Ed Nisley's Blog: Shop notes, electronics, firmware, machinery, 3D printing, laser cuttery, and curiosities. Contents: 100% human thinking, 0% AI slop.
So, after a bit more than a year, I replaced the cracked backing plate in the other ERRC underseat pack on my Tour Easy. The first plate held up much better than I expected: hasn’t cracked or poked through the pack fabric.
This repair followed the same outline, including cutting off the ripped netting on the outside of the pack and marching the pack into the clothes washer for a spin with a few shop rags. Reassembled everything, put it back on the bike, and … the new aluminum extrusion across top of the plate smacked firmly into the water bottle holder clamped to the rear of the seat frame for the amateur radio.
Underseat pack vs radio holder
The extrusion is the lump running horizontally, just under the seat cushion. The corner of the pack extended rearward (left) of the water bottle holder’s black plastic body.
The original flexy plastic pack plate simply bent out of the way, but that’s not going to work now.
So I loosened the clamp, moved it a bit more to the right, and tightened it up again. I’d originally located it at the far right end of the straight part of the seat frame, so it’s now edging into the curved part that eventually forms the right side of the frame, but it’s good enough.
My shop assistant says she wants another water bottle holder for an actual water bottle on her bike. I say she should just go to the shop and make whatever she wants, then install it. Negotiations continue…
I suppose I should have known better: the bottom of that heatsink wasn’t anywhere near flat. I think it mated directly with the top of the CPU through thermal grease, not a compliant pad.
Curved copper heatsink surface
The obvious solution is to flycut the thing, which is where the Sherline’s limited Y-axis travel and teeny table put a cramp on your style. Normally, you’d put the length of the heatsink parallel to the X axis so the flycutter would clear on both ends, but there’s no obvious (read: quick and easy) way to clamp the thing that way.
So I mounted it parallel to the Y axis, which meant I couldn’t get the flycutter completely off the near end. The first pass at Z=-0.1 mm, however, showed that not only was the surface curved, but it wasn’t parallel to the top of the fins (which were flat on the tooling plate). I suppose I should have expected that.
This cut is has Z=-0.1 mm referred to the front end. It completely missed the other end:
First flycut pass
I flipped the heatsink around, measured the front-to-back tilt (about 0.16 mm), stuck a couple of brass shims under the front, and the second pass at Z=-0.05 mm from the new low point did the trick. Copper is nasty stuff and I did these cuts dry: the chips visible near the front are stuck firmly to the surface.
Final flycut pass
I scrubbed both the heatsink and the spreader plate on some fine sandpaper atop the sacrificial side of my surface plate until they were all good. I can see the remaining flycutter marks, but I can’t feel them, and the plates slap solidly together with a pffff of escaping air:
Flattened heatsink and spreader
A dab of heatsink compound should work wonders; the maximum dissipation will be under 20 W, roughly comparable to that old K6 CPU, but now the heatsink will be contacting the entire hot surface.
Most office desk chairs are crap. Spend a couple of hours in a typical office chair and you wonder if it had been designed by aliens who, perhaps, read the specs for human beings, but never actually met a person in the flesh.
Conversely, you can drive for a couple of hours and get out of the car feeling at least OK. (Well, if you buy a decent car, that is. Last rental car I drove had terrible seats.)
So, a couple of decades ago, I went to a junkyard and picked up a nice seat from a fancy wreck for about $50, built a plywood base with six casters from Home Depot, put a 1-foot-diameter Lazy Susan bearing between the two, and bolted everything together. The seat even had power adjustments, so (just for fun) I tucked a battery underneath.
After a while, I stripped off the seat belt doodads… and, of course, you really don’t need power adjustments after the first week.
Worked like a champ for about a decade, but even a high-end seat cushion eventually goes flat. So I swapped in a front seat salvaged from one of our cars (a Toyota Camry wagon, from back before minivans ruled the road) and that lasted another decade. It finally went flat and I swapped in the other front seat.
The 2×6-inch upright boards have slopes and cutouts that match the peculiar shape of the seat frame, with holes drilled in the wood for the metric machine bolts, and that’s a good enough anchorage for an office environment.
Chair base
The Lazy Susan bearing is between the top plywood layer and the square corner sticking out to the front. That layer bolts to the bottom sheet, providing enough clearance for the various heads and whatnot.
You really need six casters on a fairly large base, because the chair is immensely heavy (it was, after all, designed to not fall apart during a full-on collision) and rather top-and-back-heavy without you in place.
Considerations:
Get the seat close to the right height, as the adjustment range isn’t all that wide
Put your center of gravity in the middle of the base. Fortunately, the seat has plenty of forward-aft adjustment
Get the seat base pretty much horizontal
A closer look at the front:
Front detail
The back isn’t a lot different:
Back detail
Maybe I just have a weird butt or don’t spend enough money on office chairs.
The scrap pile disgorged a chunk of aluminum plate exactly the correct size for a heat spreader that will mate eight power FETS to that heatsink. The catch: a 1-1/4-inch deep hole tapped 1/4-20 for about 3/4 inch at almost the right spot along one end. Rather than sawing off Yet Another Chunk from the original plate, I figured it’d be more useful to just plug the hole.
Note that this is somewhat different than the situation described there, where I screwed up by putting a hole in the wrong place. Here, I’m just being a cheapskate by making a piece of junk good enough to use in a project, rather than having it kick around in the scrap pile for another decade.
Anyway.
I turned a 3/8-inch diameter aluminum rod down to 1/4 inch for the threaded part and a bit under 0.200 inch to fit into the partially threaded end.
A real machinist would single-point the thread, but I just screwed a die over it. The narrow end is slightly larger than the minor thread diameter, which helped get things started. Then a trial fit, saw off the excess on the skinny end, and apply a touch of the file to shape the end to mate with the hole’s drill-point bottom:
Threaded hole plugPlug epoxied in place
I buttered up the plug with a generous helping of JB Weld epoxy and screwed it in. Toward the end of that process, the air trapped in the end became exceedingly compressed, to the extent I had to stop after each quarter-turn to let it ooze outward; eventually the hole gave off a great pffft as the remaining air pooted out. Unscrewed slightly to suck some epoxy back in, screwed it tight, and let it cure overnight.
Squared-up block with plugged hole
Sawed off the plug, filed the rubble more-or-less smooth, then squared it in the Sherline mill. The heatsink prefers to sit on a nice, smooth metal surface, so I flycut the other side of the block to get rid of a few dings and the entire anodized layer while I was at it.
The epoxy ring doesn’t have a uniform width, because you’re looking at a cross section of the thread. The skinny part is the crest of the plug thread, the wide part is along one flank. Barely a Class 1A fit, methinks.
New hole
Locate the midpoint of the block’s end, center-drill, then poke a new #29 hole 20 mm deep (I really do prefer metric!) for an 8-32 screw. The plug didn’t move at all during this process, pretty much as you’d expect. The chips came out of this hole in little crumbles, rather than the long stringy swarf from the solid aluminum on the other end.
Using a simple peck drill canned cycle is just downright wonderful:
G83 Z-20 R1 Q3 F100
The rule of thumb is 3000 RPM with a feed 100 times the drill diameter. In this case, the drill is about 3 mm and calls for 300 mm/min, but the Sherline is happier with slower feeds. Maybe if I was doing production work, I’d push it harder.
A real machinist would have a milling machine with a servo-driven spindle for rigid tapping, but I just screwed an ordinary hand tap into the holes.
A bit of futzing converted a pair of solderless connectors into clips that capture the hooks on the ends of the heatsink’s springy wiffletree to secure the spreader to the heatsink. You can see the flycut surface peeking out from below the end of the heatsink. I should hit it with some fine abrasive to polish it out, but I think heatsink compound alone will do the trick.
Heat spreader on heatsink
The next step: drilling-and-tapping eight more blind holes along the sides for the FETs. It’d be really neat to have a servo spindle…
On my way back from a ride around the block the back tire went pfft thump thump thump. I’m 1.5 miles from home: fix or walk?
The first step: always examine the tire to find the puncture, before you move too far. Finding something sticking out of the tire means you’re well on your way to fixing the flat. Lose the entry point and you’re left to blow up the tire and listen for escaping wind. So I picked up the butt end of the bike, spun the wheel, and this little gem heaved into view…
That area of the road has seen several collisions in recent months that left the shoulder littered with broken automotive glass. The shard in my tire glistened like a diamond, because one side was flat and mirrored; perhaps it’s from a headlamp reflector or side mirror. The pointy end went into the tire, of course…
Glass fragment and puncture
Well, a single-point failure like that is easy to fix, so:
remember that the hole is a few inches spinward of the label
shift to small chainring / small sprocket
get the tool bag out
lay the bike down (it’s a recumbent, this is no big deal)
release the rear brake
release the skewer and whack the hub out of the dropouts
apply tire irons to get the tire off
pop the tube out and examine the innards
No pix of any of that, but suffice it to say I was astonished to discover that the glass penetrated the Marathon tire’s Kevlar belt just barely far enough to poke the Slime tire liner, but not enough to leave more than a hint of a mark on the tube. Definitely not a puncture and certainly nothing that would account for a sudden flat.
That glass shard is not why the tire went flat! Tire liners FTW!
Examining the rest of the tube revealed this situation a few inches anti-spinward of the glass fragment.
Failed tube rubber
There’s a row of holes across the tube, with no corresponding tire or liner damage at all. As nearly as I can tell, the tube rubber simply pulled apart across that line, all at once, and the air went pfft just like you’d expect.
That’s not survivable, but I don’t carry a spare tube (well, two spare tubes: 700x35C rear and 20×1.25 front) on rides around the block. Long bike tours? Yup, spare tires & tubes because I’m that type of guy.
Anyway, I’ve got the tube in hand, so what’s to lose? Scuff it up with the sandpaper and yipes…
Tube after scuffing
What’s not obvious in the picture is that all those little spots around the big holes are pinholes. The whole area of the tube must have gotten just barely enough rubber to cover the mold.
I know as well as you do this isn’t going to have a happy outcome, but I slobber on the cement, let it dry, squash on a big patch, install the tube & tire, fire a 16-gram CO2 cartridge into it, and … it doesn’t seal.
The tube is several-many years old, probably from whoever was supplying Nashbar at the time, and it served well, so it gets a pass. I’d rather tubes fail in the garage than on the road and sometimes they do, but that’s not the usual outcome.
My ladies were out gardening at the time and a long wheelbase ‘bent isn’t the sort of thing you can stuff into a friend’s car. Not to mention that my ladies had the magic phone.
So I walked home.
Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Memo to Self: Schwalbe tube at 8910. Reversed(*) the Marathon’s direction.
(*)They’re directional, but when they get about halfway worn I don’t see that it makes much difference. The rear tire on my bikes wears asymmetrically: probably too many tools in the left underseat bag.
When I replaced the kitchen counter & installed a new sink, I added a soap dispenser, mostly because the stainless steel sink had three holes that needed filling. After nigh onto a decade, the dispenser pump is now getting sticky: difficult to push down and reluctant to pop up.
Soap dispenser pump
The problem seemed to be that the O-ring wasn’t sliding nicely along the internal bore.
The catch is that both ends have ball check valves, so you can’t just squirt lube into the bore. I tried prying the thing apart, but the snap-together cap has a really aggressive closure.
So I shoved the exit valve ball (on the left of the picture) out of the way with a pin punch, wedged it into the end of the spring, and squirted the least amount of silicone lube I could manage into the pump. A bit of fiddling un-wedged the ball and got it back in position.
The pump works fine now, but I have my doubts as to how long the lube will last with continuous exposure to soap and constant sliding.
The thing probably needs a new O-ring and I’m certain of two facts:
My shop assistant came home with a five-dollar tag sale find: either a genuine antique car horn or a reasonable facsimile lashed together by an underemployed Pakistani shipbreaker. The original rubber bulb had long since rotted away, but the brass reed worked fine and the horn gave off a mighty honk! when given sufficient wind.
She bought a replacement bulb with hardware definitely made by the shipbreakers, knowing full well that the internal thread on the end of the new bulb’s brass stem couldn’t possibly match up with the external thread on the old horn. We sketched out some possibilities and decided to make a bushing over the horn’s stem with an internal thread: easier than a very short, perilously thin, double-threaded adapter ring.
She measured various dimensions of both pieces and we consulted Machinery’s Handbook. The horn has a really crusty 32-tpi thread somewhere between 1/2 and 9/16 inch, which is not standard at all. Heck, it’s not even metric. (#include standard-metric-goodness-rant)
Horn fitting
The fitting also has an internal pipe thread (!) for the brass reed assembly. We eventually filed a few bits off the reed’s mounting dingus in order to clear the final bushing ID.
Some poking forced the scrap pile to disgorge an aluminum cylinder of exactly the right size for the bushing, with a nice half-inch hole right down the middle. Using a half-inch bolt with a center-drilled end as a mandrel, we brass-hammered it to line up pretty true, and she cleaned off the OD while learning about the quick-change gearbox; a round-nose bit at 104 tpi puts a nice zeepy (her term) finish on aluminum.
We left it stout, rather than trying to turn it down to a thin and elegant shell, because that was the easiest way to get things done. She’ll epoxy it to the horn stem and apply some Loctite to the horn bushing.
A lot of rummaging in the tool cabinet’s recesses produced a taper-shank drill slightly larger than the bulb stem. She drilled out most of the cylinder’s guts, leaving just enough for the threads at the far end, counting 1/10-inch turns on the tailstock all the way.
Shop Assistant Making Swarf
That pile of razor-edged swarf is now prized possession…
She bored out the narrow end to what seemed like the right minor diameter, given that we really didn’t have anything more than a guesstimate of the thread dimensions. I figured we could just continue threading, eating away at the ID, until it fit.
I don’t do a lot of internal threading, but we found a suitable threading tool, lined things up, and she learned about single-point threading by cutting a thread to match that horn. No measurements worth mentioning; this wasn’t the sort of job requiring a Go-NoGo gage.
I stayed away while she completed the threading, apart from consoling her when she discovered why you shouldn’t hand-rotate the chuck with the quick-change gearbox disconnected. We picked up the thread again and she completed the mission.
Here’s the raw thread before beveling the entrance.
Horn Bushing
And then it fit! Verily, the horn itself was the Go-NoGo gage.
Horn in bushing
This was the second part she’s turned on the lathe; I’d say she’s doing just fine.
The Smell of Molten Projects in the Morning 