Sleuthing Fuel and Spark

Last summer, I bought a 1930 Pontiac Six. Something about the car spoke to me—its upright stance, its dignified chrome, and most of all, its raw mechanical simplicity. In a world dominated by electronics, software updates, and diagnostic computers, this was something else entirely: a machine that ran without a single chip.

I’ve always been handy with modern cars—brakes, alternators, the occasional starter—but nothing that required cracking open components or truly understanding how systems interconnect. That was about to change.

A couple weeks ago, I went out to start the Pontiac, and… nothing. The engine cranked, but it wouldn’t fire. As an engineer, I knew immediately this was no dead battery issue—it was something deeper. At that point I faced a choice: tow it to a mechanic, or roll up my sleeves and investigate. I chose the latter, and that choice is what led me down one of the most satisfying rabbit holes of mechanical learning I’ve ever experienced.

My first move was to lean on my community. I called my cousin Kent, who owns our grandfather’s 1927 Pontiac. I posted to members of the Pontiac Oakland Club International, and tapped into the Vintage Car Club of Holland, where the collective knowledge feels like it could rebuild a Model T blindfolded. Everyone was willing to help. More than a few offered to stop by the garage and turn wrenches with me.

The first test: spark. Check.
Next: is fuel flowing freely from the gas tank? Check—confirmed, with a mouthful of proof!
Then, disconnecting the line from the fuel pump to the carburetor revealed the real issue: no fuel was being delivered.

I opened up the fuel pump and immediately saw the problem—a decades-old diaphragm had deteriorated, likely due to the ethanol in modern fuel. Fortunately, I found a rebuild kit on eBay. I replaced the diaphragm, springs, check valve discs, and gaskets. It was a satisfying process—each piece I replaced brought me closer to understanding this car on its own terms.

But when I hooked everything up and cranked the engine: still nothing.

Frustrated but not ready to give up, I turned to the internet. A video by Jay Leno and Skinned Knuckles discussed mechanical fuel pumps just like mine. They mentioned that some styles won’t self-prime—they need fuel to be manually introduced to displace air. I lay in bed that night thinking, What if I filled it manually?

The next morning, turkey baster in hand, I carefully filled the fuel pump through the check valves until fuel dribbled out—no air left to fight against. I re-tightened the fittings and crossed my fingers.

I climbed into the Pontiac. Key on. Choke knob pulled. Foot to the floor button.

Ignition.

The straight-six rumbled to life like nothing had ever been wrong.

I sat there in the driver’s seat, smiling like a kid. This wasn’t just a fix—it was a victory. A victory for hands-on problem solving, for mentorship, for curiosity. For community.

Owning a car like this is not just about aesthetics or nostalgia. It’s about becoming part of a network—a living, breathing chain of knowledge passed down through generations, over phone calls, YouTube videos, club members, and greasy garage floors.

I know I’ll face other mechanical hiccups. But now I have the confidence that, with a little patience and a few phone calls, I can figure it out. More importantly, I want to. Because working on this 1930 Pontiac isn’t just maintenance—it’s a conversation with the past, and a journey I’m proud to be on.