Against All Oddities: All about making that GTA… run

Sometimes I find myself needing to ride the adrenaline wave. And while some get that raw hormone boost from extreme sports, I get it from adding awful cars to my motley fleet of misfits. While on that high, I like to get as much as possible done before getting distracted by something else. As regular readers will remember, I recently schlepped a decade-dormant Renault GTA from Connecticut to North Carolina. I didn’t need another project, so I’m trying to get it on the road as quickly as possible before momentum wanes. Surf’s up, I guess!

Admittedly, I engaged in a bit of intentional ignorance with this GTA. Since there was no obvious rust, every other mechanical or electronic surprise would be an energizing opportunity, so I did as little investigating as possible before hauling it off.

Now I’ve been, uh, enlightened following a bit of rudimentary research. I’ll let you in on a little secret that only past and present Renault Alliance owners know: Every Alliance, Encore, and GTA that came out of the weeds needs the exact same stuff. Unfortunately, none of it is readily available.

Window regulators, timing belts, and gas tanks are the three-part Achilles heel that grounded all of the GTAs that didn’t rust in half. Not one to do things half-way, I’m going to need to replace each one on my fresh catch. So rather than mope and kick rocks, let’s crack into it, shall we?

First step: sanitization. Though I found the symbiotic relationship between the car’s fungi and algae colonies charming, my experience as a Saturn of Raleigh detailer in high school forced me to evict these organisms. With my mouth shut this time, I proceeded to blast off the entire ecosystem into oblivion.

A mild glow-up was the next item on my punch list. Under all of the plant matter was the dull sheen of heavily oxidized single-stage Sebring Red paint. If the car looked good, I reasoned, I’d have more motivation to persevere when things inevitably got less glamorous. A gift today for the delirious-on-gas-fumes Matt of tomorrow. I tested my buffing pad and trusty marine compound on a vertical surface. After a rinse from a hose, the resulting pink goo created a mural on the side of my barn. But the gleaming paint underneath made an irrefutable case to keep at it, for hours. I do have some swirl marks to contend with, but I have no regrets.

Duly jazzed, I moved on to mechanical concerns. The most relevant concern with the Renault R9 and R11 family of cars is that the timing belt tensioner lurks in the shadows, constantly threatening to grenade your investment. Most U.S.-market Renaults met their death by means of a valve-to-cylinder meet-and-greet, held mere miles after a missed timing belt service interval. Sadly, the taller deck of the GTA-only 2.0-liter means that no ordinary timing belt tensioner endemic to the 1.4- or 1.7-liter engine works. Remember, this unique assembly was made for a run of just 3500 cars! Luckily, a nice fellow in Missouri named Lloyd produces a kit so he can sell them to suckers like me. Once I had the parts in hand, an hour’s work was all it took to swap into the GTA. That should avoid certain death (by timing belt, anyway) for another 40,000 miles.

Via attrition and forecasted rain, my failed window regulator ascended to top priority.

If you’ve ever heard the phrase “pushing a rope” then you’ve unknowingly been briefed on the operating principle of the Renault Alliance window regulator. When brand new, they function with supreme adequacy. With aged grease and brittle plastic components, the whining and growling hand crank functions solely as a raccoon call. French electronics from the 1980s barely work when they’re dry, so it was safe to assume that a half-inch of rain in the floorboards would render them kaput. I fished the regulator out of the door, copied the return address off of my timing belt package, and sent it out to friendly, industrious Lloyd in Missouri for a rebuild.

As I means of holding myself accountable to my promise that I not joyride until the timing belt was fixed, I electively decided to not test the fuel and electrical systems beforehand. Now that I was in the clear, I proceeded with that evaluation. Good thing I was careful, or so the sparks that shot out of the fuel pump test port indicated. Sigh. I ordered a pump and mentally prepared myself for a week of soured hydrocarbon stench infiltrating my hands, arms, and sweatshirt sleeves. The tank was out in about fifteen minutes with minimal spillage. As for turning the tank back into a functional car part? I looked back at the shiny paint, held my breath, and dove in.

Removing the fuel strainer assembly and peering into the tank showed iron oxide stalagmites, along with someone’s half-hearted attempt at applying a liner with the fuel pump in situ. (A word of advice: don’t ever do that.) My wife was out running errands, which meant the disgusting tank actually had to go in my GR86. I carefully shoehorned the tank into the trunk, resisted the temptation to drive my local roundabout in the usual high-g anger, and hauled it as responsibly as possible to Statesville Radiator. There, my fuel vessel was treated to a four-day spa day in a boiling green cauldron. Upon picking it up, the holes were brazed and it stunk a lot less.

Now on to the strainer assembly. With all the electrical connections snapped off, a return line filled with tank epoxy, and rust holes throughout, this would be a test of commitment. Given that all possible donor cars were no better off, I spent several evenings repeatedly scrubbing the CLR-soaked assembly with a toothbrush. Eventually, it was inert enough to tickle with the welder on the lowest possible amperage and solder all of the missing gauge connections. With a freshly POR-15’d tank, permanently stained fingertips, and a full-on downpour arriving in a matter of minutes, I placed the whole assembly back into the car as quickly as possible.

In the middle of the thunderstorm, I hastily grabbed a battery from the local auto parts store plus four gallons of the freshest gas. With a couple spritzes of ether and some coaxing, the car finally roared to life through its perforated exhaust. A quick test drive around the field taught me a bit more: non-functional wipers, nothing backlit but the tach, and an oddly recumbent seating position. But who cares! The hard stuff was all done inside of two weeks, with reserve motivation for the DMV. Voila!

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