See that hole? Those hoses are as thick as my thumb – and that deep cavern goes down beside the transmission to the left hand drive shaft. And in front of that is a plate. A plate on the back of the flywheel housing at the front of the transmission casing. This being a Subaru there are seven fixtures; two threaded studs from the engine side and five bolts from the transmission side that keep the engine and transmission wedded together. Until death did they want to part.

And they needed to come apart.

The engine in question is sick. This being a Subaru, the illness is a failed head gasket, meaning oil in the water, water in the oil and exhaust gasses in both. To fix it, the engine needs to come out and get some serious TLC. Six out of seven bolts holding the engine to the transmission came out with work, however for time spent on engines – which is never straightforward – without too much of a struggle.

Then, there was the last bolt. Attached to the end of the stud on the driver’s side of the car. Deep down behind the transmission casing with about 3″ from the casing to the drive shaft, and barely any space to the steering linkage.

Following me? Just describing the landscape. If none of this makes sense let me translate. Small space. Thing that needs undoing. Critical thing. THE thing without which this job stops here. Without this – we are done, and stopped. And up shit creek. And there is nothing quite as frustrating as a space where a hand can barely fit and then do nothing else.

“Dad, it won’t work”. My youngest who has been working with me on this project looked at it, counted my swear words as I worked past my anger and decided it was probably futile. He watched.

I was not done yet.

But it was time for dinner. Fortunately; being the sometimes-organized-so-amazingly-well-it-makes-your-head-spin Dad, I had started the curry two hours before and it was approaching perfection. I went upstairs, cleaned my hands and put the rice on. It came to the boil and pressure in the pressure cooker (same one you gifted me all those years ago Simon – still works like a charm!) and I set a timer for 15 minutes.

The engine hoist I had rented was due back in the morning. I had determined myself that today I was going to get the engine out. No shit. No kidding.

And I was stuck.

There had to be a way.

I tried to get a socket wrench in every which way. If I got it on, there was no way I could get my hand into that space to exert enough force. I tried from the top, from the bottom, from the side. Removed the wheel to give me more space. Swore some more.

Fifteen minutes were up. Dinner time.

Talking it through over dinner. Perhaps If I detach the top transmission mounting and lift the engine AND transmission on the hoist – I would not change the gap to the drive shaft, but maybe two inches more from the steering linkage would be enough?

With dinner inside me I returned to the basement, un-bolted the dog-bone upper transmission mounting and took the weight of engine and transmission on the hoist. I put a jack in under the transmission to hold it in place. I gave myself those precious two inches.

I got a wrench in. Still not enough space to lever it. Damn it.

Disconnected the transmission cooler hoses. A bit more space. Still, not enough.

I removed another part of the engine cooling system to give me a tiny bit more space to work with.

I got a ring spanner onto the nut. I could not push hard enough on it. All my forearm strength and weight had no impact. This one nut was holding the whole thing together and there was no room to move.

My Son elected to head for bed. It was late. I told him I would be up in 15 minutes.

There are times when the correct approach is, to quote the timeless British Comedy ‘The Young Ones’, where the solution is ‘An extra special blend of Psychology, and extreme violence.’ I found a piece of wood and a rubber mallet. It was time. The spirit of someone special was with me.

In the summer of 1987 I was living over the summer at Saltley College in Birmingham, UK. I was there over the summer as part of a training course with British Telecom who sponsored my Engineering degree. Just before the summer, realizing I would be ‘stuck’ in that area I bought an old VW Beetle with which to craft my occasional escapes. It was a robust car, and did wonders for my upper-body and core strength with absolutely no hydraulic assistance on anything. One evening, driving back from the supermarket, the clutch failed. I pushed my left foot down and could not disengage the gear. I realized the predicament and managed, somehow to limp the car back to the car park at the College.

I needed help. I was 19 and skint. It was friday. All of my cohort had headed home for the weekend leaving me and a disabled car in the middle of Birmingham. My parents had just moved to South Wales. However; family was still close by. My uncle George, my father’s brother, lived just the other side of Birmingham. And he knew cars. I was about to witness genius.

I called him. The immediate answer was – ‘don’t worry. We will get you sorted out.’ Two hours later George turned up in his Rover and we arranged the tow. We fought the Beetle into Neutral and started the careful 20 mile trek to his place of magic.

The next day we removed the engine from the car. Without an engine hoist, substituting with metal boxes, long planks and judicious foot positioning I followed his leadership as we dropped the engine out of the car and lifted the car over it to inspect the clutch. We found the broken actuator arm. We found a replacement at a parts store and drove to pick it up. We saw it did not fit. We machined it down to size so it would. We fitted it. With the most bizarre and wonderful application of leverage and correctly placed human counterweight we got the engine back under the car and lifted it into place and re-assembled it all. Saturday and Sunday passed in a blur.

And Sunday afternoon – I drove away. In a fully functional VW Beetle with a fixed clutch actuator.

And I learned that nothing was impossible. Especially in the face of the Love that pushes a weekend out of the way to help your Nephew when he calls. I miss you George.

The psychology bit was simple. Impossible is a shit story that comes when you run out of your old version of ‘how’. It is where creativity and possibility enter the world. And – extreme violence is sometimes the best way to persuade a piece of metal that you are, in fact, the boss.

Ring spanner in place with room for about 2″ of travel. A piece of wood that would sacrifice itself to a higher purpose. A rubber mallet. Place wood against the head of the spanner wedged onto the nut. Apply mallet.

Once. Nothing.

Twice. I heard a crack. Either something is going badly wrong or…

Third time. Yes – it definitely shifted that time.

The next 15 minutes were painfully slow as the hard tension was taken off the nut a 16th turn at-a-time. And then it started to move. I finally got my hand in there and could turn the nut with my fingers; slowly at first and then, triumphant they emerged with the nut and washer in my grease-stained hand.

The moment of truth.

The engine and transmission had been held tightly together for years. They were not going to give up without a fight. This time a real hammer and a screwdriver and determination drove into the hairline crack between the engine and transmission casings. Five minutes of further precision judicious violence and the crack started to open. I got the head of the screwdriver in. A few more blows and the crack spread. And then. It happened. They let go. I pulled the engine forward on the hoist and away from the transmission, sliding the studs out. It was done.

It was late, but what the hell. I called my Sons down to witness the moment when the engine came out of the car.

Because there is no such thing as an impossible nut.

If it is in the way. It will move.

Period.