Reminds of how I came to change the original starter in my '67 after it gave its last crank... at 124,000 miles. The car had exhibited a hot starting problem for years. It just cranked more slowly when it was hot. I tried carb adjustments, considered a thermal gasket underneath the carb, and finally decided to do a draw test on the starter, thereby finding the culprit. My mechanic, a wonderful man in his 80s (much to my surprise) who was not prone to replacing things before their time, told me I'll need to address that sometime. When, I wondered? So I went out and bought a rebuilt starter and tossed it (OK, gently placed it) in the trunk and promised myself I'd put it in next chance I got. About six months later, I gave the car a weekend exercise run... to my office. Upon my arrival, I stopped the car, and just to be sure it would start later that afternoon, I started it again... no problem. And so I figured after a few hours to cool down, it would be happy to bring me home that evening. At 6 pm (it's a Sunday), I finish my work and go to the lower deck of my subterranean office garage to drive home (some 30 miles). Crank, crank, crrrrannnnkkk... no start. The cranking sounds more like grinding metal at this point, and I realize what I have to do. In my parking garage, with whatever tools are in the trunk. And without anything to raise the car safely. One other point: the garage ceiling is too low to get a tow truck in to pull the car out so I can just pay someone else to fix it tomorrow... and that'd be assuming someone would be around to shlep 30 miles down to my office to come get me. After waiting a good hour so the now very warm starter could cool off just enough to touch (yes, it got that warm in the fifteen minutes of repeated attempts at "just one more time, baby!"), I managed to gather enough tools to remove the starter. Once it was no longer attached to the car, under which I could just about slide, much less move my arms and shoulders, I realize that this 50-lb monster does not just drop down and let me slide out. In fact, I cannot find an opening (dimly lit by the fluorescent lights of the garage and little else) through which the starter, which I am now holding upside down over my head, can fit. So I begin to rotate it every which way and guide it all around the left side of the engine hoping I'll find the way out of the labyrinth. After about ten very long minutes, with my last ounce of feeling in my arms, I realize that if I spread the transmission oil lines (the ones that go to the bottom of the radiator) very gingerly, I can wedge the starter through. At last, freedom. Now the big challenge: getting the new starter in. Using the same path, I am able to work the starter into position, but there seems to be nothing to hang it on. Turns out the upper bolt is really a stud, threaded on both ends. And, of course, it was still firmly attached to the old starter that was installed 32 years prior at Jefferson Ave! Not willing to let the starter rest on the little tranny lines, I work it back out, set it down, and work the stud from the old unit. Then, I crawl back under the car and install the stud back into the bell housing of the car. Another run at routing the starter into position (my arms are very tired at this point), and finally, it sets into position. With my third arm, I reach for the other hardware and snug everything up. Reconnecting the wires, I finally consider that (1.) I've been alone working under a car in a locked office parking garage for two hours, and (2.) was there any juice left in the battery to crank the new starter? At just that moment, a friend and coworker pulls up alongside me, purely by chance. Jumper cables in hand, I ask him to leave me his keys while he goes into the office. Clip, clip, clip, clip, and I let his Mercedes charge my battery for a moment. And then, magic! It had been literally years since this starter had begun its slow exit from this mortal plane. In fact, the starter was probably due for replacement when I bought the car in 1989. The new unit cranked so freely, so quickly, that it sounded like I was starting a tiny Japanese 4-banger. The "Highland Park Hummingbird" sound was music... it took me back to my childhood! In seconds, the car fired up with a giant "thank you" for making the task so easy once again. I packed up, cleaned up, and drove home. And only then did I realize that, had it given me one more start at the office, it would have then stranded me 20 minutes later in a rotten part of LA where I had planned to stop and fill the gas tank. Suddenly the safety of my office, and the convenience of having a clean floor and a place to wash up afterwards, all became apparent, and I realized what a great place this was to have to perform this unexpected surgery. Moral of the story: Replace the starter sometime before you have to. Carry a toolbox in the car. Maintain your upper arms and shoulders. Grow an extra elbow in each arm. And get a job where there's secure indoor parking... Good luck with the replacement! It's easier than it sounds... in retrospect, of course. Chris in LA 67 Crown 78 NYB Salon