It was fun to write about the growing trend in collector cars- the “derelict car” treatment , where classic sheet-metal is bolted on to brand new custom Corvette running gear. The approach produces a high-performance, brand-new 1948 Buick convertible or something similar. Very neat concept, and I am thankful that the work is so meticulous that it is so impossibly expensive that it cannot tempt a man of limited means.
Dodged a bullet, I thought, and got on with those things that needed to be done at the farm.
I almost got to some real work yesterday- and yes, I did get out in the sun with my shirt off to get the clippers on some of the out-of-control eruptive foliage. The direct TV dish was completely obscured, and some unknown and quite impressive plants were blocking a couple of the windows.
I don’t know what the two prime offenders might be- something like sumac in the case of the towering tendrils, but they were protected by a vile and intrusive vine that produces fierce thorns that grasp and cut at the skin and loop around the LL Bean field boots to trip me and drag me down in the thick growth as the thorns rake and rend my flesh.
Which is why I was wearing shorts, even though modesty is optional for many of the other chores down in the country.
I made it around the house and did some raking in the Zen pebble garden before I could put it off no longer, and went back to reviewing the stupid contract solicitation. Then the Russians came over to show off the ‘year one’ vintage of their dessert wine (sweet but drinkable) and catch up on country gossip.
Jack the enormous German shepherd signaled that he was done with Happy Hour by sweeping a wine glass off the coffee table with his imposing tail before bounding out the front door. The house suddenly silent, I looked at the contract piled up on the breakfast table and shook my head. Perhaps another drink and cook some dinner to go with the PGA final round?
I got to the first part and decided to check the email a last time before surrendering to the night. There was a note from my brother. Apparently the fever has not passed. He has continued to scour the web for the prefect ride to show at the next Hoosier AMC car show.
The bad news is that he found one. The perfect one.
There was a link to the ad in his email, and a cheaper alternative, a 1970 AMC Rebel, but there was no question in my mind about which one was The Car.
The ad was breathless:
“WOW what a cool car!! This is a 1959 Rambler Custom and the odometer shows 3529 but not sure of actual miles. It cranks very easy and idles great, we drove it here @ 65 MPH and it cruised right a long with no problem. This was a California car just drove here across country, the tires are also new. No rust.
It has reverse, low, H1, & H2. No clutch, just gas it and go. Brakes are in good shape also. The interior seats are brand new and so is the pink paint inside and out.”
No doubt in my mind. It is sort of the anti-sexy car, but look at those fins! We had one, and if memory serves me correctly, it hauled us from Detroit to the Pacific Ocean in 1960, arriving at El Segundo, CA, with nary a hiccough.
There is one other item that provides a personal link to the car. Dad designed the “notch” on the roof-line that incorporated the luggage rack and enabled American Motors to use the same tooling to stamp the roof panel for both the wagon and the sedan models. He was a minor legend for achieving the savings to the manufacturing guys while introducing a raffish, sporty look to the boat. And, perhaps you noticed, it is Pink.
OK, OK, I have been through this before. In fact, many times. It is an illness as profound as that of the yachting community, in which it is said that the two best days with your boat is the day you buy it, and the day you sell it.
I have flirted with classic rides for a long time, despite the constrictions of a Navy paycheck. Over the years, I saved a ’75 Olds Delta 88 while I was OCONUS for ten years and drove it another five after that, and then swapped that out for a ’68 Beetle convertible for Florida driving, then a 1986 Caddie Coup de Ville which gave way to a 1973 Mercedes 350SL, and then (finally) the ’91 Syclone tribute truck that belonged to Uncle Dick.
All of them gave me mild cases of heartburn, and the only one in the lot worth anything (the muscle truck) has about twenty grand put into it that I will never see again, even if it is rare and has only 40K on the odometer.
My favorite of them all is the P-71 Crown Vic police cruiser, but that ride is only eleven years old, and so I consider it new. I anticipate that there will be parts available for the next couple centuries, so I may hang on to it for the duration- it is the last “Panther” frame full-sized V8-powered sedan made in America.
Despite my misgivings, I gave into the fever. My brother and I went back and forth on the matter for a while and eventually I said we could split the cost, whatever it turned out to be, and drive it up to Indiana to store at the Kokomo Car Museum. It would be an adventure and a story, all in one, since Dad had done a series of renderings on how station wagons could be tricked out to be functional campers.
I am excited. We will see what happens. If you see something pink flash by at 65mph, you will know what it is.
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicscocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303