Citroën 2CV
James sorts out his oily issues
Ever felt a little overwhelmed by your projects? In this case, it’s my own fault for taking on too many basket cases recently. With more of my summer plans cancelled, it does feel like there’ll be chances to finish some jobs this year – from the replacement of my Smart’s brakes and CX fault-finding to the completion of my Berlingo and AX – along with a detailed probe of another new project… my first Ford, don’t you know! Details of all that soon but first, with the 2CV dripping oil on my driveway after its recent adventure to Cornwall (PC, July 2021), it made sense to get that sorted first. Having traced the drip to an air filter housing that was slowly filling with oil, which was then running down the side of the engine and onto the ground below, I placed an order for a replacement oil inlet. Why? Please allow me to explain…
Resembling a lightsaber or some wonky medieval trophy, the 2CV’S oil filler neck is more than just a means to top up the oil. Inside is a breather valve that controls the pressure inside the crankcase. As the pressure builds and the pistons fight against it, the valve opens and allows the engine to breathe out. As the pistons reach lower dead centre, the valve closes. And so on. Thing is… when that little flat-twin unit breathes out, it produces a fine mist of engine oil, which is directed into the air cleaner via a hose between the oil filler neck and air filter housing. That fine mist of oil is willingly gulped in and burnt through the carburettor.
The valve itself is just a flat layer of rubber that lies over some holes in the neck. When the pressure underneath it rises, the rubber is lifted and vice versa – the rubber seals the holes when
the pressure drops. In time, the rubber degrades and perishes so it allows around 600cc of air to get thrown out every cycle, along with an increased amount of engine oil… which leads to that puddle of oil inside the air filter housing.
Easy peasy
Fitting the new oil inlet cylinder was ridiculously easy, to say the least. Repair is pointless as it’s a sealed unit and the best quality replacement units are still cheap at well under £100. With the removal of two 7mm bolts, a loosening of the alternator (to which it’s partially mounted), removal of the hose to the air cleaner, the old unit lifts out with ease. I was warned to take care not to drop the bolts through the hole into the crankcase – an easy mistake to make. With a new gasket and the addition of a tiny bit of RTV sealant to make positioning the foot of the unit easier, it all went back together in minutes.
Such was the determination by Citroën’s
Walter Becchia to use as few parts as possible in the design, it often feels like he had a clueless buffoon like me in mind. I often struggle to get my head around jobs on more complex cars and will often be found scratching my head before calling for help from one of my colleagues.
But with Citroën’s 1948 masterclass in simplicity, I rarely find myself in any such crisis. I spent much of my childhood building things out of Lego and Meccano and, with that in mind, maintaining a 2CV feels very similar. There is now a hole in the exhaust silencer (which lives at the back of the gearbox) and the pads on those inboard discs are in need of replacement, but what once baffled me has now become a satisfying process of trouble-shooting on a car I can fearlessly fix myself. The aim, as always, is to one day get to that stage on more conventional motors. I think I work for the right magazine, don’t you?