There are also six piston squirters to clean out, little nozzles inside the cylinder spigots in each crankcase half that pump coolant oil onto the underside of the piston each time it happens by. The intuitive thing to do is to spray into the nozzles where they protrude from the block, but that's a fool's errand: There's a check valve inside each nozzle that allows oil (or, in this case, carb cleaner) to flow out but not back in. You need to stick the long plastic extension spout of the spray can as far as possible down into the gallery feeding the nozzle.
All this lube-system cleaning is especially and enormously important if you are rebuilding an engine that has suffered a mechanical failure, or if the crankshaft was reground. Debris from the failure, or the grinding, can be lurking anywhere in the system. If you don't get rid of it, there's an excellent possibility of a catastrophic bearing failure within minutes of first start-up. Instant doorstop.
On the first warm, sunny April day, after a miserable winter, literally the first time our woodland plot was free of the lingering, filthy remnants of the deepest snowdrifts, I backed the Porsche out of the barn as it fitfully brapped and snorted through its yet-to-be-tuned carburetors. Its tail was aimed downhill straight at a small outcropping of sump-eating rocks. I hoped the brand-new brakes would work as the fat rear tires plopped out past the big sliding doors, off the raised barn floor and onto the ground.
They did, and I cautiously backed and filled till the car was headed toward freedom, away from two years of mechanical surgery and intensive care. I needed to take it out on the road, even if just for a few minutes. I had no license plates, no insurance, no registration, no inspection sticker, no nada. I didn't even have my driver's license. But one of the advantages of living out in the country is a spiderweb of untrafficked, barely paved back roads where the odds of running into a local cop are infinitesimal. And if I did, I figured I'd just wave and floor it.
A week later, after several increasingly casual forays onto my illegal loop of back roads, I almost ran into the porky town-police Caprice cruising past our driveway, probably for the first time in a decade. Fortunately, I was on my way to the post office in a legal car. Had the cop heard that some night rider in a fly yellow Porsche had been rattling windows? I'll never know. I thought of pulling up and asking him but decided that was seriously pushing it.
When I bought the original oily red SC, the dealer in the depths of Queens had said, "It's required that you register the car through me. I must send someone to the motor vehicle bureau and they will pick up your license plates." No, I said, that wouldn't be necessary. I wouldn't be putting the car on the road for a couple of years anyway, so there was no need for license plates. He shrugged, glad to be done with it.
I popped the car's title into our safe-deposit box and filed the bill of sale among my rapidly growing sheaf of restoration receipts, but a thought continued to nag at me: When I try to register this damn car, something is going to go wrong.