What wiil happen if I put TJ's springs in my Disco1? [Archive]

DieLucas!

07-04-2004, 12:47 PM

Your question reminds of an incident a few years back...many of us can remember the outcome, but few remember the details. It was a warm and sun-filled weekend, much like the one we are enjoying today. There was a hint of frugality in the air; the scent of the heavily-applied Speed-Stick on the underarms of a veteran yard-sale shopper. In the driveway of an enthusiast of fine British automobiles and rust-mongers was a pioneer willing to venture into the uncharted waters of suspension modification.

Today was not the day of attempting tried and trued modifications. Today was not the day to follow the numerous, mindless sheep who have repeated similar modifications many times over. Today was not the day of common sense. Today was a day of celebration, as a new idea was born. A new idea was born from a man where no idea had been born before.

Instead of taking the well-traveled low-road, this pioneer would take the high-road. A road thick with vegetation, ruts, and seemingly impassable obstacles. A road that common sense had regularly persuaded to avoid. But today was not that day. And common sense had been brutaly murdered in the back yard a day earlier, underneath a 2 inch glob of JB Weld.

The plan that lay forth was utilizing the vast hoardes of readily available suspension parts available for the vast hoardes of readily available Jeeps. Nobody had thought of this before. Not because of lack on inginuity, but the mere suggesting of mounting such bastardized parts to the stoic and regal British vehicle was reprehensible. Reprehensible to the British elites who once thumbed their noses at the intermarrying of different cultures, and the intermarriage of parts from two different continents.

But inginuity was in fashion like pastel capris and matching flip-flops. The warm summer air beaconed a change in ideology, now making the once automotive faux pas a retrospective look into gleeful ignorance. Why had these British autophiles for so long ignored the abundant parts that were available for more common vehicles, though lesser in stature and class, but nonetheless available. "A spring is a spring," he asked himself, nodding "yes" in an act of reassurance.

The plan unfolded over a copy of Four-Wheel Parts Warehouse's monthly advirtisement. The semi-technical articles confused the would-be modifier to believe the publication to be an unbiased technical resource, unaware that the remaining 75% of the printed matter was in fact advirtisement. He eyeballed the latest Jeep lift kit and the ideas swirlled into a cognitive eddy of heralded glory. He could apply this equipment to his valiant Rover; he could get this British steed featured into a magazine. Common sense, as so many times before, was overrided by the hubris of unattainable glory. Reality was not presence in the eddies of his mind.

The dusty brown package arrived from the man attired in dusty brown clothes. He signed for the package then opened it up in his living room. The packaging peanuts shot out of the box and he quickly inhaled one, coughing violently until half split and shot out of his mouth while the other lodged up his nose. This foreboding experience did not serve as a warning of the things that were to come. Inside the box was four glossy, glorious coils; the ones that would hold up this Rover. He fished to the bottom of the package and finally retreived the gold-plated Cracker-Jack prize of his youth: a "Trail-Rated" sticker that would qualify this vehicle for it's proclaimed abilities. A sticker beyond stickers, worth more than horse-power, traction, and driving skills combined. A sticker that would trump any trophy earned through hard work.

The installation was slated to procede smoothly. The parts were layed out, the Haynes manual detailed the labor required, and the tools required were attained, borrowed, or fabricated. He immediately set into the project, jacking the vehicle off the ground and suspending it with cinder-blocks and two-by-fours. Once the vehicle was levitated, the wheels were removed and he set into the suspension. Four hours and seven beers past and the old, antiquated British suspension had been completely removed. As easily as those springs were removed, he began to install the new springs. The shining coils of hope for any unsuspecting Rover-owner who had previously been accosted by the dealership. The shining coils of hope for any so daring as to try to install these to their own non-Jeep vehicle. The application was daring, but the glory immense. Should he succeed with this swap, the praise of thousands would rain down among him as frogs once rained down upon Egypt. Today was the day he would deliver his people from Solihull. Today was the day he would deliver his people to glory.

The springs were set into place, and though ill-fitting, were set for their maiden voyage. The wheels were bolted back upon the axles and the swift swings of a sledge-hammer crumbled the jack-stands and vehicle to the ground. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrow to the Frankenstein-esque creation he was about to unleash on the world. It sat much lower than anticipated, possibly due to the Rover's heavier weight than the Jeep the springs were deigned for. But no matter; as the Jeep was a "Trail-Rated" vehicle, and he finally had the parts which aided that proclamation, the lower ride height was likelt the hallmark of a well-designed off-roader. Why be concerned about clearance when you can simply drive around the speed bump? He jumped into the vehicle and fired it to life. It breathed and snorted as it typically had; the high cost of dealership service had prevented him from ever changing the oil or air filter. He backed out of the driveway, depressed the gas pedal and roared down the road.

The road was not his concern, however. This vehicle was designed for the dirt, and so he sought out a location to provide the litmus test of success...or as he sooned learned, the paired t-test of disaster.
He turned onto the dirt road leading to an abandoned quarry. As his hopes increased, so did his speed, and with alarming acceleration. He sped down the access road descending into the quarry, dodging precarious pot-holes and ruts. Suddenly, he hit an unavoidable bump which sent the Rover airborne. The droop of the axles as the vehicle left the ground extended the suspension past the length of the coils, leaving them freely floating between their respective perches. The phone in his head was ringing. It was Newton who was calling. Gravity returned the vehicle back to the ground and when he landed, one the obliquely-located springs which dislodged in the flight became pinched between the upper and lower perches. The rate of this landed was such that it shot the spring out of the fenderwell which hit and killed a Girl-Scout who was in the quarry with her troop cleaning up the trash which accumulated during the spring. The crippled vehicle burrowed into the loamy sand and veered towards the now scattering girls who sought refuge in the higher elevation of the quarry's walls. All would be saved from this uncontrollable vehicle except for a poor lass who was bound to a wheel-chair. Her wheel-chair became stuck in the soil after breaking the deceiving hard crust of the caliche. As she stared into the empty headlights of the bastard-Rover, her hopes of championship cookie-sales elluded her thoughts, and her sweet, pretty face impacted the cold, heartless bumper of the speeding, out-of-control Rover.

The impact with the girl and wheelchair then sent the Rover into the air once more, landing this time with only three springs, now shooting the second one through the floor-boards and into the driver. The spring ripped through his torso like an obese child rips through a Snicker's bar. The impact and penetration was devastating and shot blood all over the inside of the windshield. The vehicle slid to a stop with the half-concious driver now panting his last breaths of life. The remaining Girl-Scout troop gathered around the Rover, planning a ferocious revenge for the loss of their two sisters. They peered into the cab of the vehicle only to observe the mortally wounded driver as he utterred his last words, "Only Jeeps are Trail Rated." The sticker fell from his hand as he exhaled and died. The girls drug his body from the truck and lit it on fire. A last-ditch sacrifice to their friends who had died.

So, the moral of the story is, don't be stupid, or you will die! I thought I had seen everything until that day, and now you threatened to resurrect the past with even more foolish shenanigans. Do us a favor and kill yourself before your stupidity kills others.