In the spring of 1998, I decided that I wanted to buy a car. I was just finishing my freshman year at the University of Illinois, and when I came home for the summer, I started looking for a car. By that time, for about ten years, and about half my life, I'd been a Chevy guy. But, as I was starting to look forward to buying a car, the realist in me knew that I might not be able to find just exactly what I wanted. At that time, EBay was in its infancy, if it existed at all, and Craigslist wasn't even on the horizon. I would be limited to whatever was listed in the classified ads in the Suburban Life newspaper. The goal was to buy a car right away, so I could drive it to my new summer job in Elmhurst. That meant I wouldn't be able to wait very long to see what might become available. With all this in mind, I started making a conscious effort to shed my biases and open my mind. I didn't have any strong objections to other GM makes, especially Oldsmobile. I had always liked the 1971 Cutlass S that my dad had when I was a kid. And Plymouth and Dodge were not a real hard sell, either. I could even stomach Mercury. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was even trying to warm up to Ford, just in case that was all I could find. I remember that the best thing I could think of, to try to come to terms with Ford, was that Mark Martin drove a Ford. After all, you've got to respect the hell out of Mark Martin.
I remember the first car that caught my eye was a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. Boy, that would have been cool, right? At the time, I didn't even know what a 1968 Barracuda looked like, I just knew that I liked cars from the late-60's and early-70's. But it was listed in the Tribune, and it was somewhere in Chicago, and I never did go look at it. Turns out they're pretty awesome.
Looking through the Suburban Life, I saw two prospects. There was a 1974 Pontiac Grand Prix for $3800, and there was a 1972 Monte Carlo for $4200. I called about the Grand Prix, but it had already sold. I wasn't really sure if I wanted a Grand Prix, but when I heard it had sold so quickly, I felt like I must have really missed out. Man, am I glad now that I didn't get that Grand Prix.
I called about the Monte Carlo, and arranged to go take a look at it. It was in Berwyn, and I think the first time I went to go look at it, I might have gone with my buddy Jason. We looked at it, and that was about it. I went back later with my dad, and we test drove it a bit. It seems like there might have even been a third trip before I made an offer. Dad put a vacuum gauge on the engine, and it looked OK. He pulled out his old rubber hose "stethoscope," and didn't find anything too objectionable. Then we test drove it around the neighborhood. Brakes worked OK, the car ran pretty smooth, although the idle was a little high. Dad said I should get it up to highway speed on the test drive, so we took it on to I-290. I remember the car felt so huge, and the spot where we got on 290 had us merging into the left lane. I was white-knuckled trying to maneuver that thing into traffic at speed, with a concrete wall on my left and cars flying by on the right. The huge C-pillars didn't help visibility, and the massive hood stretching out in front of me looked like it was just inches from scraping everything around us. But we survived, and the car ran smooth enough. We took the car back to the guy's building, and I told him I'd think about it.
I called the guy on Friday and asked him if he'd take $3500. He said he'd think about it and call me back after the weekend. At the end of the weekend, I still hadn't heard from him, so I called him on Sunday night. He said he couldn't take less than $4000. So, that was that. No Monte Carlo.
I was disappointed, but I think maybe a little relieved, too. I think I had been nervous about making such a large purchase, of such an old car, such an unknown quantity. I still needed a car for the summer, so I bought my dad's 1992 Buick Skylark (a two door), which was affectionately known among my friends as "the Dynaride." It was a great car, and it got me to work and back every day. I also drove it to New Orleans and back one weekend in June.
At some point, probably in July, I think, the Monte Carlo owner's wife called and left a message on my parents' answering machine, saying that they were ready to accept the $3500 offer. I called her back and said, sorry, I already bought a car.
But, as the summer wound down, I kept thinking about that Monte Carlo. As it got closer and closer to time to go back to school, I was thinking more and more: I want that Monte Carlo.
But, I had bought the Skylark, and I still felt like I needed my dad's permission to make such a big decision. Plus, I'd need him to buy the Skylark back if I was going to have the money for the Monte. While he was at work one day, I told my mom that I wanted the Monte Carlo, and she said something along the lines of, "Well, talk to Dad about it." That night my mom had some place to go, and me and my dad were sitting in the family room watching TV. I have no idea what was on, I was just sitting there trying to figure out how to start the conversation. I thought he was against the idea of buying the Monte Carlo, although I don't remember if he ever explicitly said so. Hours passed, and I didn't say anything. Then my mom came home. I saw her car go past the window as she drove back to the garage, and suddenly I was panicking, imagining her walking in and saying, "So, are you going to get the Monte Carlo?" and my dad saying, "What?!" So, I hurriedly said something like, "If it's all the same to you, I think I want to buy that Monte Carlo."
I don't think my dad even looked away from the television. He just said, "Well ... it's your money." I couldn't believe it. I was ecstatic! I had been bracing for a discussion, a debate, pros and cons, fiscal philosophy, and so on. I got, "Well, it's your money." It was better than any outcome I had even dared to hope for.
So, I called the seller back and we agreed to $3500. It was arranged that I'd sell the Skylark back to my dad for a little less than what I bought it for. We went and picked up the Monte Carlo on Sunday, August 23rd, the day before I was supposed to drive back to school.
My dad drove me over there, I paid with a check, the seller had a contract written up on a piece of paper torn out of a spiral notebook. That's about all I remember about the actual transaction. The seller also said he'd just changed the alternator. Probably not a great sign, but I didn't much care. I was getting a Chevy.
My dad followed me home, and we were into La Grange, a couple of miles from home, when the engine died. That was when I first found out what a 1972 Monte Carlo drives like with no power steering and no vacuum-assist brakes. I wrestled it to the curb and my dad pulled over behind me. At this point, I did not feel good.
I think my dad had to be thinking I had just bought a junker, and maybe even kicking himself for not talking me out of it. But one of the many things I admire about my dad is his ability to put those kinds of things aside when I problem comes up, and just focus on finding a solution.
We popped the hood and poked around, or I probably mostly watched my dad poke around. The fuel gauge was close to "E," and the best guess after looking around was that the car had run out of gas. Dad went home to get a gas can, and I stayed to wait with the car. As Dad drove off, I got in the car, shut the door, and when I went to rest my arm on top of the door, I accidentally pushed the lock down. I remember thinking that it seemed uncomfortably metaphorical, locking myself into this car that wouldn't run.
It felt like forever, but eventually Dad came back with some gas. Somehow, the car re-started, and I was able to drive it home. I don't remember for sure, but we must have had to jump it. It made it the couple of miles back to the driveway, and when we got it home, we popped the hood and started looking around again. I didn't hardly know what I was looking at, but somehow I found a plug hidden under the heater hoses that had not been plugged into the alternator. The car had died because it was running off the battery and it had run the battery dead. I plugged it in, we jump-started the car, and my dad followed me as I drove it down to Joliet and back, to road test it and charge the battery.
I was back on top of the world. I had survived my first breakdown, I had found the problem and fixed it myself, and I now owned a 1972 Monte Carlo. I named her "Bertha," after a Chevy that Darrell Waltrip raced in the late 1970s.
So, that was the beginning of my story with Bertha. Over the next 14 years, I would enjoy over 100,000 miles with Bertha, with not a whole lot more than routine maintenance and upkeep. I have learned so much since I bought that car, and I learned a lot of it from working on that car. I think that car was, without a doubt, the best purchase I ever made.
1 comment:
An enjoyable read
Post a Comment