no-brainer.  It saves money and would allow me to “get to know” the car; she needed to be shown that I care. 

The tune-up, honestly, turned into kind of a bitch.  I had to remove quite a few panels and covers to get access to everything, but it eventually got done, and I had a clear conscience knowing I had been a good boy and had done the preventative maintenance the car needed.
I went to take it for a test drive; the car was struggling to stay on, and was just running like garbage.  Feeling defeated, I opened the hood and noticed a huge vacuum hose that I had forgotten to plug back into the intake.  I was elated when the car returned to normal the moment I put the hose back on, and was again happy with my hard work. 
The car ran great for about a day, then started misfiring horribly shortly after I again left my house. I turned around and limped it home, defeated once again, thinking there was no way this fix was going to be as easy as me forgetting a vacuum hose.  After about 15 minutes of diagnosis, I discovered that the left side coil pack wire was damaged and arcing straight to the block.  The depression quickly left my body, and after digging an old coil wire out of the trash can, the car was humming once again.  I got a warranty replacement wire from Denso and all was right again in the world…  until I put the spark plug cover on the car a couple of weeks later and discovered the issue was, once again, caused by me.  There is a spot on the spark plug cover that has a notch for the coil wire, and I didn’t notice that, causing the wire to become pinched and damaged by the cover, thereby causing the arc.  I wasn’t going to bother Denso again and ended up running the extra, longer coil wire that was included in the kit, which was meant for the later model LS400.

Now, as you are reading this, I know what you’re thinking: “this shit isn’t the car’s fault, this dude is just dumb and he’s blaming the car for his fuck-ups.”  And yes, I agree.  None of this stuff was the car’s fault, but I have to preface the story with this because in my wife’s mind, all of this is me fixing a broken car, and that made what comes later annoy her even more.  While my wife is a hater, I really do like the Celsior, I promise. More on the import process and total expenses next week.

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