The Promise vs. The Reality
I’m staring at the filthy Montero trailing arm on my workbench, with a brand new eight-inch carriage bolt in-hand that’s just proven useless. It doesn’t fit my bushing press, I can’t turn back, and I’ve got 24 hours to get Fezzik back on the road for birthday carpool duty.
I’d started the project the weekend prior. Justin came over and we were stymied by a lack of leverage. After learning I could support the axle on jackstands to get bigger breaker bars in there, I got the driver’s side arm out the following afternoon. It took another day to remove the old bushings completely and prep the bores for replacements.
It’s been years since I was last in a get-it-done-or-else situation. The feelings remain even when the memories don’t. Old habits die hard, and the promise of one of my all-time favorite mods lends itself to little white lies around how I’d left the "easiest” ones for last. For over four years.
Why We Do This to Ourselves
Worn bushings mean clumsy handling, vague steering, and “old car” creaks and moans. Fresh bushings freshen everything up, delivering tight cornering, confident daily driving, and optimal chassis response. In 2020, Fezzik developed a front end squeak after a river crossing. Thus began my descent into bittersweet madness, as said squeak could only be remedied by a bushing replacement.
Without a doubt—bushings are one of my all-time Top 3 mods. Truly transformative. Spoiler alert: This transformation costs blood, sweat, and humility. If you remove a bushing, you will find a way to replace it. This is the way. And it is hard. I’m sure there are bushing whisperers out there with “the gift,” but most of us will find this among the more challenging projects.
It’s worth it, though.
“The Easy Ones,” or “Oh No. Not Again.”
The trailing arms are supposed to be pretty easy to remove, so Justin came over and we got after the driver’s side. Unfortunately, somebody gave the two 24mm bolts through the bushings too many ugga-duggas when they were installed. We thought the wheels had to stay on the ground, so we couldn’t get enough breaker bar on them and hung it up.
The next day, I raised the truck and supported the rear axle on jackstands, allowing me to get a bigger breaker bar on the bolts and get the first trailing arm out. The old bushings tore as they came out. I had to drill and chisel out the rest. I broke two drill bits in the process.
With each passing day, the birthday party got closer. The urgency around getting these bushings pressed so I could get the truck back on the road grew and grew. I had my bushings in the freezer like I was supposed to, but despite my best efforts, they just weren’t going in.
Three different people helped me at various points, all equally baffled: a US Marine Corps helicopter pilot, a Volkswagen restoration specialist, and an Internationally Certified Arborist. Justin and I couldn’t get any leverage with the wheels down. Blake helped me use the press at his shop. Steve provided the muscle to finish the job once I knew what we were doing.
Replacing the front bushings was so traumatic, it took four years to build up the courage—read: urgency—to go back for more. Even knowing the rears were the easiest on the whole truck.
Every generation discovers the same truth: replacing bushings builds character.
Fear-Delayed Revelation
Four years of procrastinating, knowing the job remains unfinished. Sometimes the thing we fear most is the thing we’ve already overcome. Turns out it’s probably better to heat your new bushings so they’re softer and squishier at press time. Unless you’ve got a dewar of liquid nitrogen and can freeze things down closer to kelvin, you’re just making everything harder. Literally.
The Redemption Arc
I made a second trip to Menards for a smaller carriage bolt, and got the driver side bushings installed in time to drive the truck to and from the bowling alley Saturday morning. We did the passenger side after the birthday party sleepover. Steve came over Sunday afternoon. Armed with hard-won knowledge, we enjoyed a stunning reversal of fortunes. Four hours. Start to finish.
The toll had been paid. I had a blood blister the size of a dime on my left middle finger from a Vice Grips slip, and a busted knuckle on my right middle finger from a breaker bar release. And we cooked those bushings. They were 160°F when we installed them.
So many skills develop this way—brutal first attempt, followed by clumsy, then elegant repetition. I brutalized the first frozen bushing through the bore, even trimmed a bit of the shoulder to make sure it would feed. The heated, passenger side bushings were still difficult, but they slid into their bores like butter.
It’s been hard letting go of the idea that I need to know everything about my truck and be able to do anything with it. Imagine my surprise at finding a crew in my new home three years later. Not a club for hard parking. A group for getting shit done.
It’s all connected. The front informed the rear. Failure informs success; fear teaches confidence.
40,000 Miles Later
The results were immediately apparent, though likely diminished by the obviously blown shocks at all four corners that should be ruining everything. Fortunately, the Montero was overbuilt. My OME coils and torsion bars—and the bushings—are doing their job so well they’re compensating for other failures.
I’m hoping to get these three guys together this winter. Justin, the Marine, has a Chevy Chevelle convertible and 383 stroker dreams. Blake’s slowly restoring a DeLorean, and Steve wants to get more comfortable working on his own vehicles.
Every mechanic’s journey follows the same arc—ignorance, trauma, competence, then passing it forward.