Out of my stupidity came the kindness of a stranger.
We had taken the bus up north last last weekend to enjoy some sunny-weather paddling. We usually stop and fuel up on the way home but we didn’t.
You can see where this is going.
Heading to the Forks is shorter than our journeys to the Penobscot so I thought we had plenty of fuel.
But I forgot that we drove up to the dam. And to the store. And up the hill to the garage.
So when my daughter had a carwash fundraiser for her dance studio, I didn’t think about fueling up the bus.
Instead, I thought “It would be cool to bring a bus to the carwash!”
Because, I thought it would be hilarious to show up with a bus!
It would warrant a larger donation!
And really needed to be washed anyway after driving down many dirt roads and sanding it.
I had hoped to paint it next weekend and I need to get all that crap off it so I can see what sanding parts I missed.
And, as expected, the bus was a great hit.
The kids were super excited to hose down and suds up the skoolie. Dads wanted to know what I had installed inside. Mom’s wanted to know where we went with it. Kids wanted to know if the wipers still went swish swish swish.
It was a carnival in bus car wash land.
Then we headed home.
I was accelerating up this hill. For a moment.
Then acceleration decreased. Then we were kind of coasting.
Busses are notoriously bad hill climbers but the ol’ DT466 in our bus usually down shifts, bears down, and grits its way up hills.
This time, however, the throttle was non-responsive.
It was at this moment that I remembered the fuel situation.
I should also note at this point that the fuel gauge isn’t accurate.
It didn’t work at all when we bought the bus.
I removed the access panel on the floor and cleaned the wires attached to the sending unit and that fixed it for a while. But then I put in a floor and a couch over that spot. Gradually the gauge started acting up again and, although I had marked the spot where the sending unit is, I haven’t felt like making the cut in the subfloor to access it again.
So I found myself now thinking…Yup…I’m out of fuel in a diesel which you’re not supposed to do.”
And I found myself remembering a story from my college roommate who, after arriving home after curfew tried to make the excuse to his dad that he had run out of fuel and had to walk to get more.
At that point he was busted.
Dad informed him that you don’t just dump more fuel into a diesel, it needs to be primed and bled.
Rats.
So I coasted to a stop next to a rural Maine house.
I’m sure that rural Mainers don’t hold monopolies on thriftiness but we’re working on it. The people in this house were wringing the functionality out of everything in the yard. To the side of the house reclined what used to be a 35 foot camper. The only thing left was the frame and a small section of roof over the refrigerator. Having demolished and repurposed a camper for the bus I could identify with that.
Next to the road stood a small homemade kiosk with some blinds, cushions and a small pot with a “free” sign.
Scattered in between lie several rusty axles bearing “for sale” signs.
I felt a bit apprehensive parking this gigantic bus on the side of the road right next to somebody’s house, but I didn’t have much choice at the time.
Of course there was no cell coverage right there, so I got off and walked 100 yards down the road where the signal was strong enough to call Julie.
She didn’t call me an idiot for running out of fuel like I deserved, but instead said that she would grab a funnel and a 5 gallon fuel can, run to the gas station and rescue me.
My heroine. (Not for rescuing me but for not calling me an idiot).
At this point I see the homeowner emerge from his doorway and take a look at the bus.
Now, friends, there are only one or two things that he could have done and the first was to give me a medal for being so brave and honest with Julie on the telephone but that wasn’t very likely and I didn’t expect it.
The second was he could have chewed me out for parking a 14,000 pound chunk of steel just outside his dooryard and told me to never be seen running out of fuel in his yard again, which was what I expected.
But there was a third possibility I had never counted on and he asked:
“Do you need some fuel? This friend of mine and I put a big tank on a trailer….”
He was older than me and younger than 157. He wore blue-jeans, a used-to-be-white t-shirt, had textured dental features and kind eyes. When I introduced myself he said his name was John.
I told him that my lovely bride was on the way bearing gifts of diesel.
“Ayuh,” he nodded.
He showed me his camper savaging project and we talked about repurposing parts and rendering rodents homeless.
Then Julie arrived and we began the process of transferring diesel fuel into the bus tank.
Now whoever designed the bus didn’t consider the ineptness of my fuel management. The tank’s fill opening sits 8 inches inside the exterior wall and just beneath the floor. This snug arrangement makes it difficult to get a funnel in there at an angle; thus, fuel just spills out on the ground.
It took the three of us to hold two separate funnels and coerce fuel into the tank. I found the “environmentally-friendly” thing-a-ma-bob at the end of the plastic fuel tank’s spout especially demonic as I had to hold it back with my finger since there wasn’t anything solid to press against it.
Whoever mandated such a contraption should have to listen to Miley Cirus for 30 consecutive seconds.
We finally finished fueling so I began the process of pretending to know what I was doing.
I didn’t actually pretend. I think I said something to John like, “I’m supposed to pump this primer here, but I’m not really sure how it’s going to work.”
I did know that the primer existed. In fact, I had bought a new fuel filter and was waiting for the right psychological moment to change it. This would have been the perfect moment, but I didn’t have it with me. Story of my life.
Anyway, I pumped it about 50 times or so, said a quick prayer to the gods of skoolies, hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.
Sputter, sputter”¦then nothing.
Oh, boy.
“You think you need more fuel?” suggested John.
I couldn’t think of anything more hopeful so we decided to take our daughter home, grab more fuel and return.
“Do you need any extra tanks,” John asked. “I’ve got a couple you can borrow.”
So we loaded up the back of Julie’s Honda Element with tanks and began Plan B.
We returned in 45 minutes and unloaded fuel. John in the meantime had tracked down some rubber tubing from the compound.
“I think this will work better.”
And indeed it did. It squeezed onto the bottom of the funnel like it fit there (he gave it to us afterwards saying, “I think you should keep this.”)
We poured 20 gallons into the bus.
Feeling slightly more optimistic we primed and cranked the engine.
Nothing.
So I started looking for ways to bleed air out of the system. I found a Schrader valve and some other valve covered with a rubber cap on the fuel filter housing but I didn’t know how to use them. I’m a carpenter not a mechanic.
I tried loosening several of the fuel fittings around the area to bleed air out. Some air came out, but not a lot of fuel.
I took the fuel filter off, (it was only half-full, says the optimist) filled it, and reinstalled it.
More priming more attempts at bleeding (the fuel system, not me) and still nothing.
“With my Kubota I have to bleed the injectors,” John noted.
But we couldn’t figure out where the injectors were on this engine. I only saw one tucked up out of reach like a Klingon vital organ.
I felt rather disheartened by then.
“I guess we better call Jason (our mechanic) and Triple A,” I said to Julie dejectedly.
She couldn’t get coverage either, so drove down the road apiece. Which in Maine can be anywhere from 100 yards to 50 miles.
I’m not great at sitting still so I went back to the engine and looked for more places where I could bleed air from the system. I loosened another fitting a bit further from the fuel filter and saw a bubble of air escape, then nothing. I pumped the priming knob for what seemed like the 3,000th time, and turned the key over.
Again nothing.
“Sometimes with the Kubota I have to just keep cranking,” John mused.
So I cranked the engine continuously for 30 seconds.
The cranking started to sound different. I released the key and the engine still turned over. It didn’t sound right…but at least it sounded!
The engine wouldn’t rev up at first, but gradually it sounded more normal.
Victory!
Julie pulled back up and I told her to roll down the window.
“Listen!”
“You got it going?”
“Yup…cancel Triple A!”
We said our thanks and goodbyes to John…asked him what kind of pie he likes, then saddled up to caravan back home.
Except the bus wouldn’t go when I put it in gear.
Then, after multiple attempts to rev the engine, it died again.
So…back out of the bus. Julie started texting our mechanic again.
I started the bus again. It started but wouldn’t rev and just all and all sounded rough…kind of like running on only a couple of cylinders.
I kept trying to rev the engine gently hoping that I could drive air from the system. Bit by bit the rpm’s increased. Then clouds of white smoke engulfed the bus. I started to get a bit concerned but the engine SOUNDED better.
Then, suddenly, the engine sounded normal. It responded to revving the rpm’s.
I got back out of the bus and walked over to Julie texting our mechanic like a teenage girl flinging alphabetical characters across the ether.
“I think it’s going again.”
“Will it move when you put it in gear?”
“Don’t know. We’ll find out I guess.”
John moved back the orange traffic cones again that he had put out for safety.
I felt more confident now. Almost elated. Rather than dealing with an RV sized tow truck, a repair bill, and even worse, several days without access to working on the bus, it looked like I could drive home.
I checked my mirrors.
Released the air brakes.
Put the bus into gear.
And smoothly pulled out onto the road.
Julie followed for about a mile, then pulled off to cancel Triple A.
For the second time.
In the comforts of home, or at least where I could get wifi, I did some research on bleeding injectors on a DT466.
I couldn’t find a video that matched my year of that engine…each one looked different. I found a few interesting forum posts, however.
Turns out, you use the Schrader valve to test for fuel pressure. Other people posted contradictory thoughts, however. Some thought that you could bleed air from it, others thought that you could hook a compressor to it and with low pressure force fuel through the system. (Others thought introducing more air into the system was a dumb idea).
I also found that a valve with a rubber cap on it that you press to bleed air. While stuck on the side of the road I couldn’t figure out how it work because I couldn’t seem to push or twist it in any way that released air. I found through the magic of google, however, that you can press the very center of the valve with a screwdriver or some sort of small tool and it opens. That would have been nice to know!
The scariest debate revolved around the issue of pre-filling the fuel filter.
In many posts and videos I’ve seen about changing the fuel filter, people recommend pouring fuel into the new filter before installing it. That way you purge most of the air and don’t have to spend as much time bleeding it.
However, a few mechanics (one claiming to a trained on International engines) warned against it. They said that this procedure risks getting unfiltered fuel into the injectors. Because of their tight tolerances, any dirt particles could seriously damage them. Since they run $200 apiece I found this terrifying.
Guess I’d better rethink my fuel filter change strategy and dial in this fuel bleeding procedure.