I bought a V8 from a 1993 Ford Thunderbird. It sat on the floor of a box-trailer.I had a pickup truck. It was lifted out of the car with a hoist. But there was no hoist to move it into the truck. Time to be a man.

Troy (seller): "There she is." Me: "Very nice. Do you have a cherry picker (engine hoist)." Troy: "No." Me: "Oh, man..."

I bought a spare 302 V8 for my 1960 Ford Falcon project. I never moved a V8 before, but I had to. The engine needed to get into the rear of a 2003 Toyota Tacoma pickup. The tailgate of a base model Tacoma is about three feet from the ground. The box trailer rode about four inches from the road. That left more than two and a half feet to cover.

Mr. Regular

The 1993 Thunderbird was the last to receive the Ford H.O. V8 with EFI. It made a frustratingly adequate 200 hp and 275 lb-ft of torque, and we were about to lift it by hand. A Ford 302 (5.0L) V8 weighs around 450 pounds depending on outfit. There were four of us, but none of us were Brawny Paper Towel men, or even Mr. Clean.

Mr. Regular

"Be a man" is a positions phrase. Manliness is a myth but we still present it offerings, for victory or ruin. Mustangs hit jersey barriers while trying to "be a man." At the bewitching hour, EVOs and WRX's pull on one another from 40-100mph on Pennsylvania route 309 over manliness.

Redlight tests of manliness happen all the time. When I rode a Suzuki GS500 (a slow bike by motorcycle standards), youths, dressed in the height of fashion, would rev at me at stoplights during late summer. They were angry that school was around the corner. They wore clean baseballs caps at jaunty angles, upsetting the establishment.

I hid my face behind a smoked visor. My armored jacket made my muscles look big. The youths scrunched their faces, trying to contort their baby-face-fat into a facsimile of grizzled old age. Osiris shoes jabbed at Chevy Cavalier Z24 accelerator pedals.

I projected indifference though my visor, enraging the youths. Without revving my twin-carbed DOHC air-cooled parallel twin, I lowered my body into a waiting racing-tuck as the light changed.

Red Light

Red Light

Red Light

GREEN LIGHT

The Chevy Cavalier Z24 shot off with one wheel skipping against the PENN DOT pavement. At the same time, I popped out of my racing tuck and sat upright like a good boy, calmly pulling away from the traffic light, slow and easy.

Flummoxed, and denied of satisfaction, the youth flipped me off. By not racing him, I called him out on his display of "Be a man," and he was having none of it.

Anyway...

There I was (there we were), in a rainy parking lot, about to challenge a back injury, humiliation, jammed thumbs, smashed toes, and lacerations by lifting a mass of metal into the back of a truck. V8's have massive toothed flywheels, ready to chew up your hands and draw blood. It looked like the Metal Man weapon from Mega Man 2. It's a freaking buzzsaw that broke the game.

Each of us was responsible for 112.5 pounds. These were dense engine pounds, not excited nephew pounds that you throw into a pool. They were greasy, hard, and rusty pounds.

Call me the Hyperloop because you're about to smell my Elon Musk.

When you and three other people lift a V8 by hand, the best place to grab is the exhaust manifold (if attached) and the big aluminum brackets that hold the accessories. Don't try grabbing the edges of the oil pan. I know it looks like you can hook your fingers in the lip or rim. Trust me, you can't. You'll slip.

Mr. Regular

I want to be the type of man who can be enjoyed like a sunset.

As we began grunting and lifting with our legs as best as we could, I felt a prehistoric connection to something divine. The V8 was rising! My muscles can work! We were lifting a V8 engine off the ground! We were mythic men! The kind of men that matter! The kind that reproduce! We were lifting an engine! The Veep-Symbol of American Exceptionalism was almost level with the truck's tailgate.

A V8 wins your fathers' approval.

Whack! The flywheel hit the edge of the tailgate. We weren't there yet. There was one inch to go but all of our arms where shaking. Worse, I was near the front and my legs were in-between the back right-bank valve cover and the tailgate. I begged for forgiveness from my lifting-brothers, let go of the engine with one hand and scooted back a foot so we could tilt the engine up on it's flywheel, spin it around, and rest the 302 on a junk tire which would serve as a cushion for the ride home.

We did it! No hoist. No cheating. Just muscle and gravel voices. We were males. We lifted something heavy. Bears will nod at us. Copenhagen will ask to sponsor my show. We lifted a V8! Time will reverse and Chet Echeart won't throw basketballs at my head in gym class when Mr. Formen is looking the other way. Ed Benson won't steal my Social Studies notebook and write epithets on every page. I'm an acceptable male now! I helped lift a V8!

The V8 was down there. Now, it's up here.

I am adequate.

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