* Sandwich
I call this design either the "sh-t sandwich" or "Sh-tSho," depending on how trademarkey you want to get about it.
The timer is a rat's nest of wires, with a stiff cardboard backer. Be cautious and be careful with this backer; it must be intact, and not bent, or else you'll lose your detergent dispenser. The cardboard keeps the rat's nest away from the dispenser actuator assembly...more on that later.
Take photos. You can't put the wires back willy-nilly; they loop, and lie, and layer, and need to go back the way they went, so that your sh-t sandwich won't be too lumpy in the middle when it's time for reassembly. A little photo documentation spares you a lot of frustration later on. A CSI-worthy crapload of photo documentation may actually make this process almost pleasant.
See that long pin that runs through the shaft? That's the actuator for the detergent dispenser. The plastic arm on the other side (not pictured), also affixed to the shaft (with a speed nut--*stomps on grave of engineer*), triggers the RinseGlo dispenser.
The Total Betch<sup>TM</sup> of this design is that there's a heat-set short pin to run the RinseGlo actuator arm, and this gawdawful (also heat-set) long pin to run the actuator. Don't be hasty in diddling around; damage either pin, and you've got problems. Do NOT get out the Dremel. If I had the choice, I'd go for the RinseGlo pin again--if you screw up the long pin, you will have trouble interfacing with the magnetic detergent dispenser.
No, scratch that--if I had the choice, I'd use a NIB timer.
In any case, I used a long-stem lighter to heat the short RinseGlo pin and remove it (not PartialBetch, TotalBetch<sup>TM</sup>) after I had the thrill of gently prying back the lips of the speed-nut to coax it of the (rusted! Yay!) timer shaft. Note: If you do stuff that requires force to the timer shaft, be sure to support it on the other side, or somehow. Remember, there are little gears you're pressing on.
You have to pick your poison; so long as those pins are in place, you won't be getting at the guts. The wisdom of John L.'s field-service total replacement is now apparent, no?
With that out of the way (or with the timer in the trash can, the machine at the curb for recycling, and a cold beer in your hand, as you brood with a glazed look of frustration, and wonder if your mother was ever sincere about any mechanical inclination you possessed--or whether that was the Valium and vodka martinis talking), you can peek through the flip-side of the timer, and note where the little drive gear from the timer motor goes. The hole it rests in has an identical twin not far away, and it can fit into either. (Don't do what I did, and have to guess at it later, and try to Rubik's-cube it back in.)
Remove the two screws that hold the timer motor stator--keep track of the position of the rotor, and the little electrical spade tab-o-lito that is sandwiched underneath the screw. Take pictures. (You don't have the short-term memory you thought you had, and remember what you just decided about your mechanical inclination.)
Now, stuff gets real. Be gentle. Straighten the tabs that secure the timer contact board, and gingerly free it. (If you don't remove the stator, you won't be able to get at the last tab, and the contact board doesn't want to come out cock-eyed. There are many, little, thin, delicate metal things riding on your finesse.)
If you stop now, as I did, and reinstall the timer dial so that you remember which way points north (hint: it's toward the motor assembly), you can see exactly what contacts do which function. It's very easy to figure it out with a few passes--the heating element contact (middle, immediate right of the shaft) kicks on after powering the machine on, and persists until you run the timer knob back to "off," at which point it gently releases. The motor is the next-most-frequently actuated contact. Remember, though, that it won't be easy to guess until you hit the main wash segment.
Other contacts do other things, so you'll have to study them. The most chatty contacts are the water and drain valve; if you run things through from the very beginning in slow-motion, you can figure it out. The drain valve won't actuate during the beginning of the first segment, until the end, obviously. The water valve will. The drain valve will also be one of the last things that happens before the dry.
This is simpler to figure out on a GE, because that Sh-tSho<sup>TM</sup> assembly means two things are not in play here--the rinse-aid and detergent dispensers. Hooray! Much simpler. Well, in that respect, anyway.
I quickly figured out which contact was the motor, and studied its movement. As the contacts follow the cam, small imperfections will cause the blades to move like sea kelp in the ocean's current (pause with me now to savor this, and feel the Zen--you'll need it in a second). A true, pronounced change in the cam pattern will cause the contact to close decisively, and you'll hear the music-box clicks that accompany it. Some contacts may close so firmly that the opposing finger flexes a little with it. That's okay.
After studying the cam--which, in a GE, is not a set of fiberboard discs, but is a Bakelite(?) plastic wheel that looks like a music-box "record" indeed, I found that--in fact--GE put plateaus and valleys in concentric patterns that actually do correspond to the stupid/weird/innovative behavior that happens in the first two cycle segments. And, accordingly, the contact for the motor follows the rhythm predictably. The main wash starts a pattern in the disc that persists until the end of the dry, at which point the drain valve and motor bow out, and the only thing on till the end is the Calrod unit.
Why GE did this is beyond me, and I wonder if they revised the later timer to omit the stupid-dance; hence, the huge amount of replacements. Or, maybe a combination of that, and the disc is wear-prone? Hard to say. Low-mileage as ours is, the contacts and cam disc were all in perfect shape, which verifies the seller's story that Mom had put a mob hit out on this machine, and glared at it from across the kitchen, while buffing dishes in the sink with a tea-towel.
Once forensics are complete (I kicked out a piece of insect chitinous body-trash and more spider webs--geez), reassemble the cam disc and shaft (making sure everything properly interlocks with the timer motor's drive gears, which are affixed to the other side of the assembly with rivets anyway); gently lay the contact board back, and make sure your timer pointer is back to "off." This will help the followers settle back into the grooves, and prevent bending their sweet little dinguses. Don't force things. (And don't get a bigger hammer.)
When the contact board is on, hold it gently with your fingers until everything seats, and rotate the timer through a cycle to help everything settle in. Then, hold it firmly after it feels like it "clunks" back into position, and rotate the dial through another cycle to be sure all the switches chatter and actuate. If they don't, or if only one does, you're not aligned properly. Try again. (Gently.)
Bend the tabs back (GENTLY), and reinstall the timer motor (you DO remember which of the two seemingly identical holes it goes in, right? Both will interface with the main drive gear, but only one is correct. "Jehovah" in Latin is spelled with an "I," by the way.)
Be sure the motor is properly aligned, and that you didn't inadvertently omit the spade connector for the power. You'll miss it later, I promise. Take the time to get the alignment right, unless you long for the days of GE's semiautomatic dishwashing.
Now, heat the hell out of that pin, and get it back where it belongs. The depth and such of the RinseGlo pin is not as mission-critical as the detergent-dispenser actuator, so again, I suggest you not screw with the detergent pin if you can help it. The RinseGlo pin just has to be in enough to run the plastic arm, which has a groove extending all the way through it.
Slide the RinseGlo arm back on, and reaffix that stupid speed nut. It just needs to be tight enough to stay; no need to sweat this, but go get a new one at Ace if you feel like a purist. Again, remember the rule about applying force to the timer shaft!
Now, it's time to test your concentration skills. GE has (mercifully) printed the color codes adjacent to all the terminals to help you. But what it won't help you do is remember how to layer the wires as you reconnect them--go back to your detailed and plentiful photos to help with that. You'll want to bury the longer wires with multiple terminals first, and loop them appropriately, before going after the lower-hanging fruit.
Remember that wire insulation colors change a little over the years, so what GE considered "white-brown" may now look pretty orange, which is a problem, because there's also "white-orange" and "white-red," all ready to screw you up (and over). Photos, man. Photos.
Check your work twice; there are no "leftover wires." Now, take your finger and trip the little plastic arm for the detergent dispenser if it's cocked, so that it's in the "dumped" position (or, if it wasn't cocked before you got started, reward yourself with another beer).
Reattach the cardboard backer insert the way Angelina Jolie rotates herself to maneuver through a laser array in a museum heist--do not bend anything. If you compromise the integrity of the backer, you'll lose the one thing preventing the rat's nest from putting undue pressure on the detergent dispenser actuator assembly. Rotate it to allow the timer shaft and pin to pass through; then, maneuver it back and forth to tuck each metal tab from the timer box through. For the last tab, you'll have to be gentle, but firm.
Once it's back on, make sure your timer is back at "off," and reinstall the Sh-t Sandwich to the tank wall. Be gentle here; stuff has to realign. When you think you've got it, hold it there with your hand, and be sure that you can arm and release the dispenser consistently through timer rotations. If you're good, reattach the screws. Make sure the left-top one isn't super-tight, it just needs to be snug. If you overtighten, your dispenser will not arm; it'll flop back whenever you try to raise and lock it.
(Aren't you sad you didn't get that top-load KitchenAid now?)
Once you're certain the dispensers operate consistently, test and be sure the cycle runs as you expect. Or, if you're feeling lucky, reattach the front panel. If you don't have three arms, I recommend you lay the machine on its back, or at least have a helper tilt it back and hold it. Like the timer assembly, the front panel is a delicate shoehorning operation of dodging the handle castings while simultaneously stuffing the top of the panel fascia up under the edge of the handle chrome. It's not fun to do in the vertical position, and you will dip into your jar of expletives if you try it.
Now, test your work. If all goes well, it still works the way it did. And if not, you can always try again, drink more, or use your dolly to move it out to the curb.
