Like a lot of guys who love cars, I'm fascinated by mechanical devices. The weirder and the bigger, the more I'm intrigued. And then there's the pull of history that attracts me to machinery; I like to trace its development back to its roots. I am not alone in this, either. Guys who like muscle cars wonder, "What came before?" So they go back to the Chrysler Hemis of the mid-1950s. Then there's the question, "What came before the Hemi?" So they go back to the Duesenberg. And before that, there was the Mercer Raceabout. Go back far enough and you're at the very beginnings of machinery itself.

My own curiosity about early power-making devices is far from secret -- I have been known to drive to work in a steam car. So when I heard that a couple of 19th century stationary engines were available, I bought them. You see, I've been thinking of ways to get my garage off the California power grid. What better way than going back more than 100 years and applying some old but proven technology? A couple of clean-burning, monster-size engines seemed like a good way to start. One is a Wright stationary steam engine; the other, a Crossley natural gas engine. My Wright was built in 1870 in Newburgh, N.Y. Interestingly, William Wright invented the Corliss valve, which really improved the steam engine. Henry Ford bought the engine in 1932 for display in his museum in Dearborn, Mich. In the 1990s, the museum sold it to a fellow in Pennsylvania. I bought it from him.

A buddy of mine with a tractor-trailer hauled it from Pennsylvania to our shop, dodging scales all the way -- the thing weighs 7 tons. We were barely able to move it around the shop with a half-dozen forklifts. Back when it was new, they'd have used a block and tackle to transfer it from a wagon to the place where it was to be used. Pity the horses that pulled that wagon!

Also, consider that petroleum had first been successfully drilled only around 1850. So to lubricate machines in the pre-oil days, they would slaughter a couple of pigs, rub pig grease on the moving parts and then enjoy pork chops for lunch. When the machine would start to tighten up, some guy would holler, "Hey! Get me another pig!" Fortunately, by the time my engine was built, oil was the lubricant of choice, so we don't have to worry about trichinosis.

The engine's speed is governed by ball-shaped spinning weights. The faster the engine goes, the farther the two balls extend away from each other, due to centrifugal force. When the balls are fully extended, the engine is at top speed. So when people say that they're "running balls out," there's no sexual -- or even masculine -- connotation. It's just a reference to the governor. And a really neat thing about really big engines, like some Wrights, is that for a good 15 minutes after the steam stops, the engine keeps running -- thanks to its immense flywheel.

Of course, a machine like this presents challenges, given its sheer size and mass. It has to be perfectly level. If the engine is even a little bit off, it'll eat into its own bore. We had to put down 7 tons of exactly level concrete when we installed the Wright in the shop.

This steam engine was built before mass production. Everything was handmade by true artisans. We can't even find bolts that have this pitch or this thread anymore. They don't exist. The main casting is all one piece. Even that single component is very heavy.

This flywheel atop a mass of cast iron eventually will become part of a clean-burning, contemporary power supply. It just needs a little work.

I have some Stanley and Locomobile steamers, but big babies like this Wright engine are fascinating. It's a bit like riding an elephant; there's so much power. You really can't do anything to break them. My other vintage machine is a natural gas engine. It was built by Crossley Bros. in Manchester, England, and originally ran on coal gas. Crossley began building these giants in 1879. Mine's a few years newer and came from the Mediterranean island of Majorca, where it was used to power a large electrical generator. Once you start it, the cam connects to a magneto that winds up a spring. When the spring unwinds with a zzzttthhh, two pieces of metal hit each other, making a huge spark. (Don't worry; it's a low-tension ignitor -- only 30 to 40 volts.) That spark ignites the coal gas. The engine's mechanical simplicity is matched only by its primitive construction: Basically, it was made the same way as cannons of the day. Pour molten iron -- lots of it -- into a mold. When in doubt, add more metal. In 1000 years, this thing will be in pretty much the same shape as it is now.

Since neither of my engines came with its original operator's manual, I tracked down some old books about them. I started reading a manual from the 1860s. I figured, "Well, we're smarter than people were then." But it was just sooo complicated that I gave up after two pages. There's so much math and science involved. Engineers are engineers -- no matter what the era. I'll bet that a good engineer from 200 years ago would blow the doors off your average guy from today. Back then, they had no computers or calculators to help them.

The most complicated of these huge old engines are the best fun because they've got the most going on: valves sliding up and down, exposed cams clicking and moving. There's no electricity involved in running these motors. In many cases, the engines made the electricity -- they ran the dynamos that produced it. So when we get these two engines running electric generators and maybe put some solar panels on the garage roof, we can be electrically self-sufficient.

There's no reason why a garage full of old cars can't be environmentally responsible, even if it means having to go back more than a century for the technology.

This 1870 stationary steam engine has a new job -- helping free Jay from the power grid.

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