Homemade, 50-Year-Old Fuel Motor Roars Back To Life

The Big Banger Theory

Fueler.

Improbable survival stories are standard equipment around here. HOT ROD Deluxe is known for telling resurrection tales that defy all odds and logic. Some of those story ideas surely would’ve been rejected outright by skeptical editors as borderline unbelievable, had photographic evidence not undeniably documented a journey from distant past to survivor. Forget “borderline”; this is one backyard project that’s been unreal from the very start, when a retired machinist began building his racing engine, literally—a gigantic four-banger that once again cackles with nitromethane—a half-century later.

If that already sounds unbelievable, prepare to suspend disbelief long enough to hear the rest of the story. The happy ending depicted by these current photos followed decades of neglect, disassembly, and even theft that could’ve, would’ve, and certainly should’ve written a far sadder story. The magical intervention of a young Springfield, Oregon, engine builder was the last link in a long chain of unlikely coincidences—or was it something else?

“I feel like Grandpa led me to him,” says Carol Stange, a since-retired meter reader for the Springfield Utility Board in Oregon whose monthly route included a joint named Tim’s Muscle Cars. She’d never met or even seen anyone on the grounds until the day she spied an old Lyndwood dragster chassis out front. As a lifelong gearhead from Long Beach, California, whose grandfather had exposed the whole family to nearby Lions Drag Strip, Carol couldn’t resist knocking on the office door. When nobody answered, she walked inside and to the back of the building, following male voices.

“A buddy and I were painting his GTO in my spray booth,” Tim Riel recalls. “We both had respirators on. I thought, ‘Wow, this lady has a lot of nerve, walking up to a couple of strangers wearing masks!’” Tim and Carol agree that their introductory conversation began something like this:

“Hi, I saw your dragster out front. My grandfather had one of those.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, in the mid-1960s. He built his own engine. Car Craft wrote about it.”

“Is your grandpa Byron Barnes?”

Imagine Carol’s shock, hearing a total stranger utter the name of her late grandfather. “I followed him up to the front office, where Tim had a big stack of magazines. He went right to the issue and pulled it out. I said, ‘Yeah, that’s the article.’ I couldn’t believe this was happening! Tim seemed intrigued that the chassis survived, was still in the family, and was here in Oregon.”

A magazine published five years before Tim Riel was born just happened to be among several milk crates of “moldy, smelly, old paper” that he’d recently purchased from a swap-meet vendor. Tim and his machinist father, Rod Riel, had been going through the pile that very week. “We kept coming back to that Car Craft and that one article. We couldn’t get over how much work went into the engine. It still amazes me. This guy not only made his own engine parts; first, he had to design and build the tooling to make them. Everything had to be perfectly aligned for those pistons to go up and down. Even with today’s technology, not many people would—or even could—do what her grandpa did 50 years ago.”

So, as an engineering exercise, this project was pretty hard to beat; as a race car, not so much. In fact, it never got past the testing stage. When the late, great writer A.B. Shuman submitted his tech story around March 1967, Byron had run the rail twice. First time out, injected on nitro, netted “a quite respectable 120 mph in eleven seconds, shutting off at the halfway mark and coasting through the traps,” CC reported. Switching to dual Weber carbs and, presumably, gasoline for a second try, there was another half-pass of 129 mph but no e.t reported by Shuman. Gifford Barnes counts three trips to Lions Drag Strip with his dad, all plagued by bogging off the line: “He couldn’t get the fuel system right,” he explains. “After the car stumbled, it really charged, but Mickey [Okahara, the driver] couldn’t get away clean.” The wide variety of used parts visible in photos and recovered by Tim Riel point to additional experimentation, as does the only time slip left behind. On the back is scrawled, “50% nitro.” If, in fact, the indicated 8.74 and 164 were recorded by this car, it would’ve been one of the swiftest four-bangers of the era—but not competitive for the type of racing Byron initially envisioned.

Considering how many years one old guy, working alone, needed to bring this engine, particularly, plus a homebuilt chassis all the way from conception to completion—the crankshaft alone required 30 days, according to CC—it’s hardly surprising that classification rules would evolve. The article cites so-called “junior fuelers” for Byron’s inspiration. After Lions bowed out of the fuel ban in 1962, that unofficial term came to be loosely applied to single-engined, normally aspirated dragsters burning nitromethane and/or methanol, regardless of engine type or size. Those not quick enough to qualify for Top Fuel Eliminator might’ve run Top Gas or amongst themselves. Byron’s decision to make his sheetmetal cylinder block tall enough to displace either 353 or 392 ci hardly seems coincidental at a time when 354 and 392 Chryslers were fashionable. Some injected Chevys were poked ’n’ stroked to 358 and even 389 cubes.

By the time Byron was ready to go, Lions had banished fuel burners from Top Gas and created an official Junior Fuel category for unblown engines no larger than 310 cubes. Bigger motors moved into either C/Fuel Dragster (up to 350 ci) or B/FD (to 400 ci), both of which were dominated by small-inch, blown Hemis and Chevys. No wonder Byron lost interest in 1968 or ’69 and parked this car. Indeed, but for one old magazine article and however few firsthand witnesses remain, nearly nobody would know it ever existed.

Getting back to Tim’s Muscle Cars, the Springfield meter reader regularly returned to share leisurely lunch breaks and talk shop. “All I knew was that the bare chassis was hanging in her uncle’s barn,” Tim says. “Carol never got over there to take pictures. I told her that I’d be interested in buying whatever was left.”

“Oh, yeah, he bugged me for over a year,” Carol confirms, laughing. “He’d say, ‘Can I just go see it, please?’ I didn’t want to bug my uncle Giff just so someone could look up in his rafters. But my family always hoped to get Grandpa’s dragster running. My cousin Frank, Giff’s son, started on that about 20 years ago. He took the car apart, spread the parts out on the bench, but it never went back together. When I finally called to tell my uncle I’d met a young guy with his own engine shop who might want to buy the car, Giff said, ‘Nope, he can’t buy it. If you really think he’ll do something with it, tell him to come get it.'”

What Carol didn’t know at the time was that thieves had recently removed critical components from Giff’s unlocked boat barn and sold them for scrap. Luckily, her uncle and cousin noticed parts missing in time to track down the metals dealer before he got around to melting or reselling most, though the rare quick-change rearend was already gone. They went to court to recover what remained and prevailed, eventually.

“All I expected to get was a chassis, or part of one,” Tim says. “I planned to look for dragster parts at swap meets, maybe put in an early Hemi or small-block. Carol’s mom, uncle, aunt, cousin, brother, and sister were all there to say goodbye to Grandpa’s dragster. I walked into this big metal shed with a huge fishing boat on one side. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Byron’s short-block was sitting on a crate. Piles of parts were on the floor. Both M&H slicks were still mounted on Halibrands. The original parachute was hanging from the rafters. We found the complete clutch assembly and can, all the mag body panels, even a firesuit. After everything was laid out at home the next day, I was amazed by how complete the car was. I saw it as a giant erector set, minus the rearend and some small pieces that my dad and I could probably make. We were lucky to have the Car Craft for reference.

“I was worried that Byron’s two children wouldn’t be around long enough to see it get done,” he adds. “I’d made them a promise to try, but Giff’s health was not good. He and his sister, Carol’s mom, were in their eighties. This was important. I wanted that engine to run again, on nitro. I really got into it.”

He sure did, gradually assembling the erector set most nights and weekends for eight months, in between engine work for patient patrons of Tim’s Muscle Cars. When he proudly unveiled the sum of those parts, Byron’s descendants were there to witness the resurrection of a father and grandfather, along with an old dragster. “We were all in tears,” Tim admits.

“To me, it’s just amazing how things worked out,” says Carol Stange, the fearless meter reader whose knock on one door opened so many more. “It was fun, and I just felt like it was meant to be.”

The all-homemade engine was designed to displace either 353 or 392 ci, depending on crankshaft selection. To minimize weight, designer-builder Byron Barnes settled on four cylinders (versus eight), a sheetmetal crankcase (versus cast iron), and valves in the block (versus overhead). Note the 3-inch offset, to counteract torque.

Both the dragster and the former Romania Chevrolet store were operational in the 1960s. Despite its lengthy wheelbase of 152 inches and maze of suspension tubing, the car weighed just 710 pounds, wet.

Everything orange was powdercoated by McKenzie Chrome Plating (Springfield, Oregon). All four wheels and tires are original. After the original mag body was ruined by a careless sandblaster—and Tim Riel was quoted a price of $3,500 per magnesium sheet—buddy Les Schoonover (Springfield) replicated the cowl and side panels in aluminum. — Everything orange was powdercoated by McKenzie Chrome Plating (Springfield, Oregon). All four wheels and tires are original. After the original mag body was ruined by a careless sandblaster—and Tim Riel was quoted a price of $3,500 for magnesium sheet—buddy Les Schoonover (Springfield) replicated the cowl and side panels in aluminum.

Restorer-caretaker Tim Riel estimates that no fewer than 100 pieces of sheet steel were welded together to create the 116-pound bare block.

Byron Barnes obviously had his own ideas about weight transfer, probably influenced by his oval-track history. He formed the fuel tank by cutting and merging two military-surplus water kettles engraved with the words "U.S. Army." — Byron Barnes obviously had his own ideas about weight transfer, probably influenced by his oval-track history. He formed the fuel tank by cutting and merging two military-surplus water kettles engraved with the words “U.S. Army.”

The aluminum cover contains the coolant sitting on top of four individual cylinder heads. Water enters through the open hole (which still lacks a pressure cap to replace the tiny original). Boiling water exits through the overflow tube. Mike Maher did the pinstriping and lettering. The rear-main seal is a small-block Chevy item.

The parachute, M&H 8.20-15 Racemasters, and magnesium Halibrand wheels are original. The Portland Swap Meet produced a virtual duplicate of the stolen rearend assembly, including Halibrand champ-car quick-change, that fit perfectly.

Rod Riel, Tim's machinist dad, reproduced one of the Anglia-style spindles and some missing suspension pieces on his CNC machines. The shocks are Volkswagen. The aluminum fuel line is original. — Rod Riel, Tim’s machinist dad, reproduced one of the Anglia-style spindles and some missing suspension pieces on his CNC machines. The shocks are Volkswagen. The aluminum fuel line is original.

The custom tri-drive system is a work of art. A spur gear on the crank runs the cam, which drives the Bendix Mini-Mag, Hilborn fuel pump, and a Ford six-cylinder oil pump at the bottom that fills a custom dry-sump pan. A piece of leather that seals the timing cover to the crankcase is the closet thing to a gasket in the entire engine. Byron even built his own injectors. The original velocity stacks and Hilborn barrel valve survived, but not the exhaust flange and headers, which Rod Riel replicated. Since our photo session, Tim has completed the complicated linkage and added a mini-starter to the front of the crank. Previously, he hand-operated the throttle with a long rod connecting the individual injectors and fired the engine on a stand, since none of the Riels can squeeze into the cockpit for push starting.

Since stumbling onto this photography location in Eugene, Oregon, we've learned that the former home of Lew Williams and, later, Joe Romania Chevrolet is infamous for 2000 and 2001 arson attacks by local "ecoterrorists" targeting gas guzzlers. In the first incident, three light trucks collectively valued at $28,000 were torched by activists who happened to be under surveillance by a terrorism task force that night. Nine months later, a different gang set fire to 35 new Suburbans and Tahoes worth $959,000. The Chevy store was sold shortly thereafter and ultimately closed in 2005 when the University of Oregon purchased the prime, four-and-a-half-acre property adjoining the campus for storage. The wooden panels were installed after rock-throwing vandals found the original glass irresistible. — Since stumbling onto this photography location in Eugene, Oregon, we’ve learned that the former home of Lew Williams and, later, Joe Romania Chevrolet is infamous for 2000 and 2001 arson attacks by local “ecoterrorists” targeting gas guzzlers. In the first incident, three light trucks collectively valued at $28,000 were torched by activists who happened to be under surveillance by a terrorism task force that night. Nine months later, a different gang set fire to 35 new Suburbans and Tahoes worth $959,000. The Chevy store was sold shortly thereafter and ultimately closed in 2005 when the University of Oregon purchased the prime, four-and-a-half-acre property adjoining the campus for storage. The wooden panels were installed after rock-throwing vandals found the original glass irresistible.

Machinists’ Union

It took a father-son team of master machinists in Long Beach, California, to create this engine, and it took another to restore it to running condition, a half-century later and 900 miles north. The shared experience has tightly bonded the Barnes-Garwood and Riel families to this day.

Gifford Barnes, 86, machined the individual cylinder heads for his late dad's engine. He inherited Byron's last race car in 1981 and stored it for 34 years. The Barnes-Garwood family photo album produced a rare 1930s snapshot of father and son together. — Gifford Barnes, 86, machined the individual cylinder heads for his late dad’s engine. He inherited Byron’s last race car in 1981 and stored it for 34 years. The Barnes-Garwood family photo album produced a rare 1930s snapshot of father and son together.

Kay Barnes Garwood, 84, is Byron's daughter. Nearly eight decades after posing with the family dog and midget at home in Long Beach, she lives with daughter Linda Garwood (left) in Port Orford, Oregon. — Kay Barnes Garwood, 84, is Byron’s daughter. Nearly eight decades after posing with the family dog and midget at home in Long Beach, she lives with daughter Linda Garwood (left) in Port Orford, Oregon.

Tim and Jan Riel rescued and revived their rail with invaluable assistance from Rod Riel (left), a semiretired CNC machinist. Its new home is Tim's Muscle Cars, a restoration and engine shop in Springfield, Oregon. — Tim and Jan Riel rescued and revived their rail with invaluable assistance from Rod Riel (left), a semiretired CNC machinist. Its new home is Tim’s Muscle Cars, a restoration and engine shop in Springfield, Oregon.

Social Media, Old School

For 400 years before digital devices connected us senders and receivers, magazines did that job. This one still does, albeit with a time delay measured in months or years, not nanoseconds. You know the drill: HOT ROD Deluxe publishes an article or column or photo caption that thrills/irritates you into sending love letters/hate mail. Correspondence deemed worthy of print shows up in stores and mailboxes two or three issues later to thrill/irritate fellow readers. See, just like Facebook posts, minus fake news.

Despite modern production technology, “slick” magazines still take forfriggin’ever to print, bind, and transport, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed. Our bimonthly infrequency automatically puts HRD another month behind the monthlies. If you’re reading this on the West Coast, add another week for trains and trucks to move the bundles all the way from the Midwest, where most of America’s ink gets spilled. Finally, your copy shows up in, say, Springfield, Oregon. Reading from front to back (as editors and the good Lord intended), you eventually get to a couple of 50-year-old, unpublished outtakes from a 1968 Car Craft story. The caption asks if any reader knows what happened to an obscure race car that vanished five years before you were born, a car that happens to be parked in your shop.

Reader Tim Riel responded almost as soon as his heart settled back into his chest. Editor Hardin couldn’t wait to print the letter and photos Tim sent of the restored rail. Meanwhile, though, another issue’s bimonthly production cycle came and went, delaying publication by one more edition. When the car reappeared in color in January 2016’s Scrapbook section, Mr. Ed. promised in print to send contributor Dave Wallace—who claimed a personal connection to its builder—to shoot a proper feature. In consideration of the Northwest’s notorious rainy season, we postponed that photo session until the late spring. Finally, the Byron Barnes rail returns to these pages, completing a print conversation started nearly two years ago—if not 50 years ago this December, when Petersen Publishing Company staffers Bob Swaim and A.B. Shuman visited the car both at home and at Lions Drag Strip.

From HRD's "The Golden Age Of Drag Racing," September 2015 — From HRD’s “The Golden Age Of Drag Racing,” September 2015

From HRD's letters section, January 2016 — From HRD’s letters section, January 2016

Shortly after Tim Riel’s letter and photos appeared in HRD, another stranger showed up at Tim's Muscle Cars. He told Tim that, as a kid, he lived in Byron’s neighborhood and helped clean out the home shop after Mr. and Mrs. Barnes died weeks apart in 1981. He was given the blueprint as a souvenir. He thought it belonged with the race car. Sure enough, these cockpit measurements match. Byron evidently purchased a partial kit from little-known H&L Metals. Tim was so stunned by the gift that he never got a name. He's hopeful that the generous mystery man will see this and identify himself to HRD—extending the series of old-school, ink-on-paper "posts" described above. — Shortly after Tim Riel’s letter and photos appeared in HRD, another stranger showed up at Tim’s Muscle Cars. He told Tim that, as a kid, he lived in Byron’s neighborhood and helped clean out the home shop after Mr. and Mrs. Barnes died weeks apart in 1981. He was given the blueprint as a souvenir. He thought it belonged with the race car. Sure enough, these cockpit measurements match. Byron evidently purchased a partial kit from little-known H&L Metals. Tim was so stunned by the gift that he never got a name. He’s hopeful that the generous mystery man will see this and identify himself to HRD—extending the series of old-school, ink-on-paper “posts” described above.

Lost And Found

On the snowy morning in January 2014 that Tim and Rod Riel dragged a trailer to the Oregon coast, a bare chassis was all they expected to find. Imagine their surprise!

For the first time, Tim Riel laid his hands—and eyes—on the remnants of a chassis he'd seen only in a Car Craft issue printed four years before he was born. — For the first time, Tim Riel laid his hands—and eyes—on the remnants of a chassis he’d seen only in a Car Craft issue printed five years before he was born.

Carol Garwood Stange (right) is the retired Oregon meter reader who put Tim Riel (left) together with Grandpa’s slingshot. Her big sister, Linda Garwood, held up the nose while their uncle Giff supervised.

The rotating assembly stayed inside of Byron's sheetmetal block since he last ran the car, circa 1968-69. Three types of steel were pressed together, then arc-welded with titanium-nickel rod, to form a hollow crankshaft with a 4.5-inch stroke. — The rotating assembly stayed inside of Byron’s sheetmetal block since he last ran the car, circa 1968-69. Three types of steel were pressed together, then arc-welded with titanium-nickel rod, to form a hollow crankshaft with a 4.5-inch stroke.

Gifford Barnes machined the individual cylinder heads so precisely that they seal to the sheet-steel crankcase without gaskets. His dad used 40 capscrews made of aircraft-grade titanium, likely left over from one of Byron’s aerospace projects. All but a few of the original fasteners were located, cleaned up, and reinstalled by Tim Riel. Threaded tubes around the spark plugs prevent coolant from grounding out the plugs.

The camshaft is hollow. Byron fused individual lobes onto the tube, then had Iskenderian grind them to deliver 230 degrees of duration with 0.400-inch lift. "The cam wasn't even in the engine, so I had no idea about where to degree it or set the lash," Tim says. "The drive gear is slotted about 70 degrees where the bolt goes, for advance and retard. So I called and talked to Isky's son, who remembered Ed playing cards with Byron. He said his dad would call after he got back from lunch. I thought, ‘Oh, sure, like Ed Iskenderian is gonna personally call some little engine builder in the middle of nowhere.’ That same afternoon, I answer the phone, and Mr. Isky says, 'Old man Barnes still owes me 40 bucks from our weekly card game!' He said he’d look around and let me know if he found anything. About two weeks later, I get a box with the original cam card with all of the specs, a new set of valvesprings, and a handwritten note: 'Best wishes, Ed Iskenderian.'" — The camshaft is hollow. Byron fused individual lobes onto the tube, then had Iskenderian grind them to deliver 230 degrees of duration with 0.400-inch lift. “The cam wasn’t even in the engine, so I had no idea about where to degree it or set the lash,” Tim says. “The drive gear is slotted about 70 degrees where the bolt goes, for advance and retard. So I called and talked to Isky’s son, who remembered Ed playing cards with Byron. He said his dad would call after he got back from lunch. I thought, ‘Oh, sure, like Ed Iskenderian is gonna personally call some little engine builder in the middle of nowhere.’ That same afternoon, I answer the phone, and Mr. Isky says, ‘Old man Barnes still owes me 40 bucks from our weekly card game!’ He said he’d look around and let me know if he found anything. About two weeks later, I get a box with the original cam card with all of the specs, a new set of valvesprings, and a handwritten note: ‘Best wishes, Ed Iskenderian.'”

Jahns Pistons cast five of these aluminum, 5-inch-diameter monsters in the wooden mold. Byron finish-machined four to arrive at 10:1 compression. He also made five 4130 chrome-moly connecting rods, welding the ends to the tubular beams. This spare was never run.

The worn main bearings proved to be the most difficult replacement parts to find, plus the most expensive. Because all crank journals are identical, Tim had to spend $1,200 on five complete sets of obsolete aircraft bearings to get the five pieces. An old-timer at Federal-Mogul successfully cross-referenced the original part numbers by searching old paper catalogs. The valvetrain combines original, slipper-style lifters with Chrysler Hemi springs, retainers, and locks.

Everything here was formed from steel. First, though, Byron had to make wooden or cardboard templates for each piece, then construct a flame-cutting rig with a tracing stylus at one end and an oxy-acetylene cutting torch at the other. The intake and exhaust ports are two pieces of steel stampings, welded together. Also note the six water jackets per cylinder. — Everything here was formed from steel. First, though, Byron had to make wooden or cardboard templates for each piece, then construct a flame-cutting rig with a tracing stylus at one end and an oxy-acetylene cutting torch at the other. The intake and exhaust ports are two pieces of steel stampings, welded together. Also note the five water jackets per cylinder.

The original, giant 2-5/8-inch intake and exhaust valves are stainless heads on chrome-moly stems.

Half a century after this big banger first went together, it's as good as new, plus much prettier. Of many missing parts reproduced by the Riels, the most difficult to design were the spur gears and shaft driving the magneto and fuel and oil pumps. In some old photos of the engine wearing Weber carbs, the two-hole bracket contained a different mag and a coil. — Half a century after this big banger first went together, it’s as good as new, plus much prettier. Of many missing parts reproduced by the Riels, the most difficult to design were the spur gears and shaft driving the magneto and fuel and oil pumps. In some old photos of the engine wearing Weber carbs, the two-hole bracket contained a different mag and a coil.

Who Was Byron Barnes?

This writer should know, having met him a few times in the mid-1970s. We even lived on the same Huntington Beach street for a while, yet I never really knew the man. Among my regrets is not spending more time in the large shop behind his house on Old Pirates Lane that held both the Hudson he’d customized and his fully assembled slingshot, covered in dusty plastic. I was introduced by my then-girlfriend as the editor of Drag News, but to him I was the longhair sleeping with his beloved granddaughter, Carol Garwood—now Carol Stange, the retired Oregon meter reader responsible for connecting his last race car to the young guy destined to rescue and restore it.

Byron’s family revealed that he was born in 1907 in Nebraska. In 1911, his parents moved to Long Beach. At age 16, Byron’s first homebuilt hot rod got him arrested and jailed. Since his dad was then running for city council, the folks shipped him offshore to herd goats on San Clemente Island until the election was over. He and a buddy later assembled an airplane that Byron flew before building and driving his first midget. When World War II halted auto racing, he worked for Douglas Aircraft Company as a mechanics’ instructor and design engineer developing tooling for the B-17 bomber. In the mid-1950s, Byron designed, built, and patented oil field equipment that enabled an early retirement. For the next 25 years, he indulged automotive passions ranging from the dragster and Hudson custom to off-road racing with local pals Bill Stroppe and Parnelli Jones.

Though Byron could likely afford any new car, I saw him driving Ford Pintos exclusively. Rather than bother changing fluids, he’d torture an engine until it rattled or smoked, swap motors in an afternoon, then perform an autopsy on the dead player. (The same boat shed that stored the dragster’s engine held another big surprise for Tim Riel: “There must’ve been 70 Pinto 2000- and 2300cc motors stacked up in there!”) Byron’s last daily driver was reportedly returning nearly 50 mpg when emphysema ended an incredible journey in April 1981, just shy of his 74th birthday.