The challenge I anticipated while registering my 1996 Mitsubishi Chariot Resort Runner GT was the lengthy 2,800-mile journey back. Surprisingly, the journey itself was the least of my worries compared to the troubles I faced when my catalytic converter disintegrated, triggering a scavenger hunt for parts that extended over several agonizing weeks just to meet emission standards.
The saga of my own making commenced during the return trip from Ikea, following the purchase of a shelf I believed wouldn’t fit in my MR2. (It was proven otherwise, yet that’s beside the point.) It occurred to me that I had yet to unleash the full potential of my 2.0-liter turbocharged engine, as I refrained from pushing the limits to avoid alarming my anxiety-plagued mother during the previous leg of the trip. Accelerating onto the onramp, I indulged in the 230 horsepower surge, relishing in the fierce symphony created by the turbo boost—and inadvertently, inaugurating an unexpected issue.
Throughout the long drive, I detected a subtle exhaust leak that, following a spirited two-gear acceleration, ominously escalated in volume. The noise resembled a theft of my precious catalytic converter. What had occurred was that the exhaust back pressure had intensified, causing the remaining rusty cat to disintegrate, ejecting fiberglass insulation through the top.
Finding a replacement cat didn’t worry me much, as a budget-friendly Expo AWD cat surfaced with just a few clicks on eBay, swiftly leading me to the exhaust shop within days. However, the technician highlighted a couple of issues: Firstly, the eBay cat was marginally longer than the original, necessitating cutting and welding new flanges—considering the severely corroded condition of the current ones, this was a plausible solution. Secondly, the concerning matter was the dangling wire near the bung behind it: The exhaust gas temperature sensor.
Rusted-in Mitsubishi exhaust temperature sensor. Credit unknown, I got this from a Russian classified listing last summer. Same part, though.
Functioning as a regulator for the car’s exhaust gas recirculation system, designed to control NOX emissions, the sensor seemed to be functioning properly. However, years of corrosion had firmly lodged it within the bung, compelling the technician to declare it irretrievable. (He was proven right when I attempted to dislodge it and ended up damaging it.) While its absence wasn’t critical for emissions testing, leaving it out would trigger a persistent dashboard alert, possibly disqualifying the vehicle from the testing phase. Balancing the implications, my respect for regulations, and preferring to maintain originality, I embarked on a quest to secure a replacement.
That’s when the real challenge emerged.
Consulting a resource shared by fellow Mitsubishi enthusiasts, EPC Data—an invaluable parts database, directed me to part number MD155373, with direct links to Japanese websites for ordering—sounds simple, right?
However, following a couple of days, I received unfortunate news. The stock in Amayama’s warehouse had been depleted, as the specific part was no longer in production. Luckily, Megazip informed me that they retained at least one unit in their inventory. I promptly placed an order a week before their scheduled summer closure when they ceased order processing. Regrettably, they failed to fulfill the order promptly, leading me to wait two weeks until they contacted the warehouse to verify part availability.
Ultimately, none remained in stock.
Left with no alternative but to tirelessly scour Google pages, I hunted for the item elsewhere. Unfortunately, the search results were cluttered with listings for an oil pressure sender rather than the required EGT sensor. Finally, after persistent searching, I located the desired component, but a catch arose – it resided in Russia.
Several Russian automotive parts websites displayed the EGT sensor as available (as well as a similarly numbered distinct oil pressure sender). Yet, navigating the Russian order system proved challenging, and it was revealed that Russia had prohibited the export of automotive components. Placing an order would entail a $300 risk, with unfavorable odds.
Subsequent exploration led me to a Polish supplier with the required item, yet they solely shipped to a limited number of European Union nations, one of them being Ireland. I contemplated enlisting a distant acquaintance of my father’s to forward the package, but picturing explaining the situation to a Dubliner in his sixties without first treating him to a pint seemed improbable.
That prompted me to investigate U.S. market car equivalents, starting with the Eclipse GSX due to sharing many components. Alternatively, I considered checking compatibility with a sensor from a Galant VR-4. Eventually, a sensor from the latter seemed promising, but a complication arose – the connector varied. While considering contacting an exhaust specialist to splice it in, they advised confirming temperature range compatibility with Mitsubishi to avert potential issues.
Regrettably, my inquiries at the local Mitsubishi dealership’s parts desk proved fruitless. Despite the clerk showing interest, the part number was unrecognized in their database. Extending my search to the warehouse yielded the same outcome. A suggestion to reach out to the local Fuso dealer, Mitsubishi’s commercial vehicle division, failed to yield results, as did consulting a parts specialist recommended by Delica-owning acquaintances. It seemed like another dead end.
Retracing my steps and exploring options, I chanced upon an Amayama page suggesting potential substitutes for the elusive Russian part. One such equivalent, MD148283, was indicated to be compatible with the model; however, the part diagram lacked resolution to confirm connector compatibility. Despite this, all other aspects aligned, and with no alternatives in sight, I took a $160 risk. If the part didn’t seamlessly plug in, I would instruct them to splice it and consider the issue resolved.
Over a week passed before a parcel from Japan arrived at my doorstep. With bated breath, I opened the box, unwrapped it, and carefully scrutinized the contents, searching for the much-needed connector.
Hooray.
After a morning spent at the muffler shop and an unsuspecting emissions attendant encounter later, I possess all the documentation required for plate acquisition. Nearly two months have lapsed since the vehicle purchase. However, one lingering question remains.
Should I indulge in Oregon’s traditional blue plate or maybe not? (Hint: I caved.)
