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Has the world really become a more dangerous
place, or are we just more aware of the dangers of
everyday life? If I buy a new appliance, a power tool or
a treadmill, the owner's manuals typically have dozens
of pages of warnings, cautions, disclaimers and notices
before I ever get to the instructions. There are enough
stickers in my truck warning me about the possible
dangers of air bags, roll-overs and exploding batteries
to make me think that driving to work should qualify as
hazardous duty. But ironically, the more we are assailed
by warning signs, screaming yellow caution notices and
clever icons depicting various ways that stick people
can be killed and maimed, it seems the less attention we
pay to them.
While I understand why liability laws require
manufacturers to warn their customers of every
conceivable and inconceivable danger, it's like the
fable of the boy who cried wolf so often that no one
noticed when he became a canine dinner. Racers routinely
sign waivers that warn them of the possible risks of
motorized competition, and even my dentist required me
to sign a release acknowledging that I could die if my
tooth extraction went terribly wrong.
At the risk of adding to the deafening din of
warnings, I would like to point out that racing engines
are subject to mechanical problems. People who build
their own engines are generally aware of the intricacies
of competition motors, but some newcomers to our sport
regard the engine as an appliance. If a refrigerator can
last for a decade and a washing machine is good for 15
years, why is it so tough to build a trouble-free racing
engine?
The answer is obvious: If I built a racing engine
that would last 100,000 miles, it wouldn't be
competitive. It would be as heavy as a diesel and as
powerful as a lawn mower.
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Sure,
I could warranty that the purchaser would never have any
mechanical problems, but I'd also guarantee that he'd
never win a race.
I've written before that this is a great time to
be a drag racer. The parts that are available now are
simply light-years ahead of what we had just a few
seasons ago. Advances in design, materials, metallurgy,
heat-treating and machining have resulted in exceptional
products at very affordable prices. Today a sportsman
racer can get big power for relatively few dollars. But
because the engines that are now used in the fast
brackets and heads-up eliminators are just a few steps
removed from a Pro Stock engine, the potential for
problems is much higher.
Performance always comes with a price: the
increased risk of mechanical problems. As parts become
lighter and engine speeds faster, the stress on
components becomes greater. Everyone wants lighter parts
to reduce parasitic losses and to improve acceleration,
but it is simply unrealistic to expect unlimited life
from flyweight parts.
One of our typical Super Series big-blocks
includes hundreds of components from 50 different
suppliers - and that's not even counting the thousands
of individual items in a set of roller rocker arms or
roller lifters. If even one of these parts fails
prematurely, the entire engine is at risk. Fortunately,
most failures can be detected before a disaster if you
pay attention to the engine. But there are also
catastrophic failures that happen without warning.
There's no worse feeling for an engine builder than when
you're dyno testing a promising new Pro Stock motor and
it goes "bang!" at 9,200 rpm. About all you
can do is examine the remains and get back to work.
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