Shot. Toast. History. Dumpster food. Just to mention a couple.

Last week, my bandsaw quit on me. The motor began making a mean-sounding humming noise and the blade would barely move. I figured it couldn't be the start capacitor because the motor was turning. So I was hoping it was the run capacitor. Not too costly but a big PITA nevertheless since work had to stop while the motor was pulled and taken to the repair shop. Once there, they were, of course, "booked up" so it would be a "day or two" later before they could check it out. So that's a day or two working around the parts of the job that I needed the bandsaw for.

A day or two later and no call from the motor shop, so another call to them. Fifteen minutes while they figured out who I was and which motor I was calling about. Yes, I have a name. Yes, I have a ticket number. No, it's not the 15-horsepower three-phase one with the special bracketing. Right, the horse-and-a-half with the bolt on the mounting plate. Then the one-word diagnosis: shot. No, not the run capacitor, the motor.

So then I asked if the reason they did not call me as soon as they had determined that that my motor was shot was because they could not find it in their hearts to share such sad news with me. Naa, was the response, we just didn't get around to it. Don't have a replacement on hand anyway.

So it's off to the internet to order a new motor. Bandsaw down for at least another week. There's another word you don't want to hear, "down". Down is an interesting one. If one is "down" that can mean they are "up" or "on board" with something. But when your machine is down, it's “shot, toast, fini.” None of which is good.

D.D.