Car in Transit
By Tee "Elwood" Mazar
The fun starts at Memphis airport on a cold February night. I'm excited about my flight to Chicago to pick up a genuine 1974 Dodge Monaco "Bluesmobile". Actually it's an ex-CHP cop car, just like "The Blues Brothers" movie stunt cars. It's not a recently retired Mount Prospect, IL, police cruiser. But, "Hey!” close enough.
Since it's a long way back home, I decide to bring along my nice new emergency travel kit which I put into my carry-on bag. As I throw the bag on the Airport security conveyor, I have only a fleeting thought about its contents. Suddenly, I'm being asked, "Do you mind if I examine your bag?" "Oh, my God!" I mumble, "There may be flares in there", I confess to the guard "It's a car care kit" I nervously ramble on, quickly unzipping the virgin kit revealing two, bright red, foot-long road flares - bearing a striking resemblance to dynamite.
"You can't bring those in here", the guard politely explains. "You'll have to give those to the ticket agent". There are no smiles. The ticket agent is speechless. My wife sheepishly leaves the terminal carrying two sticks of "explosives".
The rest of the plane trip goes well. I'm met by my late brother and find the big C-Body Mopar sedan has been delivered and is already sitting in his driveway. Even in the winter dark the black-and-white behemoth prompts a passing neighbor's grin and comment. "Nice car!" he says, tongue firmly planted in cheek.
After an evening of eager anticipation, I awake to begin the journey home. But I can't open the drivers' door. The key refuses to fit. Well, there's always the passenger door, and it's an easy slide across the expansive vinyl bench seat. It is winter gray and thirty degrees outside, but the heart of the iron beast is even colder. Having been warned of the dreaded "weak starter", I try not to tax the mechanism. We persevere and the engine sputters to life briefly. Again it starts and dies. This start-and-die pattern is repeated and each time the car runs a bit longer, but no smoother. We finally get underway and every stop sign is a nail-biter. Only once, at a busy four-way-stop, does someone practice their limited sign language and perform an extended horn test.
Finally the fossil fuel wins out over the water vapor and ice crystals. Now we're hurtling down the street and keeping pace with traffic. However, the speedometer hasn't yet discovered we're moving. Suddenly it springs to life: thirty-five, forty, forty-five, . . . sixty and then back to zero. The police "certified" speedometer is suddenly certifiable. The cable is screaming and by extension the speedo needle is randomly picking numbers like an Illinois lottery squirrel-cage.
In my last conversation with the seller, I asked that he make sure all the safety items were in good working order . . . lights, wipers, tires, etc.. I'm thinking to myself, "I guess I forgot things like starting and a working speedometer?" And then I notice the fluttering ammeter. So far it's been an exciting test drive. My stomach acid and the car's suspect fuel gauge demand a pit stop.
I'm having big time buyer's remorse! Oh, well, a deal is a deal. My brother patiently listens to me thinking out loud over breakfast and asks, "You think you're going to make it in this thing?," he says with a mixture of both pity and terror. "My dentist says I have a high threshold of pain" I reply. Since there are no tags, we make a less-than-convincing "CAR IN TRANSIT" sign, say our "Farewells and good lucks," and I drive off into the southwest. I'm wondering at what point I'll turn around and head back, breakdown or get busted.
Well, it's 475 miles to home, I've got a full tank of gas, half a cup of coffee, it's getting darker, and I'm wearing sunglasses.... I'm also wearing my dark blue winter jacket and "Crossroads" ball cap which has a badge-like shield of Routes 61 and 49. Even though this antique cruiser has no markings, people slow down. When they see my "badged" cap, some drop behind me. And I have no idea how fast I'm going! Some slow down and then tear off in a huff. Some pull up parallel, smile, wave or do the thumbs-up...and then tear off.
Two of the humorless crowd are seen further down Interstate 57 having a chat with Illinois' finest.
"Just keep up with traffic," my brother had recommended after witnessing the psychotic speedo. Right! The trucks are supposed to be going 55 mph and cars 65 mph. Let's see, I'm behind this truck, playing it safe and a semi is passing me. I miss my speedometer!
Then I notice I'm getting shorter. Actually, it's me sliding forward in the acres of front seat vinyl that's been Armoraled to accentuate its freshly refurbished interior. I notice this because my seat belt seems to be getting tighter and I have to keep readjusting the rearview mirror. The floor mats have gotten the same slick treatment. So, I have to pull myself up by the steering wheel. This slippery seat exercise program sounds like perfect TV Infomercial material.
As I settle into the monotony of the trip, I begin to analyze the car's other idiosyncrasies. Since I own a Plymouth Fury of the same year, engine and relative wear, I notice that the car seems to get noisier on smoother pavement. The next pit stop confirms my guess, one tire is a mismatch. This combined with the other balding GT's, assures that there is no pavement between Chicago and home without road whine...or danger of a blowout.
I'm more attuned to the peculiarities because there is no distracting radio. Well actually, there is a radio, but it's hot-wired so it won't be accidentally left on. It's "sporadic" as I was warned. Also, I was informed that a new rear package shelf was covering the rear speakers. With a sun-rotted front speaker, muffled rear speakers and road noise, the radio sounds like it's playing in the apartment next door.
Remember that dancing ammeter? Well, as the sun began to set, its antics soon became more obvious. When I turned on the headlights they began dancing too, pulsating hypnotically. I'm suspect the folks ahead thought I might be a real police cruiser with my "wig-wags" set on stun. A new voltage regulator would soon fix this problem.
Here's my suggestion when buying any premium older car: Make the seller take a 400-mile trip with you! I made it home without incident, but most of the worry factor could have been avoided. But then, what-the-hell! If you jump into your average newer car there is little doubt you will make it to your destination. Where's the mystery? Where's the sense of adventure? I'll take the uncertainty anytime. And this time I didn't even have to break in my new emergency travel kit!
Anyone else out there need a road test of a vintage car? I'm ready to go!