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Bullnose Garage is a hands-on journey into classic Ford truck restoration. Follow along as I bring new life to my 1985 F-150 and 1982 Bronco, one wrench turn at a time.

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Welcome to the Garage

Bullnose Garage is a hands-on journey into classic Ford truck restoration. Follow along as I bring new life to my 1985 F-150 and 1982 Bronco, one wrench turn at a time.

I document everything on YouTube @BullnoseGarage. Check it out!
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The Garage's Latest Videos

Ford 7.3 IDI Diesel: How It Works, Weak Spots, Upgrades

Published on January 16, 2026

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Show Transcript
International built it, and Ford stuffed it into just about every truck that actually had to do work. Once the smoke cleared, they realized they hadn’t just built an engine — they built something damn near immortal. But when you can get more power with sensors and software, why would people still chase an old analog diesel? Some folks’ idea of a good time is a diesel that lights off on two batteries, eight glow plugs, and exactly zero laptops. If that’s you, let me introduce you to the Ford 7.3 L IDI. It is definitely not a Power Stroke. This is indirect injection with a mechanical, standardized pump — old school as a box wrench. Today we’re tearing through it front to back so you know exactly how it works, why it lasts, and which factory version you actually want. Howdy folks, Ed here. Welcome back to Bono’s Garage. In this video, we’re going to map the 7.3 IDI from pre-chambered combustion to tailpipe, both naturally aspirated and factory turbo. We’ll keep the story straight on what’s IDI and what’s Power Stroke, break down how those pre-chambers make it a little quieter but a little lazier off the line, and show how the standard DB2 meters fuel with no ECU, no modules, and just good old hydraulic pressure. By the time we close the hood, you’ll know what makes it different, what gives it that signature sound, what to check before you buy, how to set one up for cold starts, which upgrades actually move the needle, and what can actually kill one. Settle in. This is everything you need to know about the Ford 7.3 IDI. Before we dig into the guts of the 7.3, let’s look at the world this thing was born into. Back in the late ’70s and early ’80s, the diesel pickup market was basically the wild west. Fuel prices were ugly, emissions controls were choking the auto industry, and everyone was trying to figure out how to squeeze more work out of a truck without using more gas. GM tried to get there first and face-planted with the infamous Olds 5.7 diesel. That thing gave diesel pickups the same reputation as microwaved sushi. GM did eventually recover with a 6.2 Detroit diesel in ’82 — a big improvement — but even that couldn’t touch what Ford was about to cook up. Ford didn’t want a converted gas engine; they wanted a real diesel built by a real diesel company. So they picked up the phone, called International Harvester — the folks who had been building tractor engines, heavy-duty truck engines, and industrial power plants forever — and said, “We need something our customers can’t kill.” That partnership gave birth to the 6.9 IDI for the 1983 model year. It was simple, quiet for a diesel, and tough enough to idle for hours without fouling anything. The 6.9 proved that Ford trucks and International diesels were a match made in blue-collar heaven. As the ’80s rolled on, Ford needed more grunt. Trailers were getting heavier and competitors were pushing out more powerful diesels. Dodge brought out the 12-valve Cummins in ’89, a direct-injection beast that suddenly made everybody else look slow. GM had their 6.5 turbo on the way, and Ford could not afford to stand still. International responded by evolving the 6.9 into something stronger and more modern without giving up the simplicity that made it so successful. That’s where the 7.3 IDI came from: bigger bore, more power, stronger head clamping, and revised coolant passages. The whole thing was a refinement of the original recipe. From 1988 to 1994, the 7.3 IDI was used in Ford trucks. Workhorse diesel: 3/4-ton trucks, one-ton Econoline lines, box vans, ambulances, fire rigs. If the job was ugly, hot, long, or thankless, odds are the 7.3 IDI was doing it. For a short window in ’93 and ’94, Ford even offered a factory turbo version that made towing at altitude a whole lot easier. Ambulances loved them because they could idle forever without gunking up injectors. U-Haul loved them because renters can’t kill anything this simple. Farmers bought them because fuel quality didn’t really matter. And preppers still want them because without electronics, it’ll run after the apocalypse. But the clock was ticking. Emissions kept tightening, and fuel economy standards were pushing manufacturers toward high-pressure direct injection and electronic control. Dodge was out there with that Cummins — it sounded like a bucket of bolts, but made torque like a freight train. International and Ford needed a next-generation diesel: something cleaner, more powerful, and smarter. That engine became the 7.3 Power Stroke in ’94 — direct injection, high-pressure oil-fired injectors, electronic control, and a whole new frontier. That’s where the 7.3 IDI bowed out. It wasn’t outdated; it was simply the last diesel built for a world that didn’t require computers to make horsepower or pass emissions. It closed the book on the analog era. Before we dissect the 7.3, it’s worth talking about where it came from, because the 6.9 and the 7.3 look like twins until you get them on the end of a stand. The 6.9 IDI kicked things off in ’83. Ford and International built it up bigger for the 7.3. The main difference is bore size — that’s the change that drives everything else. The bore went from 4.00 in on the 6.9 to 4.11 in on the 7.3. Sounds tiny, but that increase adds 24 cubic inches across all eight cylinders. It also thins the cylinder walls just enough to make the 7.3 a little more sensitive to cavitation. That’s one reason coolant additives, SCA or DCA, matter more on a 7.3 than a 6.9. Bigger bores and thinner walls also mean the head needs more clamping force to stay sealed under high pressure. The 6.9 uses 7/16-inch head bolts, and the 7.3 steps up to larger head bolts for much better gasket sealing. Torque one of these down and the difference is obvious — the 7.3 hangs onto its head gaskets better when EGTs climb. The fueling changed too: the 7.3 got higher-flow injectors and new DB2 pump calibrations to keep up with the extra air. That bigger bore needs more fuel, especially under load. International also revised coolant passages and cleaned up some casting quirks from the 6.9 era — still not perfect, but better than the early blocks. They modified glow-plug control as well. The 6.9 uses the old-school automatic relay setup: simple and nearly unkillable. The 7.3 switched to an electronic controller that works great when everything’s healthy. The payoff for all these changes is more power. The 6.9 made about 170 horsepower and 315 lb-ft of torque. The 7.3 bumped that up to 180–190 horsepower and as much as 385 lb-ft, depending on year and calibration. It’s not night and day, and in a 9,000 lb truck you can’t feel it. And then there’s the turbo years: by ’93, Ford offered a factory-turbo 7.3 IDI with revised pistons, a turbo-calibrated DB2 pump, and better heat management — but we’ll dig into that later. A little bit later. The 7.3 is essentially a bored-out 6.9, but that doesn’t do it justice. International had to do a lot of fancy footwork to keep it happy, and that work produced an incredibly solid piece of diesel engineering history that actually moved the ball forward. This thing is analog from stem to stern. IDI stands for indirect injection, which means fuel doesn’t fire straight into the piston bowl like in a modern diesel. Instead, it shoots into a small pre-chamber about the size of a thimble where heat and pressure kick off combustion before it blasts into the main chamber. That pre-chamber is the whole personality of the IDI. It softens combustion clatter, makes the engine smoother than a direct-injection diesel, and makes the engine far more tolerant of bad fuel. It also means the low-end torque feel is a little softer. Here’s what’s actually going on, because it makes more sense once you see it. In a simplified top-down view of an IDI cylinder head you can see where the valves sit. The circle marks the pre-chamber and the opening shows where the combustion jet shoots into the main chamber. In a side view, the big area is the main cylinder with the piston, and that is where most of the air is. The small pocket above is the pre-chamber. When people say pre-chamber, they mean the whole space, not just one part. Part of this pocket is machined into the head and part is a pressed-in steel insert called the pre-chamber cup. The cup is removable if it gets worn, though removing it means the head is coming apart. Together they form one small combustion chamber. The injector sprays fuel into this space and the glow plug is there too, because combustion actually starts in the pre-chamber. Only a very small amount of air is in the pre-chamber; most of the air that makes power is down in the main cylinder. On the compression stroke, as the piston comes up, it compresses all this air and also pushes air into the little pocket. Because the pre-chamber is so small, it heats up much faster than the main chamber, and that’s why ignition always starts there. Diesel engines don’t use a spark — the fuel ignites on its own when heat and pressure are high enough. Glow plugs simply preheat the chamber when the engine is cold so the first fuel injection actually fires instead of just misting on cold metal. Once the engine is hot and spinning, anything flammable will ignite on its own, which is why diesel engines can run away but gasoline engines cannot. Gas engines need a spark on every cycle; a diesel just needs heat and pressure, and a warm IDI provides both, even at idle. The injector fires fuel directly into the pre-chamber, and at that point the heat and pressure are already high enough that the fuel ignites almost instantly. Pressure spikes and the burning mixture has to exit through a narrow throat. That burning jet shoots into the main chamber like a blowtorch and mixes the fuel with the rest of the air in the main chamber. The air kicks off combustion in the main cylinder. The pre-chamber is not where the power is made; it’s the starter motor for combustion in this diesel engine. It smooths out the burn and softens the pressure spike. That’s why an IDI sounds different and feels a little more polite than a direct-injection diesel. If you’re enjoying the video, hit like, subscribe, or check out patreon.com/bullnose Garage for behind-the-scenes stuff and more of me. The two-stage burn smooths out the combustion shock. It’s why the IDI has softer clatter than a Cummins or a Power Stroke. That can be good or bad depending on what you expect the diesel to sound like, but either way it’s unique and immediately gives an IDI away. Another effect is torque response, or lack of it. Direct injection fires fuel straight into the piston bowl—instant boom torque. With indirect injection the fireball has one extra step before it does real work, so the engine feels slower off the line, lazier below 1,500 RPM, and more polite. Once it’s revved and the chambers are hot, the IDI feels stronger. That initial hit always has that ‘hold on, let me think about it’ personality. Pre-chambers also need more heat to be happy. That’s why glow plugs matter and why cold starts can be rough when an IDI needs a minute to settle in before it pulls hard. Feeding the pre-chamber is a purely mechanical DB2 rotary pump, pencil-style injectors, eight glow plugs for cold starts, and a simple mechanical lift pump on the block. No ECU, no OBD port, no sensors telling you that other sensors are mad at you. If you can set timing, chase a ground, and listen for air leaks, you can keep an IDI running more or less forever. The DB2 itself is basically a tiny hydraulic brain with a cam ring and a pair of plungers. The cam ring rides on a pump shaft, and as it spins it squeezes the plungers in and out. Those plungers pressurize the fuel going to each injector. Fuel amount comes from a tiny internal metering valve. Timing is handled by a hydraulic advance piston that moves the cam ring a few degrees as internal pump pressure rises with RPM. The faster the pump spins, the earlier it fires automatically with zero electronics. No computer, no module throwing a tantrum and shouting check engine just because it woke up in a bad mood. Pump sees RPM, pressure rises, advance piston moves, timing advances. It’s a neat trick. Because the DB2 IDI runs much lower pressures than direct-injection systems, which can reach many thousands to tens of thousands of psi, everything is slower and gentler. The injectors pop at around 1,900 psi, dump fuel into the pre-chamber, and let the chamber do the mixing. That psi is nothing compared to a modern common rail, but the IDI doesn’t need it. The pre-chamber handles the turbulence; the injectors just need to be consistent. When they’re balanced, the engine runs butter-smooth. When they’re not, you’ll feel it in your fillings. Glow plugs — good ones are required. Without them, this engine will crank until the cows come home. Stick with Mocraft Baru plugs; they are less likely to swell, snap, and break off in the head than those Amazon specials. The 7.3 IDI is a cast-iron brick with a rotating assembly that was designed with the… Subtlety of a sledgehammer. Everything about it is overbuilt, oversized, and unapologetically heavy. The block is a deep-skirt gray iron casting with wide main webs and plenty of bottom-end rigidity. The bore is 4.11 in. The stroke is 4.18, and between the two you get 444 cubic inches. Compression is sky-high, about 21½ to one on the naturally aspirated engines and a hair lower on the turbo models because of piston changes. Deck height sits just over 10 in. A bare block weighs more than some entire import engines. The crankshaft is cast iron, fully counterweighted, and rides on huge main journals over 3 in across. The rod journals are around 2½. It’s all gear-driven: no timing chains, no belts, no tensioners, nothing that stretches. The cam is driven straight off that gear set, which is also why these engines have that distinct mechanical sound when they idle. The firing order is 1-2-7-3-4-5-6-8. Inside the block, the rods are forged old-school I-beam pieces with bushed wrist pins and enough strength to handle far more power than the fuel system will ever give them. The pistons are cast aluminum with steel inserts and a depression design to work with the pre-chamber combustion system. Turbo engines got revised pistons with a different bowl and a slight compression drop, but the overall design philosophy didn’t change: build it heavy, build it simple, build it so a farmer can throw a rod through the pan and the crank will still be straight. The heads are cast iron too, and they are not light. Inline valves, no fancy angles, no tricks—just simple ports feeding a pre-combustion chamber that handles most of the mixing and burn. Valve sizes are actually modest for an engine this big; while I couldn’t find definitive numbers, 1.88 in on the intake and 1.6 in on the exhaust is about right. Everything about the valvetrain is hydraulic flat-tappet and designed to last a long time. Nobody hot-cams an IDI—that’s not what these engines are for. Cooling is oversized as well: huge coolant volume, a cast iron high-flow water pump, an external tube-and-shell oil cooler bolted to the side of the block, and—this is important—a thermostat that only works if you use the correct IDI version with a little metal hat that closes the bypass. And finally, the part that nobody ever believes until they try to install one: the weight. A complete 7.3 IDI is extremely heavy when fully dressed—comparable to Cummins territory. Everything about this engine’s design answers the same question: how do we make a diesel survive decades of abuse with the absolute minimum number of failure points? Big iron, long stroke, low-pressure injection, gear-driven timing, simple hydraulics, easy-to-diagnose fuel system. If you want to answer the question I asked at the beginning of the video—why would someone choose an old diesel?—there it is. I mentioned the turbo version starting in ’93, and when people hear ‘7.3 turbo’ they sometimes assume it’s a baby Power Stroke. But the factory turbo 7.3 IDI is still 100% an IDI: pre-chambers, mechanical pump, pencil injectors—the whole deal. The turbo just gives it a little more lung capacity. The story of why Ford added that turbo tells you a lot about where the diesel market was in the early ’90s. The naturally aspirated 7.3, or M code, carried Ford through the late ’80s, and for most jobs it was perfectly fine—hauling trailers, running farm equipment, pulling U-Hauls, and serving college students. By ’91 and ’92, Ford had a problem. Dodge had that 12-valve Cummins—direct injection, turbocharged—tractor-pull torque right off idle. GM had the 6.5 turbo diesel coming online. Ford’s naturally aspirated 7.3 IDI was reliable, but it was slow, especially at altitude or under heavy load. Ford needed a way to bump power without redesigning the entire engine. And International already had a solution: add a turbocharger to the IDI they were already building. So in ’93 and ’94, Ford offered a factory turbo 7.3 IDI that kept the same basic architecture but breathed a whole lot better. Called the K-code, it was Ford’s stopgap before the Power Stroke arrived in late ’94. But it wasn’t just a half-baked band-aid. The turbo engines got revised pistons, stronger pin bosses, and a slightly different bowl shape. Compression dropped just a hair, enough to keep cylinder temps under control. Cooling got better. The DB2 pump was recalibrated for more fuel. And the turbo itself was a modest, quick-spooling unit designed for towing and drivability, not for rolling coal or bragging rights. On the road, the difference is noticeable but not dramatic. A turbo 7.3 doesn’t suddenly turn into a power strip. What it does do is flatten out the hills, pick up speed with less drama, and hold a toe load without feeling like it’s doing long division in its head. At altitude, the turbo models feel more alive because they’re not suffocating on thin air. And because the turbo helps combustion efficiency, they actually run a bit cleaner under load with less black smoke when tuned correctly. That doesn’t mean the naturally aspirated engines are bad. Far from it. The NA 7.3 IDI is the purest version of the design: simple, quiet, predictable, dead-nuts reliable. Fewer parts, lower cylinder pressure, and less heat mean the naturally aspirated engines tend to live forever. If you want an absolute apocalypse truck, the NA 7.3 is really hard to beat. It’s also quieter, which matters more than you think when you’re spending six hours towing at 2,300 rpm. And the turbo engines come with one other trade-off: heat. More boost means higher EGTs, more stress on head gaskets, and more demand on the cooling system. Nothing dramatic, nothing dangerous. But if you’re planning to work a turbo IDI hard, you need good coolant, clean oil, and an eye on the pyrometer. The turbo trucks also tend to have tighter packaging under the hood, which means access around the passenger-side exhaust path can feel like solving a Rubik’s cube with welding gloves on. So which one do you want? If you’re hauling heavy, running at altitude, or you just want the ID feel a little less leisurely, factory turbo is absolutely the one to get. It’s still analog, still reliable, and still cheap to keep alive. It just has enough extra kick to feel modern at highway speeds. But if you’re after maximum simplicity, maximum longevity, and an engine you can fix in the field with a screwdriver, the naturally aspirated 7.3 is still the king. And this part’s important: either engine can take an aftermarket turbo. In fact, a lot of naturally aspirated owners bolt on Banks or Hypermax kits and get results every bit as good, if not better, than the factory turbo models. The difference is that the turbo engines were built with a little more confidence from the factory, whereas the NA engines tend to need a little bit more self-control on the boost gauge if you want them to. People say “live forever.” I kept saying “Power Stroke” a bunch, and a 7.3 turbo isn’t a Power Stroke. So what is a Power Stroke? The 7.3 IDI and the 7.3 Power Stroke might as well be from different plants. We’ve covered the IDI and know it’s simple and reliable. But in the early ’90s that suddenly didn’t feel like enough. Emissions requirements rose, power expectations increased, Dodge had the Cummins, and Ford needed something sharper, cleaner, and much stronger. So in 1994 the 7.3 Power Stroke arrived. It wasn’t an update; it was a whole new species. The Power Stroke is direct injection, electronically controlled, and uses a high-pressure oil system that basically turns engine oil into hydraulic muscle for the injectors. Instead of almost 2,000 PSI at an injector like an IDI, you’re talking up to 21,000 PSI. Instead of a small DB2 pump doing all the timing and fueling, you have a computer, sensors, a high-pressure oil pump, injection control pressure, pulse-width calculations—the whole deal. Because of all that, the Power Stroke hits way harder. A stock IDI might give you 180 horsepower on a good day; a stock Power Stroke is already in the mid-200s and pulls like a freight train thanks to direct injection and boost you can actually feel. Add tuning and a few supporting mods and suddenly you’ve got a truck that can run toe-to-toe with even modern diesels. But raw power isn’t the whole story. The cost of that performance is complexity. The Power Stroke has sensors everywhere. It has wiring harnesses, an IDM, a PCM, UVCH connectors, valve covers, oil pressure regulators under the valve cover, harness clips that love to wiggle loose, and injectors that cost more than some people’s first car. When everything’s healthy, they’re fantastic. But when something small goes wrong, you can chase electrical ghosts like Scooby-Doo. The IDI doesn’t do that. If it won’t start, you’ve only got a handful of suspects. You can diagnose an IDI with a multimeter. The worst-case scenario is usually a single part and maybe a Saturday afternoon. The two engines even feel different behind the wheel. The IDI is smooth, deep, tractor-like. It pulls steady from idle and gives you a slow, confident surge that never feels hurried. The Power Stroke is modern diesel energy: it spools, it snarls, it shoves. The torque comes in quick, the top end feels alive, and the whole engine has a sharpness the IDI never had. Those electronics bring precision. Which one’s better? It depends entirely on what you want from your truck. If you want dead-nuts reliability so simple it borders on spiritual, the IDI wins. If you want a truck you can diagnose with a dollar-store multimeter and a wrench, IDI. If you want an EMP-proof, zombie-stomping companion, IDI every day of the week. One is simple and unbreakable. The other is powerful and sophisticated. Even though they share a badge and displacement, they’re not competitors—they’re siblings from different eras. Which one you choose boils down to which reasons you care about. The 7.3 IDI does have a reputation for being unkillable, and it deserves it, but “unkillable” is just a fun way to put it. These engines are often called tougher than most. They do have weak spots, but they’re the kind that come from age, neglect, or a fuel system designed back when Reagan was still telling jokes on TV. None of this is a dealbreaker. In fact, most of it is exactly what you want from an old-school mechanical diesel: predictable problems with simple fixes. If you’re shopping for one, or already own one, here’s what actually matters. The biggest problem on the IDI, hands down, is air intrusion. If the truck hard-starts, surges, stalls, or feels like it’s possessed by the ghost of engines past, it’s almost always air getting into the fuel return system. Those little rubber hoses and plastic caps on top of the injectors get old, crack, and leak air overnight. People swear the injection pump is dead when it’s really a $20 return line kit that’s easy to replace. If the seller fires it up cold and the engine stumbles, surges, or takes forever to smooth, that’s your first clue. Next up is the lift pump. This small mechanical pump feeds the DB2, and that steady fuel flow also helps keep the pump cool. When it gets weak, the truck feels like it’s sipping fuel through a coffee straw. You’ll get low power, inconsistent throttle response, or the engine just shutting off like somebody unplugged it. It also loves teaming up with air intrusion to ruin your day. Thankfully, lift pumps are pretty cheap. Glow plug problems are common, especially with cheap plugs. The 7.3’s electronic glow plug controller can fail and overheat plugs, underheat them, or refuse to work at all. If the truck cold-starts poorly, it might be air intrusion, but it might also be a glow plug system that gave up. Those factory bullet connectors on the plugs eventually build resistance from heat cycles. That knocks one or two plugs offline and suddenly the truck sounds like it’s trying to start on three cylinders. Always check for power at the plugs before assuming the plugs are bad. The DB2 pump itself can develop leaks or timing issues as it ages. The advanced piston inside the pump gets lazy after enough miles, causing white smoke or a rough cold idle, and a worn internal head and rotor can cause hard starts when the engine is hot. That doesn’t mean the engine is worn out; it means you’re due for a pump rebuild. A dying DB2 doesn’t usually bother you on the highway, but it’ll politely ask for retirement if you listen closely. Oil cooler leaks are another IDI classic. Those O-rings flatten with time and start leaving spots on your driveway. Rebuilding the cooler is messy, but it’s straightforward and buys you years. Exhaust leaks can show up too, especially on naturally aspirated engines where the manifolds warp slightly over time. It’s often just noisy, but fix them: leaks can cook nearby hardware and hide other issues. On turbo engines, leaking up-pipes will kill spool and make the truck feel like it’s towing a house. Oil leaks in general kind of come standard — valve cover seep, rear mains, misting, oil pans sweating like a farm kid in gym class. If you demand a dry diesel, you bought the wrong decade. Also know that pulling the pan to replace the factory RTV isn’t a simple job. Turbo models add heat, and heat adds stress. Nothing catastrophic; nothing the IDI can’t handle. A turbo truck rewards an owner who actually watches EGTs and coolant temps. Now, here’s where we merge buying advice and maintenance into one simple philosophy. If a 7.3 IDI starts cold without drama, idles smoothly, doesn’t surge, pulls clean under throttle, holds temperature, and doesn’t sound like it’s fighting for its life, you’re probably looking at an engine that will outlive the truck that’s wrapped around it. Be more worried about rust and rot at that point. If it does show signs of air intrusion, lift pump weakness, glow plug issues, lazy timing, or small leaks, that’s actually good — those are easy, cheap, and predictable fixes. Use them as negotiation leverage. Almost every weak spot on an IDI is a maintenance item, not a design flaw. Fix it once, stay ahead of it with basic care, and the engine will run for a long time. I saved the most catastrophic one for last. It deserves its own section because it’s impossible to spot until it’s too late: impossible to check for, easy to solve, easy to forget, and extremely destructive if you forget it. Cavitation is one of those problems that sounds like a myth until you understand what’s actually going on inside these engines. Here’s the cylinder. On the outside, coolant flows around the cylinder walls. I’m not going to get technical and draw the passages — just understand the coolant flow. On any diesel engine, the cylinder walls flex. On these old IDIs, they flex a lot. Each combustion event makes the walls vibrate like a tuning fork, sending pressure waves into the coolant. From basic physics: waves have crests and troughs. In the low-pressure troughs, the local static pressure can fall below the vapor pressure of the coolant, so some coolant briefly vaporizes — not because it’s hot, but because of the low pressure. Those bubbles are microscopic; that is cavitation. The bubbles form in the low-pressure trough, and the following high-pressure crest causes them to collapse. When the bubbles implode against the metal, the shock is violent enough to chip microscopic particles from the cylinder wall. If that happens once, it’s not a big deal. Repeated millions of times produces pitting on the cylinder wall. Those pits and roughness create more pressure-wave scattering, which causes more cavitation. Over time this cycle digs progressively deeper and worsens the damage. It’s a positive feedback loop straight to diesel hell. On a sleeved engine, like a heavy-duty big rig, that means a pretty bad day once the wear pushes through. It’s not great, but you can resleeve that and be on your way. On an IDI, where the block itself is the cylinder wall, once cavitation like this actually punches through and lets combustion gases into the cooling system, the block is done. Unless you want to spend more money than it’s worth, there’s no sleeving, no patching, no miracle fix. At that point the engine has crossed the event horizon and the only outcome is failure. I promised a stupidly easy fix: SEAs, supplemental coolant additives. Think of SEAs like a microscopic armor coating inside the cooling jacket. The main ingredient is typically nitrite. Nitrites react with the iron in the block, dissolved oxygen, and the coolant to build a very thin, stable protective film on the cylinder wall. Think of it almost like seasoning a cast-iron pan. Cavitation still happens because the vibrations remain. When bubbles collapse they do so against the protective barrier; they still damage the barrier but not the cylinder wall. Because there’s iron in the block and oxygen in the coolant, the nitrites rebuild the film — it’s self-healing. Without SEA protection, cavitation will eventually win and the block becomes a very heavy doorstop. With the right additive level and the occasional check to make sure coolant levels and concentrations are correct, cavitation becomes a non-issue. Many overheated, worn-out, or mystery-failure IDIs are cavitation victims. The tragedy is that this is completely preventable, simply and cheaply. But cavitation feels mysterious and technical, so people skip it. Don’t be one of those people. Always properly season your IDI before you cook with it. Now about upgrades: this is where a lot of IDI owners lose the plot. They bolt on a giant exhaust tip, a turbo whistle, or a cold-air kit that only drains money, then wonder why the truck still struggles on hills. In reality the 7.3 IDI only cares about a handful of meaningful upgrades. If you do those right the engine wakes up like you added an extra cylinder. Start with the fueling system. The standard DB2 pump responds to a fresh rebuild or a mild performance calibration. Those pumps wear with age, and after 30 years some barely deliver the proper fuel volume. A healthier, mildly tuned DB2 won’t turn the IDI into a drag truck, but it does give better throttle response, cleaner burns, and more mid-range. Don’t crank the fuel screw too far unless you want a rolling soot cloud. A strong mechanical lift pump or a properly set up low-pressure electric pump keeps the DB2 happy and extends its life. Match a freshened pump with balanced injectors and you’ll see a night-and-day difference. Old injectors dribble, pop late, or don’t pop at all. When you install a matched, clean set, the idle smooths out, the smoke calms down, and the whole engine runs much better. It remembers what it was built for. You’ll notice it in the first five seconds of driving. Timing is huge in an IDI. The DB2 is a mechanical pump; its timing curve is locked into the Camry. If base timing is off by even a couple of degrees, the truck can feel gutless, smoky, or just plain cranky. Set it right with a luminosity meter or at least a meter that can read the pulse line. Don’t do it by ear unless you really enjoy piston-slap ASMR. I already covered the glow plug system: don’t get fancy, don’t buy cheap, and don’t cause yourself pain. Moving on to air delivery. Cold-air intakes? No — not on these. The stock fender snorkel already feeds cool air. Gains are negligible unless you’re outflowing a huge turbo. Most cold-air kits for IDIs are decorations. Run a clean filter and call it good. If you have a naturally aspirated IDI and you want meaningful power, turbo is the biggest wake-up you can do. It is the way. Even 6 to 8 lbs of boost transforms the engine. Suddenly you’ve got altitude performance, real towing power, and a quicker spool off the line. The factory turbo is fine for usability, but not impressive for power. The Banks ATS and Hypermax kits are well proven: they spool fast and keep EGTs under control. Even a bone-stock IDI gets a second life with a turbo; it’s the single best upgrade you can do. If you do a turbo, or even if not, cooling is also a good upgrade. A bigger radiator, a healthy fan clutch, fresh oil cooler seals, and proper coolant with the right SCA charge do more for reliability than any bolt-on horsepower part you can buy. An IDI that runs cool is an IDI that lives forever. The stock exhaust is a cork, especially the turbo downpipe. Ford crushed it to clear the firewall. Opening it up with a free-flowing 3-in or 3-1/2-in system helps the turbo spool faster and keeps those EGTs down. You don’t have to make it loud; you just have to let it exhale. Bang for the buck, replacing the old cobra-head downpipe on a factory turbo is one of the best mods you can do. So, after all of that, why does a 7.3 IDI still have such a following? Because it’s the last diesel Ford ever sold that doesn’t need a laptop, a scan tool, or a therapy session to keep running. It has that simple, old-school charm. It’s the kind of engine that lets you dip your toes into diesel without giving up strength or reliability — a mechanical gateway truck and another signpost in Ford history. It’s not the fastest diesel Ford ever built, and it’s not the strongest. The power that came after it is better in every measurable way except the one that matters to a certain kind of person: the IDI just works. Rain, snow, mud, altitude, bad fuel, bad owners — it doesn’t care. It’s an old-iron handshake from a different era. This engine didn’t earn its reputation by being fast or fancy. It earned it by being the diesel equivalent of a cast-iron skillet: use it, abuse it, season it, keep it full of oil, and it’ll outlive you. That’s everything I know — or pretend to know — about the Ford 7.3 IDI diesel engine. Want one, or do you still drive that old ’88 your grandpappy used to drive horses to the fair? Drop me a comment and let me know. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, gripes, or internet ramblings, or if I got something wrong, drop it below. Thanks again for watching; we’ll see you next time. Want to dig deeper into the builds, the side projects, and the stuff that doesn’t always make it on YouTube? Or even just want to get to know me a little better, come hang out on patreon.com/bullnose. Bullnose Garage helps keep the lights on; Beerfridgeful and the builds are funded. I appreciate you guys being part of the garage. She’s rough around the edges, but she’s doing fine. Tinker away, hitting things to shine at Moon’s garage. She’s considered divine. Thanks again for watching. We will see you next time.

International built it, Ford put it to work, and decades later the old 7.3 IDI still has a cult following. Not because it’s the fastest thing to wear a blue oval, but because it doesn’t need a laptop to live a long, useful life. Two batteries, eight glow plugs, zero computers. That’s the charm.

In the video above, I map the 7.3 IDI from pre-chamber to tailpipe… how indirect injection actually works, what changed from the 6.9, why the factory K-code turbo exists, what really fails on these engines, and the one silent killer you can prevent with pocket change.

Why the 7.3 IDI Exists

Roll back to the late ’70s and early ’80s. Diesel pickups were chaos. GM’s Olds 5.7 faceplant didn’t help. Ford wanted a durable, real diesel, so they went to International. The 6.9 IDI launched for 1983, proved the pairing worked, and the 7.3 followed as the stronger evolution in 1988. From 1988–1994, Ford stuffed the 7.3 IDI into F-250s, F-350s, Econolines, box vans, ambulances… anything that had to start, idle, tow, and do it again tomorrow.

By ’93–’94, Ford added a factory turbo version to keep up with the Cummins crowd and altitude towing. Then emissions and power expectations pushed everything to the direct-injection, electronically controlled 7.3 Power Stroke in late ’94. The IDI closed the analog chapter.

6.9 vs 7.3: What Actually Changed

They look like twins until you measure them. The 7.3 is a bored-out 6.9: the bore grows from 4.00 to 4.11 inches, which nets 444 cubic inches across eight cylinders. That thin-wall reality makes the 7.3 more sensitive to cavitation, so coolant additives matter more here than on the 6.9.

Other upgrades:

  • Head clamping: 6.9 uses 7/16-inch head bolts; the 7.3 steps up to larger bolts for better gasket sealing under heat and load.
  • Fueling: higher-flow injectors and revised DB2 pump calibrations on the 7.3 to match the extra air.
  • Cooling and casting: revised coolant passages and cleaned-up castings on later 7.3 blocks.
  • Glow control: 6.9’s nearly unkillable relay vs. 7.3’s electronic controller (great when healthy).

Power bumps with it: roughly 170 hp/315 lb-ft on the 6.9 up to about 180–190 hp and as much as 385 lb-ft on the 7.3 depending on year and calibration. In a 9,000 lb truck, don’t expect fireworks but you’ll feel the extra grunt under load.

What “IDI” Really Means

Indirect injection doesn’t shoot fuel directly into a piston bowl like a modern diesel. It fires into a small pre-chamber in the cylinder head. Heat and pressure in that thimble-sized chamber light the fuel, then a narrow throat jets the burning mix into the main chamber where the real work happens.

Why It Sounds and Feels Different

  • Smoother clatter: the two-stage burn softens the pressure spike, so an IDI is quieter than a DI diesel like a Cummins or Power Stroke.
  • Lazy off the line: the extra step means softer low-RPM torque. Below ~1,500 rpm it’s more polite, then it wakes up once everything’s hot and moving.
  • Fuel tolerance: the pre-chamber turbulence helps the engine deal with marginal fuel quality better than many DI setups.

The Mechanical Fuel System: DB2, Injectors, Glow Plugs

No ECU, no OBD port, no modules to argue with. The 7.3 runs a DB2 rotary pump, pencil injectors, eight glow plugs, and a simple mechanical lift pump. The DB2 is a hydraulic brain: a cam ring drives plungers that pressurize fuel, an internal metering valve controls quantity, and an advance piston nudges timing earlier with pump pressure and RPM. The injectors pop around 1,900 psi. Low by modern standards, but the pre-chamber doesn’t need common-rail pressure to mix. It wants consistency.

Glow plugs matter. Cold starts depend on them. Cheap plugs swell and break; electrical resistance at aged connectors knocks cylinders offline. If it cranks forever on a cold morning, don’t assume the pump is toast—start with glow system basics and air leaks first.

Inside the Engine: Big Iron, Gear Drive, Built To Last

The 7.3 IDI is a cast-iron brick with the subtlety of a sledgehammer:

  • Displacement: 444 cubic inches (4.11-inch bore, 4.18-inch stroke)
  • Compression: about 21.5:1 NA; slightly lower on turbo pistons
  • Block: deep-skirt gray iron, wide main webs, serious bottom-end rigidity
  • Crank: cast iron, fully counterweighted, huge journals
  • Rods: forged I-beams with bushed pins, built to handle more than the fuel system will dish out
  • Valvetrain: hydraulic flat tappets, simple heads with inline valves and pre-chamber cups
  • Timing: all gear-driven: no chains, no belts, no stretch
  • Firing order: 1-2-7-3-4-5-6-8
  • Cooling: high-flow water pump, big coolant volume, external tube-and-shell oil cooler

One easy-to-miss detail: the thermostat must be the correct IDI unit with the little metal “hat” that closes the bypass. Wrong part, wrong temp control.

Factory Turbo IDI (K-Code): The Why and What

When the DI Cummins started stealing the show, Ford answered with a factory-turbo 7.3 in ’93–’94. It’s still 100% IDI just with better lungs.

Changes on Turbo Models

  • Revised pistons with stronger pin bosses and a different bowl
  • Slight compression drop for temperature control
  • Cooling tweaks and a turbo-calibrated DB2
  • Modest, quick-spooling turbo aimed at towing and drivability

Result: not a rocket ship, but hills flatten out, altitude feels less suffocating, and a properly tuned truck runs cleaner under load. Trade-offs are the usual: more heat, more attention to EGTs and coolant, and tighter underhood packaging on the passenger side.

NA vs Turbo vs Add-On Kits: Which One To Buy?

  • NA (M-code): simplest, quietest, lowest stress. If you want an apocalypse-grade truck you can fix with a screwdriver, this is your flavor.
  • Factory turbo (K-code): same analog soul with better altitude performance and towing manners. Watch heat, maintain cooling, enjoy the extra kick.
  • Add-on kits: Banks or Hypermax on an NA IDI can match or beat factory-turbo results if you’re sensible with boost and fueling.

IDI vs 7.3 Power Stroke: Same Displacement, Totally Different

The Power Stroke isn’t an IDI with a bigger turbo. It’s direct injection, electronically controlled, and uses a high-pressure oil system to drive injectors. It hits harder and responds quicker, but the price is complexity: sensors, modules, harnesses, and more ways for a small gremlin to ruin a Saturday.

The IDI is the analog alternative: smooth, tractor-like, steady torque, and a short suspect list when it misbehaves. Pick your poison: raw simplicity or electronic precision.

The Real Weak Spots (And Why They’re Mostly Easy)

Air Intrusion

Number one problem, hands down. Old return hoses and plastic caps on the injectors crack and let air in. Symptoms: hard starts, surging, stalling, general poltergeist behavior. A basic return line kit often fixes what people blame on a bad pump.

Lift Pump

The mechanical lift pump feeds and cools the DB2. When weak, throttle response goes weird, power falls off, and the engine can shut down like someone flipped a switch… especially when combined with air intrusion. Fortunately, it’s cheap and straightforward.

Glow Plug System

The 7.3’s electronic controller can fail or over/underheat plugs. Aged connectors build resistance and knock plugs offline. Always check for power at the plugs before assuming the plugs are bad.

DB2 Aging

Advance pistons get lazy, causing white smoke or rough cold idle. Worn head-and-rotor assemblies cause hot-start drama. That’s a rebuild, not a eulogy.

Oil Cooler and Exhaust Leaks

Oil cooler O-rings flatten and seep. Rebuild is messy but simple. Exhaust leaks are common… manifold warp on NA trucks, up-pipe leaks on turbo trucks (kills spool, adds heat). Oil seepage in general? It’s an old diesel so temper expectations.

Cavitation: The Silent Block Killer

This is the one that can scrap a block without warning. Cylinder wall vibration sends pressure waves into the coolant. Micro-bubbles form in low-pressure troughs and implode in the high-pressure crests. Each collapse chips microscopic metal… repeat that millions of times and you pit through the wall. On a sleeved engine, you resleeve. On an IDI, the block itself is the wall. Game over.

The Cheap Fix That Saves Engines

Use SCA/DCA coolant additives. Nitrite-based chemistry builds a thin protective film on iron surfaces. Bubbles collapse against the film, not the wall, and the film self-heals in the presence of iron and oxygen. Keep your coolant healthy and properly charged with SCAs, and cavitation becomes a non-issue. Skip it, and you might own a very heavy doorstop.

Upgrades That Matter (And the Junk That Doesn’t)

Fueling and Timing

  • Fresh or mildly calibrated DB2: restores volume and response on tired pumps.
  • Balanced injectors: stop dribbles and late pops; smooths idle, reduces smoke.
  • Set base timing correctly: use a meter; a couple degrees off makes an IDI feel cranky and smoky.

Air and Exhaust

  • Turbo on NA: 6–8 psi transforms drivability, towing, and altitude manners. Banks and Hypermax kits are proven.
  • Exhaust: the stock system, especially the factory turbo downpipe, acts like a cork. A free-flowing 3–3.5 inch system lowers EGTs and helps spool without needing to be loud.
  • Cold-air kits: the stock fender snorkel already draws cool air. Most aftermarket “CAI” on an IDI is cosmetic.

Cooling and Reliability

  • Healthy fan clutch, bigger radiator if needed, fresh oil cooler seals
  • Correct IDI thermostat (the one with the bypass “hat”)
  • Proper coolant with the right SCA charge

Do those and the truck feels like someone added an extra cylinder. Skip them and you’ll spend money on shiny parts while the real gains sit on the bench.

Quick Buying Checklist

  • Cold start: fires without drama, idles smoothly after a short glow cycle
  • Behavior: no surging or stalling (air intrusion), steady throttle response (lift pump)
  • Smoke: avoid white on cold start from lazy timing/DB2 unless you plan a rebuild
  • Heat: holds temp under load; watch for oil cooler leaks
  • Turbo trucks: ensure up-pipes aren’t leaking; check downpipe and EGTs
  • Cooling system: use SCA/DCA-treated coolant; assume you’ll flush and charge it

Most IDI “problems” are maintenance items you can fix in a weekend. If the engine runs clean and stays cool, start looking for rust before you worry about the long block.

Why the 7.3 IDI Still Has a Following

It’s the last diesel Ford sold that doesn’t need electronics to behave. Smooth, deep, tractor-like power. Simple systems. Predictable failures. It starts, idles, pulls, and shrugs off bad fuel, bad weather, and occasionally bad owners. Not the strongest or the fastest, but it just works. Think cast-iron skillet: use it, season it, keep it full of oil, and it’ll outlive the truck wrapped around it.

Wrap-Up

If you want a diesel you can diagnose with a multimeter and a wrench, the 7.3 IDI is your huckleberry. If you want sharper response and bigger numbers, the Power Stroke is a different animal entirely. Either way, know what you’re getting into, add SCAs, and keep an eye on heat. Check out the full breakdown in the video above, and let me know in the comments. Are you team IDI or team Power Stroke?


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Stuck Ford Head Bolts: Heat, Wax, and a Ruined Head
Show Transcript
If you saw my first video in this teardown series, you know I broke six bolts taking just the top end off this engine: two exhaust bolts, two water pump bolts, and two bolts when removing the intake. Howdy folks, Ed here. Welcome back to Bull’s Garage. After that happened I asked the internet for help and got lots of suggestions — everything from heat and heat cycles to using a torch, a welder, a hammer, candle wax, crayons, freezing, and more penetrating oil. Basically people told me to throw the entire periodic table at this engine. Some even said to throw the engine in a river and never speak of it again. We’re not doing that. Today I’m going back at it to try to get these bolts out using the information I gathered from your responses, and we’ll see what happens. These bolts will be out of this head; whether the head is usable again, we’ll see. Stick around. If you’ve torn down old crusty engines before, there’s a good chance you’ve snapped a bolt. Here’s the situation: the broken bolts are on the heads and the timing cover. None of those are parts I need for this build. I probably won’t keep the heads and I’ll toss the timing cover. I don’t have years of experience tearing down engines, so this is a perfect opportunity to learn how to remove difficult bolts on parts I don’t care about. Hopefully you can learn along with me, or laugh because you’ve done this a million times and know what I’m doing wrong. Of the six bolts, four are in cast iron — two still have a lot of thread and two are broken almost flush with the head. The other two up here are in aluminum; those are the two exhaust bolts. Here are the two water pump bolts. Here is the better of the two top intake bolts, and here is the really scary one. First I’ll try to do this without welding the front two. I’m almost certain I’ll need to weld the others, but I’ll try these without welding. I’ll grind a couple of flats on the bolts, get some heat on them, and use a good strong pair of vice grips with penetrating oil to wriggle them loose. Get the grips on as tight as my fingers can stand. Now I’m heating up the timing cover because it’s aluminum — aluminum expands faster than steel, so with heat I hope to rock the bolt free. Let’s see if we can wiggle it free. I’m getting some movement. It’s actual movement, not just shifting gasket material. All right, I’ll come around to get more leverage and hit it again. It stinks like hell, but it’s not hurting anything. It’s turning — it’s rough, but it’s turning. Part of the trick is to wiggle back and forth. If you just keep going the same direction, you’ll bind it up and risk snapping it. I think I’m going to be able to get this out. It’s starting to get squishy on me. That makes a big difference. It’s starting to cool off on me. That puppy was caught in there, but we got it. The trick is heating and cooling cycles and a lot of penetrating oil. There it goes. The interior threads on these are so messed up that at some point it’s not even unthreading. I’m just wiggling it straight out — I have to pull out and turn to get it to move. Checking my camera to make sure you can see this crusty son of a… Look at that thing. I could try the same thing over here. This bolt is already pretty well munged up, so I might try it because if I screw it up I can still weld a nut onto the end. Let’s give that a try. That helps suck the penetrating oil up into the grooves. We’ll get this on there and see if we can get it to move. Move for me. Come on. It feels like it might be. Nope. I’m just twisting the end; I don’t see any movement at the head. You know what? That just popped right off. That was worth the experiment. I still got plenty of meat here. So this exhaust bolt really refused to cooperate, and this is where things started going sideways. I didn’t get a good weld on there. What I’m trying to do is weld a nut onto the broken stud and back it out. In theory that gives me a fresh surface to grab, plus a bunch of heat right where I need it. In practice, not so much. I’m not getting a good weld. I’m pretty sure the steel stud is basically bonded to the cast iron head at this point, and cast iron is really good at pulling heat away. Instead of the weld puddle flowing down into the stud and really fusing, most of the heat is getting sucked down into the head. Hold on. That looks good. This is so janky. Oh my goodness. Am I just that bad of a welder? Maybe I am. The nut looks welded, but the stud itself isn’t actually becoming part of the weld. This is why I start using a torch to preheat the stud — hot enough to hopefully give me a little better fusion this time. I’ll be honest: I’m not an experienced welder. I didn’t want to crank the voltage and start blasting because I didn’t want to make things worse or damage the head even more. So I’m trying to walk that line between getting enough heat and not going full grill on it. Nope. This is frustrating. At this point in the video, this is before I asked the internet for advice. No wax, no crayons, no freeze spray, no exotic tricks yet. This is just me, a welder, a torch, penetrating oil, and a whole lot of stubbornness. And yeah, this bolt is not impressed. All right, guys. I’m going to have to come back to this one — I’m running out of camera time. One time a really good friend of mine said, “Ed, with all of your extensive experience tearing down engines, what is your absolute favorite part of doing an engine teardown on a 30-year-old crusty Ford engine?” And you know what I said? I said, “My friend, easily my favorite part of doing an engine teardown is all of the broken bolts.” I love that part. Yeah, everything I just said is completely not true. I don’t have any friends. Hello. All right, guys, round two with the bolts from hell. I’ve been waiting to do this for like three weeks. The very first thing I’m going to do is whack this a few times with a hammer to get some shock into it, and then I’m going to pull on it and see if it comes loose. This thing has been sitting here cold for about three weeks after I welded this nut on. I’ve added a little bit of penetrating fluid over that time on and off a few days, so it has had plenty of time to sit. We’re going to see if any of that made a difference. I’m just going to whack it with a hammer — that will be test number one. We’ll see if that did anything. Well, it rounded it so I couldn’t get the socket on. That’s what it did. There we go. Okay. I’m not feeling any movement here. There’s a little bit of sponginess right up there on the top, so I’m thinking that didn’t do it. The next thing I’m going to do is warm it up and throw some freeze-off on it and see if that takes care of it. For those yelling about the torch in my short, this is actually a MAP gas torch — MAP gas, not oxy-acetylene. The idea is to get it super hot and then hit it with freeze-off to thermal cycle it. There’s also penetrating fluid in the freeze-off. Now, a lot of folks said to try tightening it first and then loosening it, so I’m going to try that. I’m not getting anything on tightening — just a little sponginess. It’s entirely possible I’ve already sponged this bolt to the point where it’s not going to come out, but there’s no movement whatsoever. Well, that didn’t work on this particular bolt. Now, supposedly candle wax down inside the threads is supposed to get in here and… Lubricate. I’m not sure how much wax I’m supposed to use, but there’s certainly quite a bit down in there. You can see how much came off the candle. I don’t want to gunk it up too much. They didn’t say either way, so I’ll let that cool for a little bit. Maybe I’ll try it while it’s warm, then let it cool and try it again to test both ways. I’m trying to use patience here and work it back and forth. A lot of people said to be patient and work it back and forth as much as you can: tighten, then loosen, then tighten, then loosen. I’m not feeling any movement other than a little sponginess. You can see how quickly, even with the torch, cast iron pulls the heat out. It cools off really fast. The next thing I’ll try is a crayon, but this time I’ll heat the bolt instead of the heads so the crayon will wick down. I’m going with red—the color of despair and anger. It didn’t take very much; it melted pretty quick. I’ll let that cool and see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll get this one started so I can weld it on nice and tight. One thing I learned when welding this last time is to preheat with a torch before you start to weld, because cast iron pulls heat away from the stud so fast that it’s hard to get a solid weld. If you heat it first and then quickly hit it with the welder, it’s sort of preheated and gives better adhesion, or at least it seems that way. We’re nice and hot now. I’m leaving this with everything I’ve got. This one’s cooled off; the crayon should be down in there. We’ll give this one a try. The top is moving, but the bottom is not. I can actually see where the shear is happening. I think we’re going to break that one. In this case, the shear is well below where my weld is, so the weld is holding even if it’s ugly. Here’s what I’ll do: one more heat cycle on each of these, then hit them with candle wax again. Maybe the crayon down in here and the candle wax on top—if I heat them, the crayon will go down further. I really don’t know; I just want to give these every shot. If it wasn’t for trying to make this for YouTube and to teach myself, I would have broken these off a long time ago. I’m trying to find a good way to show how to get these out, something that works. All right, I’ll cool those down to try to get their strength back. They’re being warmed up; I’ll come back and wrench on them one last time. When I come back, they’ll either come out of the engine or they’ll snap, and we’ll see. Okay, here we go. See, it’s… Starting to shear right in here. These bolts may just not come out this way. There’s only so much patience I’m willing to expend on getting these out of here. Oh—looks like we might have some movement here, as a matter of fact. Okay, let’s not go too fast. We’ll bring it back just a little bit. Well, look at that, boys and girls. I’ll be damned. I was being so careful not to break it off that I didn’t want to put too much force into it, but that little bit of extra force is what got it out. Look at that thing. Just ignore my awful welding job. All right, well that one’s out. I might save that son of a bitch. The one I just took out I’ve only been fighting today. This one I’ve been fighting for weeks. So I’m going to do the same thing: just start twisting. Even though I feel like it’s going to break, I’m just going to keep going. Same deal—slow, even pressure—and we’re just going to keep moving. Even if it feels like it’s going to break, tighten and loosen back and forth a little bit. Oh yeah, that’s going to break. No question. Yep, right there. Like I said, I’ve been fighting this one for a week. I’m not sure there’s enough on there to weld a nut onto. I’m going to try to build up a little bit of weld on here and then do one more nut and see if I can get this out. See, it’s moving, but I don’t think it’s moving the stud. Nah, no—that was my weld that snapped off. So what that means is now it’s time to grind this flush, punch it, and drill it. Never done this before either. Wish me luck. Obviously you want to try to center this as much as possible. This is why machine shops get paid good money to do this kind of stuff. But if I paid a machine shop to do this, I wouldn’t learn anything. That’ll give me a nice spot to start my drilling. What I’ve got here is a relatively cheap reverse drill bit from Harbor Freight. I’m going to try to do the best job I can, go straight on as much as possible, start with a smaller bit first, and then walk my way up in sizes until I get to something that might actually extract this thing. Slow and steady is how I’m going to approach this. Well, that didn’t last very long, did it? I’d say that’s a pretty damning review of Harbor Freight’s reverse drill bits. It didn’t even last one second. I get what I get, I guess. I may have been pushing too hard. They are cutting pretty well, so maybe I was just pushing too hard. Where’s the bottom? Pretty close. Oh, okay. Yep, I’m down to the bottom. I’m not sure how big I can realistically go here without damaging. What happened there? Hopefully when I screw up, you won’t. I screwed up drilling out this bolt because I went too deep and now I’m in one of the water jackets. Let me show you what I mean: flashlight right down there into the water jacket hole. Here you can clearly see the light coming in through the hole that I just made in this head. So yes, this head is trash. Luckily it’s a truck head and it doesn’t really matter to me. I found this experience much more valuable as a lesson and actually the value of Whatever this head is, I knew going in that I could screw something up like this. I’m still going to pull it off and go through how it works later, but I drilled too deep and busted right through into the water jacket. It’s close; there’s not a lot of give on the bottom of those exhaust bolt holes before you get into a cavity. That’s why I’m doing this—to learn. If I cared about the heads, I would take them to a machine shop. Instead I’m going to continue by getting the bolts out of the intake holes in the front of the engine that I also broke and see what I can do. Those are an opportunity to learn, not just a pain. My plan is to weld some buildup on top of each of these studs and try again with new nuts. We’ll use the freeze-off crayon wax just like before to see if they’ll move. These bolts go all the way through, so there’s an opening on the bottom of these heads. I can’t make the same mistake of drilling too deep; the only thing I can do is drill off-center and mess up the holes. These should be easier even if I end up drilling them out. One way or another, these bolts are coming out on camera today. Woohoo! My weld didn’t stick; there’s a lot of crud in there and I forgot how hot things are. It would get right there and then die. I had a little wiggle room and that’s it—I was worried about breaking or cutting them, but I got one out. It’s easy to drill. All right: six stuck bolts, six successfully removed, and only one head completely destroyed. I’m doing this to learn, because reading a book or watching a video doesn’t help me as much as doing it. I hope this helps you a little. If you want to save your heads, maybe you can avoid the same mistakes I made. These heads are coming off and going in the garbage; I’ll replace them with some aftermarket aluminum heads for my stroker build. The bottom line is we got all the bolts out, and I only made one truly horrible mistake out of six broken bolts, so that’s a win for my first time. I don’t know if the wax or crayons were what let me get the few out successfully, but that stuff didn’t hurt, and a box of crayons is cheap, so consider using them if you’re tackling an engine like this. I also learned that heat is important, as many of you told me. The next part is taking the heads off, which we’ll do in the next video. Stick around for the rest of the build series if you want to see that. Make sure that you subscribe — I’ll be doing this whole thing for the first time ever. I won’t be editing much out other than the boring parts, so if you want to see that, make sure you subscribe and you’ll see more of me screwing up. Thanks again for watching. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or internet ramblings, put them below and we will see you next time. If you want to dig deeper into the builds, the side projects, and the stuff that doesn’t always make it on YouTube, or just want to get to know me better, come hang out on patreon.com/bullnose Garage. It helps keep the lights on — beer-fueled. I appreciate you guys being part of the garage. Around the edges she’s doing fine. Take her head away. Getting things to shine at Moon’s garage; she’s considered divine. Thanks again for watching. We will see you next time.

If you’ve ever thought, “How hard can stuck bolts be?” this one’s for you. I went after a set of seized exhaust and intake bolts on an old Ford head, armed with heat, penetrant, candles, crayons, freeze-off, a welder, and a dangerous level of optimism. It wasn’t pretty. Some bolts gave up with patience. One fought me until I drilled it straight into the water jacket and turned the head into scrap. Real life, not the highlight reel.

This is my first full engine teardown, and I’m using parts I don’t plan to reuse as a training ground. The goal: show what actually works, what only works on the internet, and where the line is between “DIY” and “yeah, this needs a machine shop.”

Recap: Six Broken Bolts and a Plan

At the end of the first teardown session, I’d managed to snap six bolts just getting the top end apart: two exhaust bolts, two water pump bolts, and two intake bolts. Four of them were in cast iron (two with decent threads left, two nearly flush with the surface), and two were in aluminum.

None of the affected parts are destined for this build. I’m not reusing the heads, and the timing cover’s going in the scrap pile. That takes the pressure off and makes this the perfect place to learn—and to show you exactly where things go wrong. If you’ve done it a hundred times, enjoy the schadenfreude. If you haven’t, maybe this will save you a headache or three.

First Attempts: No Welder, Just Heat and Leverage

I started with the less risky stuff. On the aluminum timing cover, I ground flats into the broken stubs, hit the cover with heat (aluminum expands faster than steel), and clamped down hard with locking pliers. The key was slow, controlled, back-and-forth movement with lots of penetrant, not just cranking in one direction. It smelled like victory…and burning crud…but it worked. The bolt came out ugly, but it came out.

That set the tone: heat, patience, and “tighter then looser” cycles to avoid binding. You don’t just twist; you wriggle the bolt out and help the penetrant wick in.

Exhaust Studs vs. Cast Iron: The Welding Game

Then I met the exhaust studs in the cast iron head. The common advice is to weld a nut to the stud. In theory, you get a solid hex to grab and the heat from welding helps break the bond. In practice on a cold chunk of cast iron, the head acts like a heat sink and steals the energy you want in the stud. My welds looked attached, but the fusion into the stud wasn’t there.

I tried preheating with a torch to keep more heat in the stud and less in the head. For the record, the torch here is MAP gas, not oxy-acetylene. I dialed in as much heat as I dared without going full barbecue on the casting. Still janky. The nut would look welded, but the stud itself wasn’t truly part of the puddle. Frustration levels: rising.

Round Two: Shock, Freeze-Off, and the Internet’s Bag of Tricks

After stepping away for a few weeks (and after asking the internet for help), I came back with a list: hammer shock, heat cycles, freeze-off, tighten-then-loosen, candle wax, and crayons. Yes, crayons.

Shock and Preload

I started by smacking the welded nut to shock the threads, then put moderate torque on it. No joy—just sponginess. The stud felt like it was twisting without turning the threads.

Heat and Freeze-Off

I heated the area, then hit it with freeze-off to try and thermal-cycle the joint. Some cans have penetrant mixed in, which doesn’t hurt. Still no movement worth celebrating.

Candle Wax and Crayons

Next: candle wax. The idea is to heat the fastener and let wax wick into the threads. I fed in a good amount, then tried again hot and again cold. Still spongy. After that, the crayon experiment… red, obviously, the color of despair and anger… melted into a preheated stud to flow down into the threads. More preheat before welding (lesson learned: cast iron steals heat like it’s its job), then another go.

The Breakthrough…and the Break

Finally, one of the exhaust studs started to move. The trick, in this specific case, was pushing just a little harder while still working it back and forth. Not reckless force, just a little more than I was comfortable with. Out it came, ugly weld and all.

The other one? It snapped. The shear was below the weld, which confirmed the weld had finally bonded, but it didn’t matter… the stud itself failed. Time for the last resort.

Drilling: Center, Commit, and Don’t Go Too Deep

With the stud broken flush, I ground it flat, center-punched it, and reached for reverse drill bits. The cheap set I had didn’t survive long. One bit died almost immediately. I might have pushed too hard, but either way, quality matters when the stakes are high.

I stepped up sizes carefully and made sure I was going straight. Then I made the one mistake you can’t patch with optimism: I went too deep and broke through into the water jacket. Flashlight through the hole confirmed it… this head is done. On many cast iron heads, the exhaust bolt holes don’t leave you much meat before you hit a cavity. If you care about the head, this is where you stop and pay a machine shop. Ask me how I know.

On to the Intake Bolts

After the exhaust fiasco, I moved to the broken intake bolts. Those go through into the open, so depth wasn’t going to kill anything… only drilling off-center would. I reused the same escalation: welding buildup, nuts, heat, freeze-off, wax/crayon, patience. One weld didn’t stick thanks to crud, but I got movement where I needed it. Worst case, they’re easy to drill compared to blind holes.

By the end, all six stuck bolts were out. One head was officially scrap thanks to the water jacket hole, but every broken fastener was freed.

What Worked, What Didn’t, and Why

Heat Cycles Matter

Heat the surrounding material, let it expand, work the bolt. Cool it down, hit it with penetrant or freeze-off to pull fluids into the joint. Repeat. Cast iron drops heat fast, so plan on multiple cycles.

Back-and-Forth Wins

Don’t just crank in one direction. Load the bolt, then reverse. Tighten slightly before loosening. That shock breaks rust crystal bonds and prevents galling that turns a stuck bolt into a snapped bolt.

Welding a Nut: Preheat Is Key

On cast iron, preheat the stud and area before you strike an arc. Otherwise, the head soaks up your weld heat and the puddle won’t fuse to the stud. Even with preheat, you’re not guaranteed success… especially if the stud is corroded to the point of torsional failure.

Wax and Crayons

Do they work? Hard to say definitively. They didn’t hurt. Candle wax and crayons will wick into hot threads and add lubrication. A box of crayons is cheap, and in this case I used both. They may have helped on the wins and definitely didn’t cause the losses.

Aluminum vs. Cast Iron

Heating aluminum parts (like the timing cover) gives you more expansion per degree, which can free a steel fastener. Cast iron won’t expand as much and steals heat fast, making welding and heat transfer tougher. Respect the difference.

Know When to Stop

If the head matters, consider a machine shop the moment you’re staring at a broken stud below the surface in cast iron. They have fixtures, EDM, and the right cutters to do this without turning your water jacket into a fountain.

Tool Quality Isn’t Optional

Reverse drill bits are great… when they don’t explode on contact. Cheap bits can get you into more trouble. Slow speed, cutting fluid, straight alignment, and patience are the rules. Step up sizes gradually and stop frequently to check depth.

Lessons I’m Taking Forward

  • Prep the surface and center-punch like your head depends on it—because it does.
  • Start with heat cycles, penetrant, and back-and-forth torque. Escalate slowly.
  • Preheat cast iron before welding a nut to a stud; it improves your chances of fusion.
  • If a stud feels spongy, it may already be necking down. Respect that feedback.
  • On blind holes in cast iron, depth is a hard limit. Stop early and verify.
  • Crayons and candle wax are cheap experiments. They might be the 5% you need.
  • When in doubt, and when the part matters, machine shop.

Where This Leaves the Build

Final scorecard: six stuck bolts removed, one head sacrificed to the water jacket gods. These heads are coming off and going in the trash anyway. I’m planning aftermarket aluminum heads for the stroker build. Next up is pulling the heads and moving further into the teardown.

Why Show the Ugly Parts?

This isn’t a “perfect outcome” video because that’s not how this work goes in the real world. You can do everything “right” and still end up with a snapped stud or a trashed casting if you push one step too far. The point is to show what removal actually looks like: the feels, the decision points, and the mistakes to avoid.

Watch, Comment, and Tell Me I’m Wrong

Want to see exactly how each step played out… welds, heat cycles, freeze-off plume, wax, crayons, the sad flashlight-through-the-water-jacket moment? It’s all in the video. Check it out above, drop your tips and war stories in the comments, and subscribe if you want to ride along for the rest of this teardown. If you want more behind-the-scenes and side projects, I’m over on Patreon too.

Thanks for hanging out in the garage. See you on the next one.


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351 Windsor Top-End Teardown: 30 Years of Wear Revealed
Show Transcript
I’m about to tear into this 30-year-old Ford 351 Windsor and I’m going to bring you along to see what’s lurking inside. I have to get something out of the way up front: I’ve never torn down an engine before. Not once. So if you’re here looking for decades of engine-building wisdom, this might be the most educational disaster you’ve ever witnessed. That’s what I was afraid of, and that is why exhaust bolts are scary. Holy — I busted my socket wrench. If you’re here to watch a regular guy crack open an old Windsor engine for the first time, you’re in the right garage. Howdy folks, Ed here. Welcome back to Bullnose Garage. I’m not just tearing this engine down and building it back up; I’m learning as I go. I’ve done a lot of research, so I basically know the order to do things in, what to look for, what to keep, what to toss, what matters and what doesn’t. If you’ve never done this before, come along and hopefully you’ll learn something. If you’ve done a couple of engines, come along anyway because you might learn something too — and if not, you’ll get to laugh at me or cry with me. Either way, you’ll be entertained. This engine will be stripped to a bare block, taken to a machine shop, machined for a 408 stroker build, and I’ll show you how that works. Then I’ll source the parts, build it into a 408 stroker, start it on the stand, drop it into my ’85 F-150, and hopefully take it to the track. I’ve been talking about this engine and putting it off for a long time. As an old ex-girlfriend used to say, don’t talk about it — be about it. So let’s get to work. First I’m going to make labels and baggies to make sure I know where everything goes. I probably won’t reuse these, but it’s good to have things labeled just in case. If you’re doing a rebuild and you’re not adding a bunch of new performance parts, definitely label and put away all the parts even if you only have a few. I only have a couple of these rear head bolts, but now I know where they go. Okay, the bolts are off. I’m going to start taking off some of the little brackets and parts that bend to get off. There we go. Motor mounts off. There’s the motor mount—pretty crusty. I’ll almost certainly replace the mount, but I’ll keep the Plate. Now, for my application, which is putting this in a truck that has an inline six, the motor perches do not fit. So I saved the perches from the mounting of this engine from the ’96 F-150 so that I can attach them to my ’85. Hey—dead bugs. Bonus. While I’m over here trying to convince these exhaust bolts to leave the premises, let’s talk about why these things are always such a nightmare. Ford didn’t do anything wrong here; this is just what cast iron manifolds do after 30 years of heat cycles. You have steel bolts threaded into cast iron. The manifold acts like a giant heat sink, and every time this engine warmed up and cooled down, the threads basically just shook hands a little bit tighter. Add in some surface rust, a couple decades of New Mexico dust bacon on there, and these bolts get real sentimental about staying home. The funny part is how they sound when you’re breaking them loose. The first few on this side creaked and groaned like an old door hinge on a haunted house. That’s actually good; it means they’re moving. They’re not happy about it, but they’re still participating in the conversation. What you don’t want is that quiet turn where the head spins without a single complaint. That’s when the bolt stops acting like a bolt and starts feeling just a little bit spongy. That’s the moment you pause and think, “No, this is going to turn into a whole thing, isn’t it?” If you’ve wrenched long enough, you know that silence is the sound of a storm rolling in. All I can really do is hit those things with some penetrating oil, maybe add some heat from a MAP torch. The cast iron soaks that heat away fast, so it only really makes a difference sometimes. Use a lot of slow, steady pressure, patience, and hope for the best. When that fails, you’ll see. Exhaust manifold bolts make me nervous because they’re pretty easy to break. If you break one, you’re pretty much teaching yourself how to weld. I’m going to spray those, let them sit for a little bit, and come back to this side. There we go. And there’s removal of the oil dipstick. It’s just a little bung that presses in. On the passenger side, I stopped short on two of those bolts. I could feel that sponginess starting, and that’s usually my cue to back off and let them soak a little longer. Sometimes walking away is the smartest move you can make. Luckily, I didn’t have the same fight on the driver’s side; those bolts all came out clean with no drama. If you do break a bolt, you’ve got a few options, and what you do depends on the material and how much bolt is still sticking out. If you’ve got a decent amount of thread showing, you can sometimes get away with vice grips or grind a couple flats and put a wrench on it. That works sometimes, but if the head’s already snapped off, chances are the rest of the bolt is still locked in there pretty good. People suggest grinding a slot and trying to back it out with a flathead screwdriver. That can work, but on bolts this stuck, it’s usually wishful thinking. Honestly, the best move is welding a nut onto what’s left. That gives you something solid to wrench on, and the heat from the welding helps break the bond when the threads are seized. A lot of times, the heat cycle helps break the bond. Itself is what actually does the work. If that doesn’t work, you’re down to cutting it flush and drilling it out. That’s not fun or fast, but it is doable with patience, sharp bits, and a steady hand. It’s one of those jobs nobody wants during engine work, but everybody eventually gets. That is why exhaust bolts are scary. I ended up with a crusty old exhaust manifold and a couple of busted-off exhaust bolts. It happens with older engines. Luckily there’s quite a bit of thread left, so there are different ways to get those out. I’ll hit them with penetrating oil, let it soak, and then probably weld a couple of nuts on to get enough bite to back them out. If they break right up against the block, that would be much worse. Since I’m not inside a vehicle, it’s easier. Welding a nut on the end is the way to go. One crusty old thermostat housing. And the water pump is crusty too. I busted my socket wrench — Harbor Freight. I don’t trust it; I might break another one. I tried heat with a butane torch, but it didn’t seem to move the bolts the way it should. At least one bolt snapped off right inside. To get the water pump off I counted seven bolts; one is broken. I tapped progressively with a hammer to loosen it, then gently pried from the back to remove the pump. I’m wrapping up for the night. I busted these two bolts right here for my research. That’s pretty common. These go into the timing cover. This gets corroded and is hard to get out. Once I get my MAP torch ready to go, I’ll warm those up and try to get them out. Same thing over here on the exhaust side. The other side came off clean. This one I snapped two bolts. I’ll get these cleaned up, get a nut welded on, and try to get that back off, but I’m not doing that tonight. To show you what I took off, here are the exhaust manifolds. They’re actually in pretty good shape: big and heavy and a little crusty, but there are no cracks and they do not appear to be warped, so they should be salvageable once cleaned up. They’re not worth a whole lot, but they will be worth something to somebody trying to rebuild a period engine out in Old Windsor. As I said during the first part of the video, these are the engine mounts. I’ll keep the mount parts and just replace the pads. The pads aren’t super expensive; I’ll clean these mounts up and keep them. The thermostat housing and thermostat are basically trash—not really worth saving. Here’s the old crusty water pump. Generally when you do a rebuild you’re going to end up replacing this; water pumps aren’t super expensive. This one’s actually in pretty good shape. You can see back here there’s not a lot of corrosion. There are a couple of rough spots and the water passages are crusty, but nothing major that indicates any real problems with this engine so far. When I took this off I was careful so I didn’t break it, but realistically it’s not worth that much—probably about a hundred dollars brand new. This is a coolant temperature sensor; again, not really worth saving, so that’ll go in the garbage pile. I have a box back here I’m going to start filling with all this stuff. That is the entirety of day one. I spent most of it wrestling those parts off. This evening we’re going to start working on getting the pulley and the harmonic balancer off. If I have time, I may start with the valve covers and the intake, because I can access that stuff without worrying about those bolts, which I’ll deal with once I get my torch. Did that work? Hey, it did. All right. Now, before I could get the crank bolt loose, I had to stop the rotating assembly from rotating. With the engine on a stand, everything wants to spin together, so you need something solid to brace it against. That’s why I bolted the flex plate back on. I don’t need it permanently; I just need a way to lock the crank in place. It took me a minute to find the right tool, but in the end a thick punch through one of the flex plate holes did the trick. Simple, solid, and it let me put real torque on the crank nut without the whole engine turning into a merry-go-round. Heat, heat. There you go. I folded out. While we’re here, quick confession: my first attempt at pulling the harmonic balancer was a no-go. Turns out I… Completely forgot the washer that sits behind the crankbolt. The balancer wasn’t going to go anywhere because it literally couldn’t. It’s an easy mistake to make, especially when you’re in teardown mode and moving pretty quickly, but it’s definitely one of those stop-and-recheck moments. The balancer puller was starting to flex a little as I was cranking on it, so I stopped, stepped back, and re-evaluated. Once that washer was out, things went a whole lot more like they were supposed to. Easy peasy. That sorted the harmonic balancer. I have impact wrenches, but I don’t use them very much. I prefer the ratchet; I like being able to feel it, especially the first time I do a job. Once I get more used to how things should feel, I might start using power tools more, but to start, I really enjoy using my hand ratchets. These valve covers are in really good shape. I’m not going to save them for my build because I want more custom covers, but they might be worth something to somebody. From everything I can see, this looks like an almost perfect 408 rebuild candidate. So far I have not seen anything that gives me pause. You can see varnish inside, which is typical, but it’s nice and uniform. Nothing looks bent or out of true, and there’s no discoloration that would cause alarm. There’s a little crud, but it’s an old high-mileage Ford truck engine, so that’s expected. This is the moment to stop and take a look before pulling anything else apart. To be honest, this is about as boring as it gets, which is great news. Both banks look consistent: same oil film, same coloration, same rocker height. When something’s wrong up top, it almost never hides itself evenly; one cylinder will usually give itself away. You might spot a rocker discolored or blued from heat, which suggests friction or oil starvation, uneven wear on the rocker tip, a pushrod leaning to one side instead of centered on a valve stem, hinting at geometry issues, or even a bent pushrod. Valve springs are another big tell. A broken spring is obvious, but a weak or collapsed spring is sneakier. One spring sitting lower than the rest or a retainer that doesn’t line up with its neighbors is a red flag. The same goes for keepers that don’t look seated evenly; that’s a failure waiting to happen. I’m also watching for oiling clues. Everything here has the normal thin oil coating. If rockers or springs looked dry or heat-stained compared to the rest, I’d suspect oiling problems, but there’s none of that here. In fact, some of these rockers still had little drops of oil from years of sitting in my backyard. Finally, it’s about symmetry. Valve trains should look boringly uniform, just like this. The second cylinder looks different. Different color, different height, different wear. That’s where you stop and wonder what happened to this engine. In this case, nothing stands out: no broken springs, no discoloration, no weird wear patterns. That doesn’t mean the engine is perfect; it just means nothing up top is waving a red flag yet, and that’s exactly what you want before you keep tearing it down. Which is why I sounded so chuffed after I pulled the second cover off. Broken bolts aside, things are going really well for this build so far. Now let’s see if we can get the intake off. Hopefully the intake bolts aren’t completely seized. I started turning one, but I couldn’t tell if it was coming loose. Did I snap it? I didn’t feel it, but I did snap it right off, right onto the head. This is the point where the engine politely suggests a change in strategy. The first intake bolt started to feel spongy and the second one snapped. That was my cue that I was no longer negotiating—I was losing. When bolts start doing that, more force isn’t bravery, it’s false optimism. What you’re actually fighting is corrosion between steel bolts and a cast-iron intake that’s been heat cycling since I was in high school, and cast iron does not respond well to threats. So instead of leaning harder on the wrench, I brought up the torch. The trick isn’t to heat the bolt; it’s to heat the intake around the bolt. You’re trying to make the hole grow, not the problem. Once it’s hot, you let penetrating oil wick into the threads and do what it does best, down where it matters. Does this guarantee success? No. But it turns a coin flip into better odds. After the first bolt went spongy and the second snapped on the intake manifold, I’ll take every advantage I can get. This is what it looks like when you listen to the warning signs instead of arguing with them. After heating the intake and letting the penetrating oil wick in, the bolts actually start coming out the way they’re supposed to: slow, noisy, dramatic—but moving. You can feel the difference immediately. Instead of that spongy, soul-crushing flex, you get resistance, a little creak, and then progress. Clearly heat made a big difference. I did the first one cold and it just snapped like a twig. Look at the gunk coming out of that shaft. At the very least, the rest of the bolts on this side are coming out clean so far. I’m not looking forward to getting that snapped bolt out of the head, but we’ll figure it out. I may have to redo that one. That just popped right off. None of the bolts I heated snapped—not one. Same engine, same tools, same patience, just better physics. It’s not fast, but this is one of those moments where slowing down saves you hours later. Sometimes the win isn’t muscling through; it’s changing tactics before the engine makes that decision for you. Look at all the crap coming out of there. Now that one’s not rough—good stuff. And then there’s this bolt, the one that didn’t get the memo. I went back to it and did everything right: heat it, let it cool, let the penetrating oil wick in, apply gentle pressure, and tap it with a hammer. Heat it again, more oil, more patience, over and over. This was full-on ritual mode, just hoping and praying it would finally decide to cooperate. But here’s the thing: I think the damage was already done. That bolt was my very first attempt before heat ever entered the conversation. Once a bolt starts to twist internally, even just a little bit, you’ve already weakened it. After that, all the heat and patience in the world can’t put the strength back. So eventually physics wins. The bolt doesn’t come out. It gives up and it snaps. That’s the real lesson here. Heat works, technique matters, but timing matters just as much. If you feel that spongy warning early, stop immediately, because once a bolt starts stretching, you’re not removing it anymore — you’re just deciding when it’s going to break. Yep. I’m definitely just going to bust it. Son of a little bastard. Oh yeah, that’s crusty. All right, guys. There’s the underside of the intake. Take a look at this. There is our lifter valley. There’s a little bit of crud in here, but that’ll all get cleaned out. At first glance to my inexperienced eye, it looks pretty good. The only real issue is that I’ve got a bolt down inside the head that’s snapped off, and one that’s sitting a little proud. I need to figure out how to take care of those guys, but the interior looks pretty good. Last night I got the take-off and exposed the lifter valley. It looks pretty good; I’ll give you some B-roll of that here. I tapped off two bolts right here in the front while doing it, so we’ll have to figure out how to get those out later. Right now I’m going to worry about getting these rockers off and the rods out and just checking to make sure that they’re all straight. That will pretty much wrap up the top end of this teardown. By the way, I’ve got several bags made up and labeled with the cylinder numbers on them so I can keep the entire set together: cylinder 1, cylinder 2, cylinder 3, and so on — the rockers, pushrods, and lifters. That way if I want to come back and do some forensics later, I can. It’s not super important to me because I’m going to be rebuilding this into a 408 and none of this stuff is going back in this engine, but if you’re doing a refresh or a straight stock rebuild and you want to reuse some of this stuff, you have to make sure you put them back in the right places. I’m doing it just for forensics, to have a history of what this engine was doing before. Your situation may vary, but it’s always a good idea to label some baggies and keep things together. This is the first one. We’ll go through some more, but just to give you a quick look for those who know what they’re looking for: that’s the lifter side, and there’s the rocker side. Here’s the rocker itself — looks pretty good, rolls nice and straight. There we go. Spider’s out. Now we can pull the dog bone. Nice. And now we can pull the lifter. Nice. Look at that guy. I’m not an expert, but that looks like it’s in really good shape. And now for the inevitable call to action: if you’re enjoying the video, hit like, subscribe, or better yet, check out patreon.com/bullnosegar. You’ll see some neat behind-the-scenes stuff and even more. That’s definitely why you’re here, right? It looks really good. I don’t see anything too concerning—just a little varnish that rubs off with my thumb. Overall, it’s looking really good. What I’m looking for is any discoloration or shape change, especially on the ends—mushrooming or anything like that—and I’m not seeing any of that. Most of these lifters came out looking great: smooth, mirror-like rollers with no visible damage. That’s exactly what you hope to see. A handful had light surface marks on the rollers, but nothing I could feel with a fingernail. Light surface marks are unusual on a used engine, and by themselves they don’t automatically mean the lifter is bad. What matters is whether the wear is purely visual or something you can actually feel. That distinction is huge. On a roller-cam engine, once the hardened surface of the roller is compromised, that lifter isn’t just worn—it’s a liability. Instead of rolling cleanly on the cam lobe, it can start to slide microscopically, and that’s how you eventually wipe out a cam. That kind of damage isn’t just cosmetic and it won’t improve with reuse. In a budget rebuild, lifters can be reused even with light visible wear, as long as they go back in the exact same locations on the same cam. But the moment you can feel wear with your fingernail, that reuse window slams shut. At that point you’re risking the cam, not just the lifter. And to be clear: if you’re changing cams, you change lifters—always. These reuse guidelines only apply when the cam stays exactly the same and the lifters return to their original locations. Flat-tappet cams are even less forgiving. A mismatched roller lifter might cause problems; a mismatched flat-tappet lifter will cause problems. Any visible or measurable wear is usually a deal breaker. Different designs, different tolerances, but the same inspection mindset applies every time. Number three exhaust—I can just barely catch my nail on it, the number three exhaust lifter. You can see a little line there; I can just barely feel it with my nail. This is pretty much normal wear for a Windsor with high mileage, about 30 years old. Compared to the other lifters, this one looks rough because the others are nearly pristine, but it would still be serviceable in an engine running on the road. I wouldn’t put this back into an engine if I were rebuilding it, though. There’s nothing catastrophic going on here. This is the worst one I’ve seen so far. I have one cylinder left—two lifters—and that’s the worst I’ve seen. To be completely clear, when I say “serviceable,” I mean that if this lifter was already running in that engine, a fingernail scratch doesn’t mean it’s going to wipe out the cam tomorrow. But I would never reuse it in a rebuild. Once you can feel wear like that, it’s crossed the line for reuse. In my case, I’m changing the cam anyway, so all these lifters are shelf sitters or knickknacks. Maybe I’ll give a couple to the kiddos for Christmas. Oh, this one looks mirror-finish. Overall, this engine looks fantastic. I couldn’t ask for a better rebuild candidate, a better four-weight stroker candidate than what I have. So far, there are no indications that this engine was ever abused. No signs it was run dry, at high RPM, overheated, or anything like that. The darkening looks like aged oil that’s coated all the surfaces correctly — basically what you get from a 30-year-old engine patina. It looks exactly like what you would want for something like this. The big problem is these bolts that all snapped off. I got a total of six: two here on the front water pump and the timing cover, two at the top of each head, and two on the passenger-side head where the exhaust manifold was. I could just take all this stuff off and toss it. These are just regular truck heads, not anything special. I might get a couple hundred bucks for them, maybe. The timing cover is pretty cheap, basically disposable. I could just pull it and toss it and not worry about getting these bolts out. But because I’m doing content for YouTube and I want to learn — and I just taught myself how to weld — this is a perfect opportunity to see if I can get these out. If I destroy the heads or the timing cover, oh well. What I care about is the block, so this lets me learn on hardware I ultimately don’t really care about. They’re completely different situations: these two are cut off real close with almost no meat, there’s a lot of material on the exhaust-side bolts, and a ton of meat up here. But up here these are going into an aluminum timing cover, so the metals are dissimilar. Here they were going through an aluminum intake, but now they’re going through a cast-iron head, which is a different situation. I can use that to teach myself how to unstick bolts from different metals using different methods — heat, welding, putting nuts on, penetrating oil, and so on. We’ll explore that in a different video. Once that’s done, we’ll flip her over, pull everything off the bottom end, and take a look at the crank, camshaft, oil pan, bearings, and see what kind of wear patterns we’ve got down there. If you want to see what comes next, make sure you like and subscribe. Thanks again for watching. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, gripes, or inner ramblings, stick them below and we will see you next time. If you want to dig deeper into the builds, the side projects, and the stuff that doesn’t always make it on YouTube, or just want to get to know me a little better, come hang out on patreon.com/bullnosegar. It helps keep the lights on, the beer fridge full, and the builds funded. Appreciate you being part of the garage. Thanks again for watching — we’ll see you next time.

Ever wondered what three decades inside a Ford 351 Windsor actually looks like? I cracked open the top end of a 30-year-old 351W and brought the camera along for my first-ever engine teardown. No hero edits, no expert ego… just a regular guy, a pile of baggies, and a growing list of broken bolts.

It’s Part One of a full Windsor teardown series, and the goal is simple: figure out whether this engine deserves a second life as a 408 stroker for my 1985 F-150. Spoiler: despite the bolt carnage, it’s looking good.

The Plan: Strip the Windsor for a 408 Stroker

This engine is getting torn down to a bare block, sent to the machine shop, and built back up as a 408 stroker. Before any of that, I’m staying organized. Labels and baggies for everything, even though I’m not reusing most of these parts. If you’re doing a stock refresh and plan to reuse parts, labeling is non-negotiable. Even for a performance build, it’s handy for forensics later.

Quick side note on mounts: this Windsor is going into a truck that originally had an inline-six, so the perches don’t match. I saved the perches from the donor ’96 F-150 to help with the swap into my ’85.

Exhaust Manifolds: Why Old Bolts Snap

Exhaust manifold bolts are the stuff of nightmares, and this engine reminded me why. Steel bolts in cast iron, 30 years of heat cycles, a dusting of rust… those threads basically married themselves. The driver’s side cooperated. The passenger side? Not so friendly. I stopped on a couple when they got “spongy,” then later ended up with a couple busted-off bolts anyway. Par for the course.

The sounds tell the story. Creaking and groaning means the bolt is mad but moving. Silence with a mushy feel is when you stop and reconsider life choices. That’s when you switch from force to finesse: heat, patience, and penetrating oil.

When Bolts Snap: Realistic Options

  • Penetrating oil and heat: Warm the area, let capillary action pull oil into the threads, then try again with slow pressure.
  • Vice grips or wrench on flats: Works only if enough bolt is sticking out and it isn’t fused solid.
  • Cut a slot for a flathead: Possible, but often wishful thinking with bolts this stuck.
  • Weld a nut to the stud: Best option if there’s a nub to grab. The heat from welding helps break the bond.
  • Drill it out: The last resort. Slow, straight, and sharp bits are your friends.

I’ve got enough thread left on a couple to try welding nuts on. If they were snapped flush, I’d be in for a longer day. Fortunately, this is on a stand, not in a fender well, so access is on my side.

Water Pump and Timing Cover Drama

The thermostat housing and water pump were crusty, no surprise there. I even managed to bust a socket wrench during the process. A butane torch didn’t persuade the water pump bolts, and at least one bolt snapped off inside. In the end, I counted seven bolts on the pump and one broken. Some careful tapping and gentle prying got the pump off.

For the record: snapping bolts in the timing cover is pretty common. The plan is to come back with a MAP torch, warm them up, and try the welded-nut trick. The timing cover itself isn’t precious, but this is a good chance to practice extraction on dissimilar metals without risking the block.

As for the parts pile: the thermostat housing and sensor are trash. The water pump is in better cosmetic shape than you’d expect, light corrosion, nothing alarming, but it’s a routine replacement on a rebuild anyway. The exhaust manifolds look solid, no cracks and no obvious warp, just heavy and crusty. Worth saving for someone doing a period-correct build.

Locking the Crank and Pulling the Harmonic Balancer

With the engine on a stand, everything wants to spin while you try to loosen the crank bolt. The fix: bolt the flex plate back on and run a stout punch through a flex-plate hole to lock it against the stand. Simple and effective.

Pro tip learned the loud way: don’t forget the washer behind the crank bolt when pulling the harmonic balancer. I did. The puller started flexing, I stopped, rechecked, pulled the washer, and then it came off like it should. Easy once you’re not trying to bend physics around a stuck washer.

Valve Covers Off: Boring Is Good

I prefer ratchets over impacts on a first-time job. Feeling what the fastener is doing tells you a lot and can save parts (and your sanity). Under the valve covers, things looked exactly how you want on a veteran Windsor: boringly consistent. Uniform varnish, nothing discolored, no rocker that looked out of place, no obvious geometry issues, and the oil film looked even across both banks.

If something were wrong, you’d usually see it telegraph up top… blued rockers from heat, a retainer sitting low, keepers not fully seated, a pushrod leaning instead of centered. None of that here. Both banks matched in color and height, which is the best possible “nothing to see here” you can get.

Intake Manifold: When Force Fails, Use Physics

The intake manifold tried to teach me a lesson. The first bolt turned spongy. The next one snapped. That’s the moment you admit you’re not persuading the bolt anymore… you’re stretching it. So I changed tactics: heat the intake around the bolt (not the bolt itself), let penetrating oil wick in, and work each fastener slowly.

That change made all the difference. The heated bolts came out noisy and cranky, but they came out. The one I tried earlier, before heat, was already weakened and eventually snapped. Timing matters as much as technique. If a bolt feels gummy, stop early. Once it starts to twist internally, no amount of patience will put the strength back.

With the intake off, the lifter valley looked honest: a little crud, nothing catastrophic. I’ve got one bolt snapped off in a head and another sitting a little proud, and I’ll tackle those later. For a high-mileage truck engine, this all looks about right.

Lifters, Rockers, and Pushrods: What “Good” Wear Looks Like

I bagged and labeled rockers, pushrods, and lifters by cylinder. I’m not planning to reuse them… I’m changing the cam for the stroker… but keeping the sets together is useful if you want to do any post-mortem or reuse on a refresh.

The dog bones and spider came out cleanly, and the roller lifters mostly looked excellent: smooth, mirror-like rollers with no damage you could feel. A few had light surface marks, the kind you can’t catch with a fingernail. On a roller-cam engine, that kind of purely visual wear can be acceptable for reuse, but only if the cam stays and each lifter goes back to its exact original bore.

One lifter, the number three exhaust, had a faint line I could just barely catch with a fingernail. That’s the line between “serviceable in-place” and “do not reuse in a rebuild.” You might drive with it as-is if it’s already paired to that cam and you’re not changing anything, but for a rebuild, especially with a new cam, it’s a hard no. Once you can feel wear, the hardened surface is compromised and it can start sliding instead of rolling. That leads to wiped lobes and tears.

For clarity:

  • Reusing roller lifters can be fine only if they go back in the same bores on the same cam and you can’t feel wear with a fingernail.
  • If you’re changing cams, you change lifters. Always.
  • Flat-tappet engines are even less forgiving; mismatching is basically a failure plan.

Big picture: the valvetrain looks healthy. This Windsor’s top end doesn’t show signs of abuse, oil starvation, or overheating. Just an even patina of old oil and symmetry everywhere. That’s exactly what you want to see before you commit to machine work.

Current Damage Report and Next Steps

Here’s the tally on the snap-a-thon so far:

  • Two bolts at the water pump/timing cover area
  • Two at the top of the heads (intake bolt casualties)
  • Two exhaust manifold bolts on the passenger side

I could toss the timing cover and even the truck heads and move on. They’re not rare parts. But I want to learn and show the process, so I’m going to try multiple extraction methods: heating, welding nuts, and using penetrating oil on both cast iron and aluminum interfaces to highlight the differences. If I wreck a timing cover, I won’t lose sleep. The block is what matters.

From here, I’ll cover bolt extraction in a separate video, then flip the engine, pull the bottom end, and inspect the crank, camshaft, bearings, and oiling situation. After that, it’s off to the machine shop for 408 stroker prep, parts selection, assembly, a run on the stand, and finally into the ’85 F-150. If everything behaves, we’ll take it to the track.

Series Roadmap

  • Top-end teardown (this one)
  • Bolt Extraction
  • Head removal and review
  • Bottom-end inspection
  • Machine shop prep
  • 408 stroker build
  • Engine startup and install
  • Track day

Quick 351W Context (So You Know What You’re Looking At)

The 351 Windsor is Ford’s 5.8L small-block, with a cast-iron block and typically cast-iron heads in truck applications. Later truck variants, like mid-’90s engines, commonly used hydraulic roller cams and lifters, which changes how wear shows up compared to flat-tappet designs. Heat-cycled cast iron and steel fasteners tend to seize over decades… exactly the behavior you saw with the manifold and intake bolts here. It’s not Ford being Ford, it’s metallurgy doing what metallurgy does.

For anyone wondering about the stroker angle: a 408 Windsor build uses a longer-stroke crank and often aftermarket rods and pistons to bump displacement and torque significantly. The block quality (core shift, cylinder wall thickness after machining, main web integrity) matters more than whether your water pump looked pretty on the way out. That’s why uniform top-end wear is encouraging… it suggests the engine led a normal, oil-fed life.

Wrap-Up

Day one and two on the top end gave me exactly what I hoped for: a couple of teachable broken bolts, a reminder that heat and patience beat bravado, and a Windsor that looks like a great 408 candidate. The valvetrain checks out, the lifters told a fair story, and the lifter valley didn’t hide any monsters.

Check out the video above for the full play-by-play, including the “don’t forget the washer” moment. Got tips, questions, or your own bolt horror stories? Drop them in the comments… I read them. And if you want the behind-the-scenes stuff as this turns into a stroker, you can find it on Patreon.


Bullnose Garage at YouTube

If you want more specific information on Bullnose Ford Trucks, check out my YouTube Channel!

For more information on Bullnose Fords, you can check out the BullnoseFord SubReddit or Gary’s Garagemahal. Both are excellent resources.

As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. If you see an Amazon link on my site, purchasing the item from Amazon using that link helps out the Channel.
Snow Tires & Steel: A Stop‑Motion Christmas in the Garage

Published on December 8, 2025

Click to play the video inline  or  see it on YouTube

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Show Transcript
Cold wind whispers through the cracks in the door. Star lights flicker like the dawn a thousand times before. Frost climbs steadily up the windows at night. The old folk glow soft in that familiar Christmas light. Tools on the bench and a chill in the shop. I got a list of parts I’ve wanted in a drawer that time forgot. While the whole world sleeps under winter’s wide appeal, this little garage is where the season feels real. Snow piled still on a cold December night, wrapped up in the glow of Christmas lights. A little rust, a little hope, and a whole lot of feel. Yeah. Christmas to me is snow tires and steel. The heater’s humming, but it barely blows warm. Still I’m out here wrenching through another winter storm. These long nights settle in when the daylight starts to fade, but my shop brightens up the dark. Neighbors may shake their heads at me working alone, but this place turns the holidays into something of my own. Every bolt I crack loose, every part that I reveal feels a bit more like Christmas wrapped in chrome and steel. Snow tires and steel on a cold December night, warming up in the glow of Christmas lights. A little rust, a little hope, and a whole lot of feel. Yeah. Christmas to me is snow tires and steel. Some folks want the snowflakes, some folks need the tree, but give me old steel shining in a shop—that sets me free. And when that motor fires up with a sound you feel for real, that’s a winter hymn of snow tires and steel. Noises still on a cold December night from the shop in the glow of Christmas lights — that’s what seals the deal. Yeah. I find my Christmas in snow tires and steel. Heat.

Every December I like to set the wrenches down for a minute and make something a little different. This year’s detour is Snow Tires & Steel — a short stop‑motion Christmas video built around an original song I wrote and produced. It’s my second year doing a small seasonal short. I’m not calling it a full‑blown tradition yet… but we’re heading that way.

Think old‑school Christmas visuals, a cold shop, and a song about finding the holiday spirit somewhere between rust and chrome. If that sounds like your kind of Christmas card, you’re in the right garage.

Why a Christmas Short on a Wrenching Channel?

Because sometimes you need to step away from the big projects and take a breath. The teardown series and the next deep‑dive are already in the works. None of that is going anywhere. This is just a quick seasonal pit stop — a chance to enjoy the shop for what it is: a place where the heater hums, the cold sneaks in through the door, and the whole place glows a little warmer under Christmas lights.

Last year I tried a Christmas short and had a blast. Year two felt right. The video leans into that classic stop‑motion vibe we all grew up with — the kind of hand‑made charm you can feel. And yes, I laughed at myself seeing a stop‑motion Christmas character version of me running around the shop. Guilty as charged.

A Seasonal Breather, Not a Detour

If you’re here for teardowns and technical deep‑dives, you’re in luck. Those videos are already in motion. This short is just a breather — a small, fun project between the big ones. The channel isn’t changing course. We’re just taking a moment to enjoy the season and then it’s right back to the heavy stuff.

I appreciate everyone who’s been hanging out in the shop with me this year. This little holiday piece is my way of saying thanks without slapping a bow on a carburetor and calling it festive. It’s still Bullnose Garage, just with more twinkle lights and a little musical grease on top.

Wrap‑Up

Snow Tires & Steel is just a small thank‑you that smells like cold metal and old tools. If you’ve ever found peace in a noisy garage on a quiet December night, I think you’ll get it. Give it a watch, turn the volume up, and let me know which line hits you right in the winter feels.

Thanks for an awesome year, thanks for hanging out in the shop, and Merry Christmas to you and your family.

Watch the short above and tell me what you think in the comments.


Bullnose Garage at YouTube

If you want more specific information on Bullnose Ford Trucks, check out my YouTube Channel!

For more information on Bullnose Fords, you can check out the BullnoseFord SubReddit or Gary’s Garagemahal. Both are excellent resources.

As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. If you see an Amazon link on my site, purchasing the item from Amazon using that link helps out the Channel.
Ford 351 Cleveland Deep Dive: Heads, Oiling, Builds

Published on November 28, 2025

Click to play the video inline  or  see it on YouTube

Show Transcript
Ford builds a small block with race-bred canted valves and ports big enough to swallow a flashlight, then kills it after just a few years. If the 351 Cleveland was so good, why didn’t it keep going? Welcome back to Bono’s Garage. If you’ve ever stared down a Cleveland 4V intake port, you know it’s not your garden-variety small block. It’s a hallway: canted valves, massive cross-section, and a chamber design that was so far ahead of the gas you could buy at the pump it was crazy. So here’s the question again: if the 351 Cleveland was that good, why did it die a quiet death? Today we’ll tell the whole story, including the crazy head engineering, boiling issues, and how to build one that doesn’t suck. Then we’ll settle the Cleveland versus Windsor debate like grown-ups. By the end of this video you’ll know exactly how to spot a real 4V head, why quench is more than a buzzword, and how the Cleveland small block made big-block power through airflow and physics. From conception to early death, and from American muscle to Aussie street heroes, this is everything that made the 351 Cleveland the most misunderstood Ford small block ever built. This is your 351 Cleveland masterclass. Look back at the late ’60s and Ford was all in on racing. They’d just blown the doors off Le Mans with the 427 side-oiler in ’66. Between NASCAR and Trans Am, Ford’s engineers had learned one thing: airflow wins races. The faster you could spin it, the more power you made, but that only worked if your heads could move enough air to keep up. At the same time, the Windsor plant in Canada couldn’t keep up with small-block demand, so Ford’s engine engineers in Cleveland, Ohio were told to build their own version. The mission was simple: build a small block that could take a deep breath at high RPM, then drop it into street cars and let the image sell the hardware. Racing credibility sold cars. If the same basic engine powered Boss Mustangs and stock cars, it wouldn’t just win trophies, it would win showroom traffic. Enter the 351 Cleveland. What came out wasn’t just a copy; it was a whole new take on how a small block could breathe. It was a small block by Ford standards but used big-block thinking up top. The heads were a clean-sheet design, and on paper it looked incredible: massive ports, canted valves similar to the 429 and 460, and big valve sizes that let it breathe like an engine almost twice its size. It sat next to the Windsor on the showroom floor. The Cleveland was the hot ticket for a couple of shining years—Boss 351s, Panteras, Torinos—all running a small block that could hang with the best from GM and Mopar. It had the swagger, it had the numbers, and for a while it had the spotlight. North American production kicked off in 1970 and wound down after 1974. That is quick. In that window the lineup included the 351C 2V for street torque, the 351C 4V for high-RPM heroics, the one-year Boss 351 in ’71 that showed what the architecture could do, and later Cobra Jet variants when emissions and lower compression started kneecapping the party. The 351 Cleveland was the first member of what Ford called the 335 engine family. The name came from management’s insistence that the engine be greater than 335 cubic inches, and it stuck as the project name. The family shared a lot of design DNA: wide pan rails, canted-valve heads, and castings meant to be modular across cars and trucks. Something that could scale from a high-revving 351 for Mustangs and Torinos to a torquey 400 for full-size cars and pickups. I’ll save the M-block and 400 story for another video, but remember: the Cleveland wasn’t a one-off. It was the starting point for a whole generation of Ford V8s built around airflow, strength, and modular casting. So why did it fade so quickly? A few reasons stacked up, and if you’ve seen my other videos about engines from this era, the main chorus is the same: emissions rules turned brutal and compression came down. Those massive 4V ports needed a cam, aggressive gear ratios, and a high-flow carb to shine — things that became harder and harder to justify. Insurance companies didn’t help; they started hammering high-compression, high-horsepower cars with premium hikes so steep that buyers were paying more to insure a car than to own it. Anything with a big cam or high compression got labeled high risk, and Ford’s performance engines were in the crosshairs. Profit-wise, Ford already had tooling, supply chains, and a massive aftermarket built around the Windsor block. The Windsor plant in Ontario had been cranking out small blocks since the early ’60s; it had huge production capacity, established supply lines, and many livelihoods tied to keeping those machines running. The Cleveland plant, by contrast, was newer, smaller, and building an engine that didn’t share many components with the rest of Ford’s lineup. So when the early ’70s hit with tighter emissions, pricier fuel, and punitive insurance, it wasn’t even a close boardroom call. The Cleveland wasn’t killed because it was bad — it was killed because the world around it changed, and the Windsor fit that world better. Australia didn’t face the same tug-of-war. They had already invested heavily in Cleveland tooling for the Falcon GTs and doubled down, continuing to develop the heads and refine the chambers year after year. To be clear, Ford stopped building the 351C in the U.S. after the 1974 model year, but the Cleveland engine plant itself kept going and was retooled for newer engines — everything from small V6s to more modern units — and stayed active for decades after the Cleveland V8 was gone. While Ford in the U.S. moved on to the 351M and 400 in the Windsor family, Australia initially imported complete 351Cs from the U.S., then stockpiled about 60,000 American cast blocks when Dearborn stopped production. Once those ran low, Ford Australia started casting their own Cleveland blocks at the Gong Foundry. That’s where the 302C and the Aussie 351 came from — the same basic Cleveland design, but smaller. Ports and those closed-chamber heads everybody loves today. That tells you something important: the Cleveland wasn’t a dead end; it was a victim of timing and priorities here in the States. Normally in an engine video I would start by talking about the block, but what makes the Cleveland engine special are the heads. The Cleveland engine shipped with two different head configurations from the factory: 2V and 4V. The V doesn’t stand for valve, as you might think, but for Venturi, since they were meant to be paired with two-barrel or four-barrel carburetors. All Cleveland heads were two-valve heads. The primary difference was the breathing design. 4V heads were designed to breathe far more, with huge intake and exhaust ports. Before we get deep into ports and chambers, we need to speak the same language: two quick concepts, shrouding and quench. Shrouding is your straight-valve setup, like a Windsor or a traditional small block. When the valve opens and gets close to the cylinder wall, the air gets pinched off. That shrouding kills low- and mid-lift flow — the RPM range where street engines usually live. The canted valve arrangement is typical of Cleveland heads. The valve is tilted back and away from the wall, so as it opens it unshrouds itself. You get much more flow without needing a monster cam. Ford didn’t invent this for the Cleveland; they borrowed it from the 429 and 460 big blocks — it works there and it works here. Quench refers to a closed-chamber design. The flat pad is the quench pad. When the piston comes up, the gap between the piston and pad is really tight, about 0.035 to 0.040 inches. That squishes the mixture across the chamber, forcing the air and fuel to tumble and mix, which speeds up the burn and helps fight detonation because the charge burns fast and predictably instead of lazy and patchy. Compare that to an open chamber, where Ford basically milled out the whole section into a big bowl: no real squish or tumble and a lazier burn. That worked for emissions but not for throttle response or knock resistance. That’s why the early closed-chamber 4V heads are so desirable. In the U.S., every 2V head got the open chamber; only the early 4V heads had the good closed quench. But down in Australia, Ford kept the smaller 2V ports. Street velocity, and they also kept the closed chamber. That’s why the Aussie heads are the hot street combo today: small ports, good velocity, and real quench. Now that we have those two ideas straight, let’s talk about the ports themselves. Cleveland 4V heads were absolutely unhinged for a production small block: huge intake runners, gigantic valves, with that canted layout and almost no shrouding at the gasket. The 4V intake port window is about 2.5 by 1.75 inches — that’s the size of a Motorola power brick. That brick-sized hole is feeding 2.19-inch intake and 1.71-inch exhaust valves — that’s the bottom of a spray can and the size of a challenge coin, respectively. That’s how Ford ended up with a small block that breathes like a big block. The 2V ports pull things back to reality: a much smaller window, more like a dog tag, but still with canted valves. Still good flow, just tuned for street velocity instead of 7,000 RPM dyno pulls. You lose some top-end bragging rights, but the engine wakes up much earlier in the RPM range, which on real roads actually matters more. All factory Cleveland heads were cast iron; there were no aluminum options from Ford. The early closed-quench 4V chambers measured around 61 to 63 cc, while the later open-chamber 4V and all 2V heads were closer to 74 to 77 cc. That change alone dropped compression almost a full point. Most early 4V engines ran roughly 10.7:1 compression, while later open-chamber versions were closer to 9:1 or even the high eights depending on piston dish and how far the piston sits in the bore from the factory. Back in the early ’70s that mattered because premium meant high-octane, leaded fuel. When unleaded and lower-octane blends took over, those high-compression closed-chamber combos became picky about spark advance and fuel quality. The open chambers were Ford’s answer: cheaper to build, burned cleaner, and tolerated the lousy pump gas of the era. Those two head designs gave the Cleveland a split personality depending on your head choice — brutal on the track with a 4V and high compression, or smooth and drivable on the street with a 2V and open chambers. To tell the difference between Cleveland heads, look at the intake face: 4V ports are rectangles big enough to lose a socket in, while 2Vs are shorter and more oval. If you can inspect more closely, verify by using casting numbers on the underside of an intake runner after the intake is off; the date code is also under the valve cover. Underneath the Cleveland block itself is a stout piece of iron with surprisingly good main webbing for a small block of its era. The deck height is 9.206 inches, putting it squarely in small-block territory. The rotating assembly geometry is well balanced for RPM. With a 4-inch bore and 3.5-inch stroke, the 351C carries a 1.65:1 rod ratio thanks to its 5.780-inch connecting rods, which helps it rev cleanly as long as the rest of the combo is built to let it breathe. The main journals measure 2.75 inches, smaller than the 3-inch mains used in later 351M and 400 engines, which means less bearing speed and less drag at high RPM. Crank journals are wide and strong. Clevelands can handle 6,000-plus RPM without drama if the clearances and balances are right. A bare Cleveland block weighs about 190–210 lb, and a complete long block tips the scale near 525 to 575 lb depending on accessories and intake choice. That’s right in line with other Ford small blocks, but a little heavier than a Windsor thanks to beefier castings and heads. It uses the same firing order as the 351 Windsor. Where people really start arguing is the oiling path. You’ll hear folks say that the Cleveland feeds the top end first or that it starves the mains because of how the galleries are laid out, and that’s close to the truth but not the whole picture. The oil pump sends pressure straight up the front of the block right next to the number-one main and cam bearings, and a diagram can make it look like those bearings should get oil first. Hydraulically, though, oil takes the path of least resistance, and in a Cleveland that path is the big right-side lifter gallery. It’s a long, wide passage that feeds all eight right-side lifters and several cam bearings, so oil rushes down that gallery before it commits to dropping into the mains. Once the galleries fill and the system builds pressure, the mains then start getting their share, so the number-one bearing isn’t dry—it’s just not first in priority. At low RPM none of this is a big deal because there’s plenty of pressure to go around, but when you spin a Cleveland hard those big lifter bores and generous passages become a large leak path. The top end can dump more oil than the pump can replace, and since the mains are last in the hydraulic order they’re the ones that pay the price. That’s why serious builders talk about lifter bushings, gallery restrictors, and matching the right pump to the build. Bushings and restrictors tighten the leak paths, and a high-volume pump keeps pressure where the crank needs it. Do that, and a Cleveland will run north of 6,000 rpm all day long without losing a bearing. A fun bit of Ford trivia: the Cleveland’s oiling reputation gets compared to the old FE engines, especially the early center-oilers. Those FEs fed the crank last, which is why Ford introduced the famous side-oiler. The Cleveland isn’t the same situation, but the symptoms are similar. Why didn’t they give the Cleveland the same fix? Timing, priorities, and cost. Ford was designing a high-volume street motor that needed to meet emissions and cost targets, not a race engine. At normal street RPM that’s no problem; the issue only shows up when you spin it hard for long stretches, exactly what racers love to do, and racers then hot-rodded the valve system. One more thing to note if you’re building one: most production Clevelands run a non-adjustable valve train. That means stamped rockers on cast pedestals, the same setup Ford used on their big 429 and 460 engines. The hydraulic lifters take up the slack automatically, so there’s no lash to set with a wrench. If you need more or less preload, you change the pushrod length. Shim the fulp. The Boss 351 and later 351 HO were the exceptions. They got screw-in studs, guide plates, and solid lifters, which meant a fully adjustable setup built for real RPM. That’s one of the reasons those two are the ones everybody still talks about. The name of the game with this engine is airflow. Induction strategy is where you make or break a Cleveland. A 4V with a tiny cam and a lazy dual-plane intake can feel like a tractor that lost its wallet until about 3,000 RPM. That’s not the engine’s fault; that’s mismatched parts. The 4V’s massive, 250-ish cc intake runners move a ton of air up front, but they need velocity to work down low. Give it some cam duration, decent lift, and an intake that actually feeds those ports. Then back it up with real gear and converter, and suddenly the lazy disappears. You get exactly what Ford intended: the top-end freight train. On the 2V, you can lean toward a shorter cam, keep the dual plane, and enjoy crisp throttle and street torque. The smaller 190-to-210 cc ports build velocity fast, which means better low-end pull and clear mixture motion through the midrange. Carb sizing matters. Don’t strangle it, but don’t slap on a barn door either. A well-calibrated 650 to 750 CFM carb is perfect for most 351C street builds, while a hotter 4V combo loves 750 to 850 CFM when the RPM is there. If you go EFI, the giant-port personality of the 4V gets a little friendlier at low speed. Modern fuel control and injector timing help fill in that off-idle hole and make the Cleveland behave like a high-tech small block it always kind of wanted to be. There are a lot of terms around, so let’s narrow in on variance for a moment because the term Cleveland covered a few different animals. I’ve already gone over the head versions, but it’s worth looking again in relation to where they all ended up within the larger Cleveland line. To start with, here’s how the codes break down. The H code was the 2V street engine. The M code was the hot, closed-chamber 4V. The R code was a solid-lifter Boss. The later Q code was the tamed-down Cobra Jet with open chambers for emissions. The letters changed, but the heart of the Cleveland stayed the same. Down in Australia, things got interesting. The Aussie 302 C and 51C heads blended the best traits: two V-sized ports for velocity with closed quench chambers for detonation resistance. That combo made a lot of street builds feel stronger than the spec sheet would suggest. They’re the full caro of Cleveland swaps for a reason. You’ll find Clevelands in Mustangs, Torinos, and even the Tomaso Penta where that high-flow 4V really showed off. Across the Pacific, Australian Falcons were out there turning the same architecture into Brathurst racing legend. Here’s a list compiled from known factory data and enthusiast sources. Local options or export versions may differ. Before we move on, a quick name trap: the 351M and 400 are part of the same 335 engine family, but they’re not true Clevelands. They use a taller deck, larger mains, and a different bell-housing pattern. Some parts interchange, but if you call a 351M a Cleveland, be ready for an internet jockey to call you a noob. Let’s talk about what usually trips people up with these engines and what actually fixes it. First up: oiling and RPM. I’ve said before, the Cleveland’s oil system can starve the mains if you spin it hard with loose clearances or worn The fix depends on how wild your build is. For serious engines, lifter bore bushings keep oil where it belongs. You can also add restrictors to the lifter galleries to slow down the flow upstairs. As always, match your oil pump to the combo. A high-volume pump is great when the system is set up for it, but it’s just a band-aid if you’re masking wear or bad geometry. Cleveland cooling is different. It wants the correct Cleveland-style thermostat or a restrictor plate. There’s a bypass passage built into the housing that needs to be managed so the engine reaches temperature and circulates correctly. The proper thermostat has a little hat or sleeve that closes the bypass once it’s warm. If you’re on a Windsor-style thermostat, that bypass stays open and you’ll have weird warm-ups, hot spots in the heads, and an engine that always seems too warm no matter what you do. These blocks and heads have been around for 50 years or more. You’ll see core shift, valve guide wear, and the occasional mystery machine work from a previous rebuild. If you’re planning a major rebuild, get the block sonic checked before you spend money on parts. On the heads, check valve guides and seats carefully. Detonation on open-chamber heads is a real concern. With modern pump gas, you can’t get away with the same compression and timing those engines ran on leaded premium. Open-chamber 4V heads especially can rattle if you push them too hard. If you’re chasing power, a modern aftermarket head with a tighter heart-shaped chamber is a smart upgrade. More on that later. There are a few different ways you can build up a Cleveland depending on how wild you want to get: street, street/strip, or all-out track. Each combo changes cam specs, compression, and gearing. If you want the full recipe list — everything down to lift numbers and header sizes — I have it all laid out on bonelessg.com. The link is in the description. At the factory, Cleveland was ahead of its time. The aftermarket finally caught up. Fifty years later, the parts catalog for this thing is wild. You can build a Cleveland from bare iron to high-power setups, except maybe the block itself. Today’s aluminum Cleveland heads are basically a cheat code: you get 4V-level top-end airflow with smaller, faster ports that don’t go to sleep at 2,000 rpm. Companies like Trick Flow, CHI, and Edelbrock have the formula nailed. They feature modern heart-shaped quench-style chambers that let you run real compression on pump gas without detonation. Pair that with a dual-plane intake that matches the port cross-section you actually have, and you suddenly have a Cleveland that acts civilized in traffic and wicked at wide-open throttle. The oiling fixes are old news now, dialed in and improved: lifter bore bushings in serious builds, gallery restrictors to keep pressure where it belongs, and high-volume pumps that actually match the clearances you set up. Run a real oil pan — seven or eight quarts — with proper baffling, and use a pickup that’s welded or safety-wired so it doesn’t vibrate off and ruin your weekend. Here’s a bit of free advice: don’t oversize the exhaust just because it’s a Cleveland. Small tubes make torque. 2V heads love 1-5/8 to 1-3/4 inch headers. High-rpm 4V combos can use 1-3/4 to 1-7/8 inch. On the street, bigger isn’t always faster; sometimes it’s just louder. Finally, something to note is that EFI conversions… The giant 4V ports that struggled with fuel distribution in the ’70s suddenly make sense when you can meter fuel per cylinder. Throttle-body EFI helps, but multiport is where the manners really sharpen up — cold starts and part-throttle response. It’s like the Cleveland finally learned some table manners. Shop-floor showdown: Cleveland or Windsor? It’s an argument that’s echoed through garages for 50 years. Full disclosure: I’m a Windsor man myself, but bias aside, here’s the honest truth. The Windsor wins on practicality. Parts are cheaper and easier to find, and there’s a stroker kit for every budget. It’s lighter in many trims, the oiling system is simpler, and if you want plug-and-play street torque with everything on the shelf at Summit or your local parts store, the Windsor is a layup. It just works. The Cleveland, though, is pure Ford magic. Even in stock trim, nothing else in the small-block Ford world moves air like it. Those heads flow like race parts right out of the gate. The valvetrain stays stable at high RPM and the top end just keeps pulling when a Windsor would have already gone home. If you love an engine that wakes up hard from the midrange and keeps pulling long after a Windsor is tapped out, the Cleveland speaks your language. And yes, you can put a Cleveland in one of our trucks. If your rig had a 351M or 400, it’s a bolt-in deal — same family, same mounts. In an F-150 or Bronco that came with a Windsor or an inline-six, it’s more of a project: you need a rear-sump pan, custom mounts, and probably a Saturday or two of bracket bingo. But once it’s in, you have one of the coolest Ford mashups out there. When should you pick which? If your goal is around 400 treatable horsepower with good manners and minimal drama, the Windsor is easy mode: bolt it together, tune it, and enjoy it. But if you want a street-strip setup that feels like a small block pretending to be a big block, or you want the coolest Ford conversation piece in the parking lot, the Cleveland is your answer — especially if you’re running Aussie-style quench heads or a modern aluminum casting that brings the ports back to street velocity. Honestly, if my current build weren’t my first serious attempt at a truly streetable high-horsepower combo, the Cleveland would be awfully tempting. Someday I’d love to build a Cleveland just to remind myself why some Ford engineers in Ohio thought this crazy thing was the future. When De Tomaso dropped a Cleveland in the mid-engine Pantera, suddenly this blue-collar Ford engine was sharing poster space with Ferraris. It gave the 351C race-bred heads, an exotic sound, and European sheet metal. That combo made the legend stick — the Pantera made the Cleveland feel exotic. Those canted valve heads also changed how people thought about airflow and combustion. They taught a whole generation to respect chambers, velocity, and mixture motion. Quench stopped being a buzzword and became a philosophy. That’s why people still hunt for those two V-port quench chamber combos for street builds, and why the words Boss 351 still make people straighten up at car shows. The Cleveland didn’t lose because it was bad — it lost to its own era, emissions, and corporate politics. Cleveland disappeared. But was it so good it got cancelled? Not exactly. Its timing clashed with emissions, fuel, insurance, and corporate priorities, even though the design itself was excellent. The heads were revolutionary and the block was clever. With the right parts it is still an absolute riot. But the early ’70s weren’t kind to any engine, let alone engines that needed compression, cam, and clean fuel. The Windsor survived in the industry because it was simple and scalable. The Cleveland lives in our hearts because it was special. And that’s everything I know or pretend to know about the Ford 351 Cleveland engine. Have one, want one, or think I should dump my Windsor for a Cleveland instead? Think I should forget getting some aftermarket Windsor heads and build up a Cleveland instead? Drop me a line. If you have any other questions, comments, concerns, or gripes, drop them below. If you want to dig deeper into the builds, the side projects, and the stuff that doesn’t always make it on YouTube, or just want to get to know me better, come hang out on patreon.com/bullnose Garage. It helps keep the lights on, and I appreciate you being part of the garage. Thanks again for watching — we’ll see you next time.

Ford built a small block with canted valves and intake ports big enough to lose a socket in, then killed it after a few short years. If that sentence makes you tilt your head, you’re exactly who this video is for.

In this 351 Cleveland masterclass, I walk through what made the Cleveland special, what doomed it in the U.S., and how to build one today that doesn’t suck. We hit 2V vs 4V, quench vs open chambers, the real oiling path, Aussie heads, modern parts, and whether you should pick a Cleveland or a Windsor for your project.

Why Ford Built It—and Why It Disappeared

Late ’60s Ford was drunk on airflow and racing. NASCAR and Trans Am taught a simple lesson: heads win races. The Windsor plant couldn’t keep up with demand, so the Cleveland, Ohio team was told to build their own small block with big-block thinking up top. Enter the 351 Cleveland in 1970.

In just a few years we got the 351C 2V (street torque), the 351C 4V (high-RPM hero), the one-year Boss 351 (’71, the full send), and later Cobra Jet variants as emissions rules dragged compression down. North American production wound down after 1974. Not because the Cleveland was bad, but because the early ’70s were. Emissions got brutal, compression dropped, insurance punished power, fuel quality slid, and Ford already had the Windsor on a massive, cost-effective production base.

Australia didn’t flinch. They invested, stockpiled roughly 60,000 U.S. blocks when Dearborn stopped, and then cast their own at the Gong Foundry, giving us the 302C and Aussie 351. Same architecture, smarter chambers for the street. The Cleveland wasn’t a dead end; it was a victim of timing and priorities here in the States.

The Heads That Made the Legend

2V vs 4V: Venturi, Not Valves

“V” stands for Venturi, not valve count. All Cleveland heads have two valves per cylinder. The difference is breathing. The 4V heads are wild: huge ports and big valves for high-RPM airflow. The 2V heads are smaller, designed for port velocity and street manners.

Shrouding vs Canted Valve Unshrouding

Traditional straight valve layouts get shrouded by the cylinder wall at low lift. The Cleveland’s canted valves tilt away from the wall and unshroud as they open. Result: more flow without needing a ridiculous cam. Ford learned it on the 429/460 big blocks, then shrunk the concept into a “small” block.

Quench vs Open Chamber

Closed-chamber (quench) designs use a tight pad—about 0.035–0.040 inch piston-to-head—to squish the mixture, boost turbulence, and speed the burn. That helps power and fights detonation. Open chambers are, well, open: easier emissions, lazier burn. In the U.S., all 2Vs were open-chamber. Early 4V heads got the good closed-chamber quench, which is why they’re coveted.

Australia kept the smaller 2V-style ports and paired them with closed chambers. That combo—velocity plus real quench—is why “Aussie heads” are the hot street setup today.

Port Size, Chambers, and How to Spot the Real Stuff

  • 4V port window: roughly 2.5 x 1.75 inches—“power brick” territory.
  • Valve sizes: 4V uses about 2.19-inch intake and 1.71-inch exhaust.
  • 2V port window: much smaller, more oval—dog-tag sized compared to 4V.
  • Chamber volumes: early closed-chamber 4V ~61–63 cc; later open-chamber 4V and all 2V ~74–77 cc.
  • Compression: early 4V combos around 10.7:1; later open-chamber builds often near 9:1 or high 8s depending on pistons/deck.

How to ID them: look at the intake face. If the port looks big enough to swallow a flashlight, it’s 4V. Smaller, oval-ish ports are 2V. Casting numbers live under an intake runner (intake off) and date codes are under the valve cover.

The Block, Geometry, and What It Weighs

The 351C bottom end is stout for its era: strong main webbing and smart dimensions that like RPM when the combo is matched.

Key Specs

  • Bore x stroke: 4.000 x 3.500 inches
  • Rod length: 5.780 inches; rod ratio ~1.65:1
  • Deck height: 9.206 inches
  • Main journal: 2.75 inches (smaller than 351M/400’s 3.000, so less bearing speed)
  • Weight: bare block ~190–210 lb; complete long block ~525–575 lb (accessories/intake dependent)
  • Firing order: same as 351W

Translation: a Cleveland will happily spin past 6,000 RPM with the right clearances and balance—and with oil control handled (more on that next).

Oiling Reality—and Real Fixes

The Gallery Path, Explained

The myth says “it feeds the top end first.” The truth: hydraulically, the right-side lifter gallery is the path of least resistance. Oil rushes there before it fully settles into the mains, especially at higher RPM. Once pressure builds, everyone gets served but at sustained RPM, those big lifter bores and generous passages can become a leak path. The mains are last in line and can suffer if you ignore the combo.

Fix What Matters

  • Lifter bore bushings: tighten leak paths on serious builds.
  • Oil gallery restrictors: slow the upstairs flow so the crank keeps pressure.
  • Right pump, matched to clearances: a high-volume pump helps when the system is prepped; it’s not a band-aid for worn geometry.
  • Real pan and pickup: 7–8 quarts, baffled. Secure the pickup (weld or safety-wire) so it doesn’t vibrate off and ruin your weekend.

Handled properly, a Cleveland will live north of 6,000 RPM all day without eating bearings.

Cooling Quirks You Can’t Ignore

Cleveland cooling needs the correct Cleveland-style thermostat (or a restrictor plate). The housing has a bypass passage that must be controlled. The proper thermostat has a sleeve/“hat” that closes the bypass once warm. Run a Windsor-style stat and the bypass stays open… hello odd warmups, hot spots, and a motor that always runs warmer than it should.

Valvetrain Notes

Most production 351Cs use a non-adjustable valvetrain: stamped rockers on pedestals with hydraulic lifters. Preload is handled by pushrod length, not lash nuts. Exceptions: Boss 351 and later 351 HO got screw-in studs, guide plates, and solid lifters. Fully adjustable and happy at real RPM.

Building a Cleveland That Doesn’t Suck

Induction and Cam Strategy

The name of the game is airflow… matched, not mismatched. A 4V with tiny cam and a lazy dual-plane feels like a tractor that lost its wallet until ~3,000 RPM. Give it duration, real lift, and an intake that actually feeds those giant ports, then back it with gear/converter. The freight train shows up.

On a 2V, lean into velocity. Shorter cam, dual-plane intake, and enjoy street torque and crisp throttle. Smaller ports (roughly 190–210 cc) build velocity early and keep mixture motion through the midrange.

Carb vs EFI

  • Carb sizing: 650–750 CFM works for most street 351Cs; a hotter 4V build with real RPM likes 750–850 CFM.
  • EFI: the big 4V ports get friendlier at low speed with modern fuel control. Throttle-body helps; multiport makes it behave—cold starts, part throttle, cylinder-to-cylinder fuel.

Headers That Help (Not Hurt)

  • 2V street: 1-5/8 to 1-3/4 inch primaries.
  • High-RPM 4V: 1-3/4 to 1-7/8 inch.

Don’t oversize just because “Cleveland.” Smaller tubes build torque; bigger is often just louder.

Variants, Codes, and Aussie Gold

  • H-code: 2V street engines.
  • M-code: hot, closed-chamber 4V.
  • R-code: Boss 351, solid lifter, adjustable valvetrain.
  • Q-code: later Cobra Jet with open chambers (emissions-era tame).

Australia blended the best traits: 2V-sized ports for velocity with closed quench chambers for detonation resistance. That’s why Aussie heads are coveted for street builds. And yes, the same Cleveland architecture powered everything from Boss Mustangs and Torinos to the De Tomaso Pantera—where the 4V really showed off. Over in Australia, Falcons turned the platform into Bathurst legend.

Name trap while we’re here: 351M and 400 are part of the 335 family but aren’t “true” Clevelands. Taller deck, bigger mains, different bellhousing pattern. Some parts interchange—just don’t call a 351M a Cleveland unless you like comment wars.

Cleveland vs Windsor—Like Grown-Ups

Full disclosure: I’m a Windsor man myself. Bias aside, here’s the honest take.

  • Windsor: wins on practicality. Lighter in many trims, simpler oiling, cheaper parts, a stroker kit for every budget, and shelves of bolt-on street torque.
  • Cleveland: pure Ford magic. Nothing else in the small-block Ford world moves air like a Cleveland’s heads. Stable valvetrain, top end that keeps pulling when a Windsor is clocking out. With the right combo (and especially modern heads), it’s a small block that pretends to be a big block.

Swapping a Cleveland into a Bullnose

If your truck had a 351M or 400, this is about as bolt-in as it gets—same 335 family, same mounts. For F-150s or Broncos that came with a Windsor or inline-six, plan on a rear-sump pan, custom mounts, and a Saturday or two of bracket bingo. Once it’s in, you’ve got one of the cooler Ford mashups out there.

Aftermarket Heads and Modern Fixes

The aftermarket finally caught up with the Cleveland. Today’s aluminum heads (Trick Flow, CHI, Edelbrock) are basically a cheat code: 4V-level airflow with smaller, faster ports that don’t go to sleep at 2,000 RPM. They use modern, heart-shaped quench chambers so you can run real compression on pump gas without detonation. Match the intake to the actual port, not the one in your imagination, and you get street manners plus top-end pull.

Oil system fixes are well known by now: lifter bore bushings on serious builds, sensible restrictors, and a high-volume pump when clearances justify it. Run a baffled 7–8 qt pan and secure that pickup. Do the Cleveland thermostat correctly and you won’t be chasing phantom heat.

What to Inspect Before You Spend

  • Block: sonic check old castings for core shift before you buy pistons.
  • Heads: guides and seats—decades of wear and “mystery machine work” show up here.
  • Detonation risk: open-chamber 4V heads can rattle on modern pump gas if you chase timing/compression too hard. Tighter modern chambers fix a lot of that.

So, Which One Should You Build?

If you want ~400 honest, streetable horsepower with minimal drama, the Windsor is easy mode. If you want a street/strip setup that hits like a freight train from the midrange up—and you want the best Ford parking-lot conversation starter—the Cleveland is your engine, especially with Aussie-style quench heads or modern aluminum castings that bring port velocity back.

Someday I’d love to build a Cleveland just to remind myself why Ford’s Ohio team thought this was the future. The era killed it—not the engineering.

Wrap-Up

The 351 Cleveland was short-lived in America but far from a footnote. Revolutionary heads, a clever block, and with the right parts it’s still an absolute riot. If you want the full combo recipes—cams, header sizing, and more—I’ve laid them out on bullnosegarage.com. Check out the video above for the full walkthrough.

Got a Cleveland story, an Aussie head score, or a Windsor vs Cleveland hot take? Drop it in the comments. I read them all, even the ones that tell me I’m wrong.


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2-Inch Hitch Receivers: My Portable Vise & Grinder Setup
Show Transcript
If you’re anything like me, you have all kinds of stuff in your garage and basically know where to put it. I should pan around the garage and show you what a mess it is most of the time. It’s not because I’m a messy guy; it’s because I have so much stuff and so little space. That’s a common garage issue. I’m always looking for ways to make storage make sense. One of the things I recently did was teach myself how to weld. I’m not an expert yet, but I can at least stick two pieces of metal together with fire, which is cool. I built a welding table and I’m pretty happy with it. It works really well. If you work with metal, you need a bunch of tools: a vise, a grinder, flap discs, an angle grinder, a welder, and all the accessories. To simplify storage, I built a quick interchange system using 2-inch hitch receivers. I want to show it to you because you might want to use it too. So, take a look. [Music] Howdy folks, Ed here. Welcome back to Bono’s Garage. This is my 2-inch hitch receiver mount system. You can see one here, another on the wall for storage, and this one is an old truck rim, a driveshaft, and a 2-inch rotating hitch receiver that lets me mount my grinder or vise in any of these positions. It’s super simple. I use 2-inch receiver mounts with a rotating head. You can pull a pin and rotate the head. They were only about $20 more than a regular mount and give much more flexibility. With a vise it’s not necessary since the vise itself can rotate, but it adds another axis for extension. It’s simple: you slide it in, pin it, and screw it down so it doesn’t move. Now I have a vise that can move around the shop. This is handy because I can take the tools outside to grind metal without filling the garage with metal shards that stick to every magnet. I can work in the driveway, keeping the garage clean. I can also mount the grinder. These setups are heavy, but they work. There we go. If I want to grind some metal outside, I can do that with this too. I put this little foot on the bottom to keep it from rocking forward, and it works pretty well. I’m never going to be able to wrench on a 10-foot pole with this, but that’s not what it’s designed for. It’s designed for me to take stuff outside and grind on it out there, keeping it out of the way of the garage. When I’m ready to work inside on a more stable platform, I can take this off, bring it over to my bench, slide it in, and plug it in. Now I can grind here. If I need to use my vise instead, I slot that in and store it on the wall. I have these screws on here to keep it from moving, which makes it hard to install if I don’t undo them. There we go. Now my vise is ready to use. It’s pretty stable, though it flops a bit. I have some screws in the hitch receiver I can use to lock it down better. This is never going to be as stable as a full bench-mounted vise, but for what I’m doing here, it’s perfect. And now for the really cool part. Howdy, folks. It’s your slightly desperate channel support reminder. You can keep Bono’s Garage running strong by joining the crew on Patreon or picking up some merch at bonar.com. I promise every single penny goes straight into parts and channel upgrades. I buy my own beer. This 2-inch hitch receiver sits on the end of a steel pipe that runs underneath the table through two pillow blocks, so it can rotate up and down. I’m using DJ light bar braces—the kind used to hang DJ lights from a truss system mounted under a table—to keep the steel pipe from rolling up and down, and it works. If I loosen this, I’m going to take the vise out because I don’t want it dropping down on me; that would be really embarrassing. It’s held down with wing nuts, so I use my wing nut wrench to loosen them. This isn’t meant to be adjusted all the time because I won’t use it like this often, but when I want to, I can rotate it up and mount it straight up and down or out here if I need to. If I had to come at something from underneath or needed a different angle, no problem. I’m holding it because if I don’t, it’ll flop down since I haven’t tightened the braces. The whole thing will go up and down, and all I have to do is tighten it down there to keep it from moving. I’m not sure I can do this hand-tight enough to keep it from moving on camera. Let’s see—oh. Hand-tight is enough to keep it from moving so I can show you. That’s how it works. I couldn’t wrench on this in any major way because it would move on me, but there we go—it’s moving because I had to tighten it down. That’s what I have the wrench for. It’s a short video this week. I wanted to show this system I put together because I think it’s pretty cool. If you wanted to use something like this in your shop, you could: put as many hitch receivers on the wall as you have room for and hang as many tools as you want. I’m thinking about getting a smaller drill press to put on here, one of the magnetic ones. There are a couple other tools that might work on a platform like this. If I wanted to, I could take this out and put it in the back of my truck, right on the hitch of my newer Ford. Will I ever do that? Who knows. But now I can, and that’s half the fun of garage projects—you make things so you can use them that way, even if you never do. The link to all of the stuff I used to make this happen is in the description. Some of it’s kind of expensive, but not terrible, and it should last a long time. Now I have a great way to move projects for welding, grinding, cutting, or any metal work in and out of the garage to make the workflow more efficient. That’s it for now. Thanks so much for watching. If you have questions, comments, concerns, or suggestions—if you want to know more about how I did this or have done something similar—drop them below. I really appreciate it. We’ll see you next time. It’s following me around—can you stop? If you want to dig deeper into the builds, the side projects, and the stuff that doesn’t always make it on YouTube, or just want to get to know me better, come hang out on patreon.com/bullnose Garage. It helps keep the lights on, the beer fridge full, and the builds funded. Appreciate you being part of the garage. Thanks again for watching; we’ll see you next time.

If your garage is bursting at the seams with tools and “stuff I might need someday,” welcome to the club. I got tired of playing floor-plan Tetris every time I wanted to grind, weld, or clamp something. So I tried something a little ridiculous that turned out to be… not ridiculous at all.

Short version: I built a portable vise and grinder setup around 2-inch trailer hitch receivers. Now I can mount a tool on the wall, at the welding table, or on a freestanding base, and move it outside when I don’t feel like sandblasting the shop with metal dust. It’s simple, stout, and way more flexible than I expected.

The 2-Inch Hitch Receiver Mount System

The heart of this setup is a set of 2-inch hitch receivers and interchangeable tool mounts. I’ve got three main locations:

  • A receiver on my welding table
  • A receiver on the wall (for storage and quick swaps)
  • A freestanding mount made from an old truck rim and a driveshaft

For the tool-side mounts, I used 2-inch receiver pieces with a rotating head. They cost about $20 more than a standard fixed mount, but the extra axis is worth it—especially for the grinder. With a vise, it’s not strictly necessary because most vises rotate on their own, but the added articulation makes positioning easier. It’s a slide-pin-tighten operation: drop the mount in, pin it, snug the screws so it doesn’t wiggle, and you’re in business.

Why Hitch Receivers Work in a Small Shop

Hitch receivers are built to locate and secure heavy things quickly. Turns out they’re perfect for tools, too. The big wins here:

  • Interchangeable tools: Swap a grinder for a vise in seconds without dedicating a chunk of bench space to either one.
  • Mobile dust control: I can drag the grinder mount outside and keep the garage from looking like a glitter bomb hit a magnet factory.
  • Modular storage: The wall receiver doubles as a parking spot when a tool isn’t in use.
  • Flexible angles: The rotating head and the table-mounted rotating pipe (more on that in a second) make awkward workholding less awkward.

The Components (and Why They Matter)

Rotating Receiver Mounts

These are just standard 2-inch hitch receiver mounts with a rotating head. Pull a pin, change the angle, drop the pin back in. They add another axis of alignment so you can bring the work to you instead of contorting around the tool. For grinding and light fab work, they’re ideal.

Vise and Grinder, One System

The vise and the grinder each live on their own hitch insert. When I want to grind outside, the grinder goes on the freestanding base. When I need to clamp and beat on something, the vise moves to the welding table. When one’s in use, the other can hang out in the wall receiver. Easy.

Locking It Down

Receivers are solid, but tools still need to be tightened. I’ve got screws on the mounts to snug them in the receiver and keep the play down. That also means if I forget to back those screws off, the swap can be a bear. Ask me how I know. The message here: snug for stability; loosen before you yank on it.

The Freestanding Rim-and-Driveshaft Stand

This is the portable workhorse: an old truck rim for the base, a driveshaft for the upright, and a 2-inch rotating receiver on top. It’s heavy (which is good), it rolls enough to move around (also good), and it has a small foot at the bottom to keep it from pitching forward under load (very good). I’m not trying to pull on a 10-foot cheater bar with this thing—because that’s not what it’s for. It’s for taking the grinder (or a vise) outside, doing the dirty work there, and bringing it back in without dragging half the driveway in with it.

Stability-wise, it’s plenty for normal grinding, fitting, and light clamping. If you’re expecting bench-vise rigidity on a freestanding stand, you’re going to be disappointed. But for the intended use, it’s right on the money.

The Wall Receiver

The wall receiver is the simplest piece, and it earns its keep. It stores whatever tool isn’t in use and doubles as a quick-use station when I just need to make a fast touch-up. Receivers aren’t just for trucks—they make solid wall mounts too.

The Welding Table: Rotating Pipe Mount

Here’s where it gets fun. The receiver at the end of my welding table is welded to a steel pipe that runs underneath the table through two pillow block bearings. That pipe can rotate, which means the whole receiver can swing up, down, or anywhere in between. I’m using DJ-style truss clamps (the light bar braces used to hang stage lights) under the table to lock the pipe in position. They’re hand-friendly with wing nuts, and I keep a wing nut wrench nearby to give them an extra snug when I need it.

Use case: if I need the vise vertical, horizontal, or somewhere off the edge of the table to get under a part, I can swing the receiver to where I want it and clamp it in place. Hand-tight can hold for light duty; for anything more convincing, a quick hit with the wing nut wrench locks it down nicely.

Could I reef on this setup like a fixed bench vise? No. It’ll move before the steel does. But for positioning, odd angles, and making the most of limited table space, it’s a killer option.

What It Can (and Can’t) Do

  • Can: Let me mount a vise or grinder in multiple places, change orientations fast, and move the mess outside.
  • Can: Keep the shop cleaner by doing grinding in the driveway so the magnetic gremlins don’t collect every tiny metal shaving.
  • Can: Save space by using one set of mounts for multiple tools.
  • Can’t: Replace a bolted-to-the-floor industrial vise for high-torque work. It’s not designed for that, and I’m not pretending it is.

Future Add-Ons I’m Considering

I’m eyeing a smaller magnetic-base drill press to drop into a hitch insert. A couple other tools would adapt nicely to a platform like this, too. And yes, I could stick one of these mounts right into the hitch on my newer Ford and have a field vise in the driveway or on a job site. Will I? Maybe. The point is, I can—and that’s half the fun.

Build Notes and Tips

  • Receiver choice: The rotating head mounts cost a bit more than fixed mounts, but the flexibility pays off immediately—especially on the grinder.
  • Snug matters: Set screws or clamp screws in the receiver make a big difference in how “solid” the tool feels.
  • Balance your freestanding base: A wide base (like a truck rim) plus a small anti-tip foot keeps things composed when you’re leaning on the work.
  • Use the right clamps under the table: Pillow block bearings let the pipe rotate smoothly, and truss clamps with wing nuts make locking it down fast and tool-free most of the time.
  • Know the limits: This is not a dragline anchor. It’s a smart way to reconfigure common tools and move work zones around without rebuilding the shop.

Parts I Mention and Link

Links to the mounts and parts I used are below.

Why This Silly Idea Works

Because it’s simple. Hitch receivers are an existing, standardized interface with great mechanical engagement and fast changes built in. Add a rotating head, give yourself a few places to plug in around the shop, and suddenly the same tools have three lives: on the wall, on the table, or out in the driveway. When space is tight and your tool list is long, modular beats permanent every time.

Wrap-Up

That’s the whole setup: receivers on the table and wall, a freestanding rim-and-driveshaft stand, a rotating pipe with pillow blocks, and a couple of tools on hitch inserts I can swap in seconds. It’s not fancy, but it’s absolutely effective—and my garage is a lot less sparkly because of it.

Want to see it in action? Check out the video and let me know what you’d add to the system, or how you’d tweak it for your space. Questions, ideas, or better ways to keep the dust outside—drop them in the comments.


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