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Automotively Speaking
Dec. 8th, 2008 04:35 pmThe current flap in the news regarding the US auto industry meltdown has gotten me ruminating (scary!) about my own automotive tastes over the past 40+ years as a licensed driver. I confess that I've been obsessed with cars since I could spell the word and have owned more than 30 cars in those ensuing years. Looking back (I told you I was ruminating), I realize that darn few have been good old American Iron. Perhaps it was the lure of exotic foreign designs that pulled me away from Detroit's finest. But there were notable exceptions...
For more years that I care to remember, Dad drove a 2 door, 1953 Ford Customline. A faded bilious green (Dad said it was one of Ford's experiments gone wrong), he bought the car new, his first. Ever practical, Dad jumped on the safety bandwagon years before it was fashionable and equipped the car bumpers with huge chrome andirons, front and rear. Ford's chroming process was no better than their painting it seemed as rust steadily ate the shiny metal away leaving gaping fist sized holes. After a bunch of years, the Ford's body settled on the passenger side which encouraged the door to unexpectedly fling itself open on hard left hand turns. Dad's answer was to wrap a heavy nylon dog collar around the door pillar and it's stationary companion thus holding it shut, we hoped. Of course, this meant that everyone had to get in and out on the driver's side, which never seemed to phase my Dad one bit. One of my lasting memories is of territorial battles with my sister in the back seat of that old Ford as we drove for what seemed like an eternity to Brooklyn to see my mother's parents. Ah, those were the days.
I learned to drive by aiming my mother's 1959 Rambler American (the icon shown in this post is much like that one) along the roads of Long Island. Ugly beyond words, it was a strange lump of iron. I don't think there was a straight edge anywhere. It hated damp, cold weather, refusing to start when it was in a mood. Given that Long Island winters are relentlessly damp and cold, those moods were darned often. You can then understand why my mother hated the car. But she did get even. Every six months or so, like clockwork, she'd 'customize' one of the front fenders in accidents that she'd insist were not her fault. Uh huh, yeah Mom, gotcha. For years, I feared that when I graduated from college, my parents would gift me the car, one front fender dented from my mother's latest driving disaster. They didn't, thankfully.
The first car I bought for myself was a used white 1969 Corvette convertible not unlike the one pictured above. Blindingly fast, the car was a brutish monster that made me very happy. Sadly, it also made my mechanic very happy as it had a penchant for eating universal joints and wheel bearings like popcorn. Spectacular breakdowns whenever I was 100+ miles from home were its specialty. A badly manufactured bolt attaching one end of the transverse leaf spring caused the rear suspension to collapse (on a Sunday). Another time, without warning, the water pump exploded, rocketing the fan blades into the radiator leaving a gushing coolant leak and lots of black fan belt spaghetti. My favorite, and most vivid, memory however was the evening while driving home when the hood release cable sawed through the main wiring harness causing a short that informed me (incorrectly) that I had no brakes. I don't quite recall how, when, and to whom I sold that 'Vette. Maybe I just don't want to remember.
Yes, I owned less exciting US built cars. But they were seriously forgettable. Which says something about the US auto industry, doesn't it?
And some day, I'll post about those foreign exotics I've owned. That's if I can stock up on enough Maalox.
For more years that I care to remember, Dad drove a 2 door, 1953 Ford Customline. A faded bilious green (Dad said it was one of Ford's experiments gone wrong), he bought the car new, his first. Ever practical, Dad jumped on the safety bandwagon years before it was fashionable and equipped the car bumpers with huge chrome andirons, front and rear. Ford's chroming process was no better than their painting it seemed as rust steadily ate the shiny metal away leaving gaping fist sized holes. After a bunch of years, the Ford's body settled on the passenger side which encouraged the door to unexpectedly fling itself open on hard left hand turns. Dad's answer was to wrap a heavy nylon dog collar around the door pillar and it's stationary companion thus holding it shut, we hoped. Of course, this meant that everyone had to get in and out on the driver's side, which never seemed to phase my Dad one bit. One of my lasting memories is of territorial battles with my sister in the back seat of that old Ford as we drove for what seemed like an eternity to Brooklyn to see my mother's parents. Ah, those were the days.
I learned to drive by aiming my mother's 1959 Rambler American (the icon shown in this post is much like that one) along the roads of Long Island. Ugly beyond words, it was a strange lump of iron. I don't think there was a straight edge anywhere. It hated damp, cold weather, refusing to start when it was in a mood. Given that Long Island winters are relentlessly damp and cold, those moods were darned often. You can then understand why my mother hated the car. But she did get even. Every six months or so, like clockwork, she'd 'customize' one of the front fenders in accidents that she'd insist were not her fault. Uh huh, yeah Mom, gotcha. For years, I feared that when I graduated from college, my parents would gift me the car, one front fender dented from my mother's latest driving disaster. They didn't, thankfully.
The first car I bought for myself was a used white 1969 Corvette convertible not unlike the one pictured above. Blindingly fast, the car was a brutish monster that made me very happy. Sadly, it also made my mechanic very happy as it had a penchant for eating universal joints and wheel bearings like popcorn. Spectacular breakdowns whenever I was 100+ miles from home were its specialty. A badly manufactured bolt attaching one end of the transverse leaf spring caused the rear suspension to collapse (on a Sunday). Another time, without warning, the water pump exploded, rocketing the fan blades into the radiator leaving a gushing coolant leak and lots of black fan belt spaghetti. My favorite, and most vivid, memory however was the evening while driving home when the hood release cable sawed through the main wiring harness causing a short that informed me (incorrectly) that I had no brakes. I don't quite recall how, when, and to whom I sold that 'Vette. Maybe I just don't want to remember.
Yes, I owned less exciting US built cars. But they were seriously forgettable. Which says something about the US auto industry, doesn't it?
And some day, I'll post about those foreign exotics I've owned. That's if I can stock up on enough Maalox.
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