From A Blue Condor to Sports Cars... Part II

From the Gold Bug to the Grey Ghost

Or

From A Blue Condor to Sports Cars... Part II

I think it is about time that I completed the story of how I finally moved from big American iron to European, albeit British...and to this date they can't seem to have figured out that they really are more a part of Europe than anyplace else in the world...sports cars.

In a Part I I had finally gotten something sporty...a 61 Corvair Monza, gold in color, with a manual transmission. Don't get me wrong, the 57 Bel Aire convertible was as sexy as it got for high school or even college, but after losing that to a monster and plain 59 Chevy I really did want something that handled better and was smaller...more like maybe an MGA. But dad still was not ready for a furrin car for me...so we, or rather he, settled on the Corvair.

It was a pretty neat little car, with an air-cooled flat six over the rear wheels pushing out 110 horses, and though it was a three speed, the shifter was on the floor where it belonged, rather than as some ridiculous appendage sticking out of the steering column.

I don't know how it happened, but my best buddy Tom got even luckier, dropping into a silver Corsa convertible. This baby had 180 exotically turbocharged horses and a four speed, and was even given the European model name of “Spyder.” Even the Monza model was often called the “Poor Man's Porsche” in the motoring press. Of course I had to make mine a bit less drab by adding a racing stripe down the middle of the car, and wiring in a tach fit into a center console I built myself. This was the first time I actually worked on any car, and even taught myself to set the timing, change plugs, replace points, and do oil and filter changes. I was way beyond the old man's steps now!

I was now in my sophomore year in college, living with my ex-dorm roomie and a buddy of his in a hellhole in downtown Gainesville. Tom Stark was tall, gangly, and among other claims to fame, had helped build the huge Vehicle Assembly Building at Cape Canaveral while working a summer construction job. The building is still in use after spitting out the Saturn V moon rockets for which it was designed, as well as the Space Shuttles.

I met Tom through Donnie Russell, who had more middle names than I have fingers on at least one hand. He was a Filipino, of mixed Spanish Catholic and Tagaloc ancestry...which made him quite an exotic oddity in North Florida. Donnie...everything Anglo Tom was not. Short, dark, and with a nose Bob Hope would envy. 

When I first enrolled at the University conditions in the dorm were quite crowded, and I found that the room for two I was assigned to had been crowded with three of us. The other kid was a redneck from a hick town also called Stark...or maybe I am mixing that up with Tom's last name, though there is actually a town called that in the state. He had gotten to town first and laid claim to the single bed, leaving Donnie and I with the bunk beds the school had crammed in. I really didn't want to be sleeping under someone but I was saved the fight when Donnie cheerfully took the bottom bunk.

Bad idea...every time his alarm went off in the morning it startled him awake and he sat up before realizing he was in a bunk, smacking his forehead on my bed above him. For the first two weeks he had a deep bruise on his noggin.

Mr. Redneck took one look at Donnie, who introduced himself to me by asking me to call him “Jungle Bunny,” and within a week disappeared from the room. I never saw him again. But Donnie and I, and then as Tom was introduced, became good friends, so it was only natural that we agreed to move off campus for our next year. Since the kids lived near the Cape and thus half as far away from school as me, they chose the place...a run down two bedroom apartment with a “sleeping porch” and a fridge that was made when General electric was a private. The porch was brutally hot....until winter, when it was frigidly cold.

But I had my Corvair, which I dubbed the “Gold Bug,” and an apartment, so all was right with the world. Until the thing broke its crankshaft one night on I75 just outside of Ocala on my way back to school from a weekend in Miami. I was beginning to think my life with cars was star struck, but I really think it was that dad's heart was in the right place but his ability to judge and pay for well maintained vehicles was suspect.

When we first got the car we took it into Luby Chevrolet in Miami, and dad unwisely told the shop to “do whatever is needed” on the car. When he got the $90 bill I thought he was going to croak. But when the crank broke and the car was towed to (I'm not making this up...who could invent a name like this?) Turnipseed Motors as the closest place for a rebuild, of course he blamed me for the failure. But I was doing a steady 70 at the time, and never really overstressed or over-revved the motor.

Tom and I could have plenty of fun with our cars without doing that. Like just ripping round and round the gas pumps half a dozen times before declaring a winner and settling down to actually get fuel. Great giggles, though it all seems embarrassingly silly now.

Once the car was rebuilt I did not keep it long. I think dad believed it was jinxed and I had finally had enough of his choices. I sort of “demanded” I be allowed to buy a sports car, and said I would make the payments, though I think by then I might have been a Junior and working as a dee jay and also picking up scholarship and loan money for things like tuition. I was pretty much paying my own way through school, so he could hardly say “no,” though he did draw the line by vetoing a TR3...he thought the cut down doors would get my knuckles restyled in signaling for turns.

So what I could afford was...a grey 1974 Mk II Austin Healey...Sprite. Though small and marginally powered, this baby had everything you could want, including a lack of comfort, a top you had to hold to the windscreen with your left hand to keep from blowing off at any speed above 50, and side curtains which, if closed against the rain, would bend out at the top and sluice water directly into your lap. Add to that the joy of it dying if you plowed through a puddle too fast, and only restarted after sitting for 30 minutes while the carbs dried themselves out, and I was in heaven.

Of course, I no sooner drove it off the lot and a few miles up US 1 from South Miami towards home that the shifter refused to select any gear. Towed back to the dealer, an argument between dad and the salesman obviously ensued...finally resulting in some semi-satisfactory agreement on the repairs.

And speaking of how good it was in the rain, one night on I 75 (I spent LOTS of time on that road) it was coming down so hard that everyone had pulled to the shoulder, as you could not see the hood of your own car in front of you. There were puddles on the highway going uphill! The only thing moving was one semi...and me. I knew if I stopped the engine would die, and with that wonderful top and side curtain setup, I was also likely to drown.

God I loved that car.

1974 Mk II Austin Healey Sprite
Picture it in Dove Grey

Through the Corkscrew...On Skateboards?

Through the Corkscrew...On Skateboards?

Laguna Seca Raceway has always been like home for me. Sears Point was closer to where I lived on the San Francisco peninsula, but somehow it lacked the magic of Laguna. I doubt it was the proximity to tony places like Carmel and Pebble Beach...as those were way out of my league. Somehow it was just the beauty and peacefulness of the surrounding hills, the fog as it rolled across the paddock, the hawks circling above, and, when the racetrack shut down, just the depth of the silence.

The Corkscrew is the iconic turn of Laguna. I can pretty much guarantee that almost any photograph you have seen of any car on the racetrack will have been taken from below that left/right complex...said to be the steepest drop in the shortest distance on any racetrack in the world.

The first time I actually got to drive the course was with the old Ferrari Owners Club (FOC) in the 1970s. At that time the track was still part of an active military base...the US Army's Fort Ord, and it was not at all unusual for track events to be “serenaded” by the sound of artillery practice off in the distance.

Laguna was not, and is not now, a long track. It was enlarged from 1.9 to 2.2 miles by adding an “infield” section by turning the original second turn into a 180 degree hairpin, followed by two rights and a left to return to the old track section at was formerly turn three, with the turns connected by short straights.. While the track is highly technical, there is no longer the sheer terror that was turn three, and the infield section is about the only flat part of the entire track.

Pre 1987 Configuration

But there is still plenty of terror to be had, since a “bad day” at what is now turn 6 can put you in a tree overlooking Salinas, and the Corkscrew remains, as it always was, intimidating to the unfamiliar, and a place that could still bite no matter what your level of experience.

Laguna Today

The first time I came up to the top of the hill...heck, for the first few hundred times, I knew that turn 7 was a slight jog to the right and that unless you got really stupid all you had to do was then aim straight for the big oak behind the left which starts the complex, and then stick your foot to the floor as you turned right, and the track rose up to “stick” the car to it, actually gaining traction as well as the speed you might expect from going so steeply downhill. At least that is the theory with my car.

But that is what my mind told me...my eyes and stomach told me I might be wrong about the jog, I might not have gotten on the brakes before the crest, which would put me into the wall, and maybe the unseen first left really wasn't where I thought it was.

Even after I thought I “knew” the turn and could take it well, I still often had to catch my breath quickly as the downhill speed made the off camber next turn come at me a lot faster than my mind could catch up with.

So the Corkscrew could be...interesting.

At first the Monterey Historics were a one day affair, with the Ferrari Club taking over the track for a club day on Sunday, which was and remains the day of the Pebble Beach Concours, already by the 70s one of the premier events of its kind in the world. So much so, in fact, that Steve Earle was soon asked to add a second day to the races in the hopes it would somewhat alleviate the crowds. It didn't.

In fact, Steve next added a club race the weekend before the Historics, partly as a practice opportunity for those Historic entrants unfamiliar with Laguna, and also as a sort of “consolation” for folks who were not accepted to the “Invitation Only” event that the Historics quickly became. Naturally this event was quickly dubbed the “Prehistorics.”

When the Historics went to two days, the FOC club day then moved to Monday. Things continued to spiral upward until what was the Monterey Weekend became the Monterey Week, with parties, multiple auctions, and car shows by the handful.

After the Historics there is an awards party for the participants, which I mentioned in an earlier piece. And then for some folks not wanting to face the congested traffic on Highway 68, or who just needed more time to unwind, or who were staying around for the FOC event the next day, there were clusters of barbecue groups in the paddock which ran for hours. But by not long after dark most of the racers, spectators, and crews had left, leaving a small contingent of the Tifosi.

Most club events in those days were run by volunteers; the members of the club. Even the Historics had volunteers for many functions. For example, I was a volunteer technical inspector who, along with others, was responsible for clearing entered cars in terms of safety and conformance to the required rules. At other events I have also been a flagman for signaling on corners, and a grid marshall responsible for “herding” the cars into position prior to their race.

So it was not at all unusual that, on this occasion, I was in possession of the combination and keys to the locks on the gates controlling entrance to the actual track. The gates were chained and locked, but it was possible to pull the chains apart enough to slip through.

There was a group of perhaps a dozen of us finishing up our dinners. Among our numbers were several children, ranging in age from perhaps six or seven, up into their teens. This included our own boys, who were about ten and sixteen at the time.

We never really worried about the kids having the run of the place in those days. It was a really benign environment and besides, where could they go? The older boy was not really into cars, while the younger one grew up with oil instead of blood in his veins. So of course it was the older one who wandered off someplace with John Lewis Junior...an apple not far from his dad's tree if there ever was one.

Suddenly out of the dark we heard this double “swooossshh” sound, seeming to come from the hill upon which is the scoring trylon...and beyond that the Corkscrew. It only occurred once, but about fifteen minutes later the two appeared, with skateboards under their arms. Their faces were literally as white, in the moonlight, as a sheet of paper.

“You didn't,” I muttered in horror and hope.

“Thank goodness we were sitting down,” was all Jason said in response.

Bet they have the record time for that little stunt...perhaps the only time it was run.

Whittell's Deusenbergs

Whittell's Deusenbergs

No, I have never driven, ridden in, nor wrenched on a Deusenberg, so you might wonder what this story is doing on this blog. To confuse you more, the emphasis of my writing is about sports cars, and it is at first difficult to equate something as big as a modern heavy duty pickup truck with that term.

But in 1930 America a Deusenberg was a sports car by the standards of the day and the country. So rare as to be exotic, with a production run in the hundreds not thousands, beautifully built, and with extreme 100mph+ performance in an era where most cars could barely do 55, it was the American equivalent to what Ferrari became after WWII.

And I have a personal link to two of them.

Anyway, these pages will, no doubt, contain many John Lewis stories, and this is only one of the more outrageous. John grew up on the San Francisco peninsula when it consisted mainly of farms. In fact he had a “farm vehicle” vehicle driving permit at 14 as many kids needed to help the family by driving various pieces of equipment about. Thus, John told me, the first car he showed up at high school in was a 1919 Rolls Royce. But I never saw a picture of the car, and John's stories were usually so over the top that I doubted them from the start...but every one of them which could be confirmed turned out to be true. Really annoying.

John's dad was a big wig tax attorney whose clients included the founder of Bank of America, and Sam Goldwyn of MGM. In fact, John claimed that he and his sister once had Clark Gable and Carol Lombard babysit them while his dad talked business with Goldwyn. I suppose I could have confirmed that whopper with his sister, but since Joyce was a crazy as John I would be suspicious of the veracity of that confirmation anyway, and of course there was no other way to check the story.

With John's interest in cars he had learned that one of his dad's clients had five or six Deusenbergs, and lived in the town of Woodside. George Whittell was, I was told, the single largest shareholder in the Auburn, Cord, Deusenberg company and a personal friend of E.L. Cord. He was quite a character, but you can read about him elsewhere so I won't go into a lot of detail here. But one pertinent item is that he was then confined to a wheelchair...and John's explanation was that Whittell's pet lion knocked him down and Whittell was afraid to go to the hospital as the lion would then likely be impounded, so he “self-medicated” and the broken bones never healed correctly. 

Well...at least it is a fact that Whittell did have a lion, which he use to take for walks through downtown Menlo Park.

This is probably the most unusual of the Whittell Deusenbergs. The photo was copied from this site: http://theoldmotor.com/?p=160291. The photo itself resides at the ACD Museum in Auburn, Indiana (you can see their logo at the bottom of the photo). 

While accurate as far as it goes, there is more information about the car that is interesting. It was displayed at the Chicago Worlds Fair, and had some unique features, including a body that was narrowed so much it required eliminating the door panel upholstery and, according to John, needing customized curved glass windows in order to fit the narrowed windshield, which Whittell researched since Buehrig did not think anyone could make them. They were also, very unusual for the time, tinted. Removing the door panels was necessary to allow enough clearnace to get the driver's hands aournd the steering wheel.

John said Whittell did not drive the car much. Supposedly a friend said it looked like a cow, which put George off. It died on him out in the woods above Redwood City and, in frustration, John said Whittell put a bullet through the block, requiring Beuhrig to have the car sent back to Auburn to be repaired.

John used Christmas cards to Whittell to “soften him up” for a visit to see the cars. Whittell finally called John and asked why he kept sending the cards, and young Mr. Lewis wangled an invitation to the estate. A tour of the barn where the cars were kept, in a rather sad state of deterioration, then occurred, and Whittell mused that he would like to take one more ride down Caňada Road at 100mph...and did John think he could restore the car for that trip?

John, being no dummy and with more enthusiasm than ability, of course said “sure.” Some time later the job was finished, though I never learned who did the actual work. Based on what I saw of John's car maintenance skills I doubt it was him. The butler then put Whittell into the car and off they went.

Upon return to the mansion Whittell supposedly told John “that was fun. The car is yours.”

Aww...c'mon. That has to be the biggest bullshit story ever, right? I certainly thought so, even when John showed me the Road and Track salon article on the car when it appeared at Pebble Beach. What he showed me was a reprint and not the original magazine, and to me the lettering of his name looked a little wonky, so I thought he had gotten one of those “we print anything” places to phony up the piece. Enter Ernie Mendicki.

Ernie was my greatest car mentor. He knew everyone and everything about cars, and when he died his widow and I, in preparing a retrospective for the Palo Alto Concours, figured he had owned 103 rare and exotic cars over his lifetime, including a number of very special Ferraris. There will, no doubt, be much more about Ernie in future posts.

I thought Ernie and John were in collusion about pulling my leg regarding the car. Ernie said they met when John joined the Air Force and got assigned to Castle Air Base outside Merced. One day Ernie was driving on a dirt road in his Oakland Roadster, a brand which morphed into Pontiac, when the Deusenberg and John went by in the opposite direction. Both cars screeched to a halt and backed up to parallel each other.

“I know every car in the county,” said Ernie. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm John S. Lewis and I'm looking for a garage space to rent for this car,” came the reply.

“Well, I'm Ernie Mendicki and I just happen to have a space for rent,” Ernie exclaimed.

That is how it came about that the wheels for the car were prepped and polished on Ernie's kitchen table prior to the Pebble Beqch show...or so he said.

Ernie said he always liked John because, being five or so years younger, John never treated him like a kid. I doubt that, because John was nothing if not the world's oldest living teenager and thus treated everyone, including himself, like a kid. They used to double date in the car, and while I'm sure Ernie was more svelt when he was a teenager, he was a big boy, and the thought of him and a date in the rumble seat of the Boattailed speedster is something I just can't wrap my head around.

John later sold the car to someone in NY, and after air freighting it there drove through Manhattan to an unmarked building in a sketchy neighborhood to deliver it, via rollup doors and a private elevator which took him to a floor of red carpets, velvet ropes, and a number of fabulous cars. He was paid in cash as the buyer said his wife knew nothing about the collection.

At this point I was looking for hip waders and a shovel as the BS was getting too deep to handle. Until, that is, I was at his sister's cabin outside Sequoia Park one Thanksgiving and, among the family photos on the wall in the hallway, I'll be damned if there wasn't one of the Deusenberg with John behind the wheel and Joyce standing on the running board. The darned story was true! 

Ernie was a master model builder, and here is a model he built of the car which I got after Ernie died, put together from a kit but with hand made boat tail and other details Ernie added, including the meticulously painted license plates with the correct letters and numbers from when John owned it.

This is the highly accurate model of John's car
Ernie Built

There's more about the car...it wound up going to the owner of the LA Times, who then invited John down to go over the car with him, paying John back by renting Riverside Raceway and “playing race cars” for a day with him. I thought that too was a tall tale till my copy of Rider magazine came a few months later. The feature article on Otis Chandler and his Toys showed the man sitting on a black and white checkerboard floor, in front of the Deusenberg.

By this time I was learning to listen more closely to John's rantings, in both wonder and sheer terror.

From a Blue Condor to Sports Cars...Part I

From a Blue Condor to Sports Cars...Part I

The thing had a wingspan a California Condor would envy. It was a ridiculous looking car in a year of ridiculous looking cars, the most extreme of which was the 1959 Cadillac El Dorado convertible. My somewhat subdued 57 Bel Aire succumbed to too many mechanical issues to justify saving what was then a seven year old car in an era where the average car lifespan was six.

BTW...I really want that Cadillac. In white with a red and silver interior of course. At this point in my life 1959 didn't seem so bad, and that “in your face” tail and flamboyance was about the last hoorah of American innocence.

Dad didn't ask my opinion, but what showed up in the drive was a four door 59 Chevy...and a lowly Biscayne at that. This thing, in dark blue, was about as Plain Jane as it gets. However, it was nothing if not commodious...about the length of a modern four door, long bed pickup.

A Winged Wonder

But those wings! Absolutely the world's largest sea gull. But as a Gainesville-Miami ferry for up to six college kids with luggage it got the job done...that is until it didn't and became a torch on the Florida Turnpike one night.

I was returning from a weekend home with three or four kids when the car suddenly began to slow down from the steady and legal 70 I had been doing for something like 200 miles. I pulled off on the shoulder and got out to see why, but with my then lack of car knowledge I might as well have been looking at a picture of the car...I didn't even think to open the hood.

Finding nothing obvious, we motored on, and then the car slowed to the point it ground to a stop. This time all of us exited and the symptom, though not the problem, became obvious. The left rear brake drum glowed cherry red for a moment...and then burst into flames. Apparently this baby had not received exactly top notch care and the wheel bearings went dry and then collapsed. Yikes!

We didn't even get our luggage out as the fire rapidly devoured the whole car. It was quite a blaze, lighting up the sky for miles. A lone big rig stopped but unfortunately did not have an extinguisher, though by that point it would have done little good.

The Highway Patrol finally arrived and, after radio calls back to the nearest sub station and patched discussions it was gleaned that there was a Greyhound coming through (don't laugh too hard, it's Florida after all) a place called Yeehaw Junction that was routed through Gainesville. But to make the connection the officer had the cruiser up to 120 except when he had to slow down for a radio call in order for the caller to not hear the wind noise and thus know that he was illegally driving way over the limit with civilians aboard. At that point the speed far exceeded anything I had experienced.

The other kids made the bus; mom and dad ferried one of the Corvairs up; and I motored back to school in that. Obviously a new ride was in order, and while totally freaked out I was not at all sad to be rid of the sea gull. What appeared next was a sort of transition to sports cars...yet another Corvair, but this time a cool Monza coupe which even had a manual tranny with a floor shift. Heck, I didn't even mind that it was only a three speed. It might not have been a true European sports car, but it was a heck of a lot closer than a Chevy Biscayne. 

From a For Sale Listing

The Great Monterey Hat Swap

The Great Monterey Hat Swap

Steve Earle thinks he knows how the whole thing started...he's wrong.

Let me start over. If you thought this blog was going to be in chronological order you will be disappointed. Things just come into my head from nowhere and, as they do, I will jot them down.

I first met Steve through the old Ferrari Owners Club (FOC), about the time he got the bright idea that instead of just playing with old race cars it might be possible to open race events to the general public and sell tickets. After creating HMSA and General Racing he did just that...though the first couple of Monterey Historic races could hardly be distinguished from an FOC track meet in terms of spectators.

My introduction did not exactly go well. I was put in charge of the starting line at one of the Virginia City Hillclimb events, though I don't recall if it was the same year I won my class. That's a bit of a tease as I am not going to say much more about the topic or the car I was driving until some other day.

Memory Hughes was actually the head honcho for the event, though I am not sure she was President of the club at the time. Memory was born and raised in what was then called Rhodesia and spoke with a pronounced British accent. In that way the Brits have with language she made clear to me in no uncertain terms that I was not to allow rolling jump starts...that as each car left the start line the next car was to put it's nose right on the line and wait for my flag before leaping off on the four plus mile course with its cliffs, dangers, 1200 foot elevation gain, and 17+ turns. In retrospect it was by far the most dangerous racing I ever did even though it was just against the clock.

For some reason Steve was driving Lou Sellei's Ferrari 250LM (I've likely made hash out of spelling his name). Lou was an eye doctor in Reno and in those years I only remember him racing a pontoon fendered 250TR Testa Rossa wearing number 46...but I do know he always had quite a stable, called “Intrepid Motors.” 

250LM

Anyway, the car ahead rolled off, and Steve just sat there, 20 feet behind the start line. When I motioned him forward he snarled something about “racing clutches” and their touchiness. I asked him to not “shoot the messenger” and to take it up with Memory, but either pull out of line or move the car forward. He complied but was not exactly happy about it.

Over the years my relationship with him was cordial but I remain ambivalent about him. However, he deserves all the credit in the world for putting what is now the Monterey Week on the map and making the Historics one of the very top vintage racing events in the world. Also to his credit was his recognition about telling the full story of the development of sports car racing from its very start, and therefore honoring me more than 20 times by accepting my car and me in his events...but again, that is another story.

The hat caper started with Al Moss and Ernie Mendicki. Al was the founder of Moss Motors, to this day one of the “go to” sources for parts for British sports cars. Al had sold the business and went vintage racing...in those days with the ex-John Von Neumann MGTD Special wearing #11 as all his cars did. The car has been owned since 1989 by Don Martine, though it is presently retired and on display at his Pacific Grove Inn. Look for its story here: Martine Motor Sports. Don developed and drove it with a lot more verve than Al...who was just out for a good time...always. In fact one of the first racing photos of my car after I restored it the first time (yet another story) is me passing Al going uphill to the Corkscrew at Laguna Seca.

Anyway.....the first Monterey Historic in 1974 featured Ferrari, and it then became a tradition to honor the marque every ten years. In 1984 it came round again, and the invited guests included a couple of senior executives of Ferrari. Ernie and Al cooked up the bright idea of gently spoofing the SoCal “gold chain” crowd by wearing their own versions. In Ernie's case this was a length of hardware store chain painted gold and wrapped around his suede cowboy hat.

At the end of the weekend there is a gathering of racers to wind down and somewhat gently party. While awards were given in those days they were not for winning, but did honor presentation and performance. One of these, for small bore cars, was a graphic of Ken Miles MG specials- R1 and the “Flying Shingle,” and this year the award went to Al.

Ken Miles at Torrey Pines
From Tams Old Race Car Site
Pretty Obvious Nickname, wot?

The ceremony was held in a small, outdoor amphitheater up on the hill overlooking the end of the main straight on the opposite side of the track from the pits. The location and setup facilitated a real feeling of “family” and intimacy for the racers, their families, friends, and crew. Of course it was later torn down and replaced with a rather cold and personality-less “media center.” Progress?

As Al picked his way down the steps of the amphitheater and passed Ernie he totally spontaneously grabbed the hat (but not the chains, as Ernie had draped them around his neck by that point) and, as Steve handed him the award, deftly swiped the ballcap off his head and replaced it with the cowboy chapeau.

That was it...off to the races. From then on, perhaps to the present day though I have not participated in a race since Steve was unceremoniously ousted, the cry of “hat” and ever increasingly wild headgear graced every award ceremony. No one escaped...not even Carroll Shelby. But THAT testy episode's tale will wait for another day.  

White and Silver and Red and Cool as Hell

White and Silver and Red and Cool as Hell

I think the old man really did want me to be cool, and maybe to live out his dreams through me. He had to give up school in the 8^th grade to help support his family, so never experienced the highs and lows of high school. At any rate, there I was, as a JUNIOR no less, with what is still one of the coolest rides ever...a white 57 Chevy Bel Aire convertible. The interior was done in red and what seems weird today...silver. The seat cushions and backs were silver while the surrounding bolsters were red.

This thing screamed sex...not that I ever got any in it. It replaced my 54 Dodge, whose V8 was getting very asthmatic and wheezy. That car looked actually pretty presentable after the respray. I didn't get laid in that, either.

What girl could resist this?
Apparently...all the ones that would date me

What happened was someone rear-ended me, and we managed to get the entire car repainted as part of the settlement...in the original dark and light blue two-tone. Well, after, that is, I tried to do my own body work. I had no idea you did not just slather on enough bondo to fill in whatever size crunch you had, and then smooth it off. Of course what resulted was a baroque looking mess that hardened into a lump that was beyond any sculpting, shaving, sanding, or grinding.

After the respray it looked really presentable, if still pretty much an old lady's car...except no old lady would continue to drive anything that allowed you to see the road go by underneath through the rust holes in the floor. Despite the V8 it's acceleration was leisurely at best, and it finally showed signs that it was not even going to keep that up for much longer...hence the replacement with the Bel Aire.

As usual this was not the #1 condition version of the model...but so what if the tonneau cover had shrunk so much it almost took two people to stretch into place. It was red, man! And looked cool as hell. And what if the top struts leaked and were so anemic you had to help raise the thing by hand? And while a white car with a white top was not the sexiest color combo I could think of, that was more than made up for by that screaming interior.

It was the small block 283, which I was fine with. I could have cared less about acceleration at that point. We'd put the top down and ride all over South Florida and, at last, I had what my son called a “posse” when he was growing up.

Among other innocent gags we'd pull was the car phone gig. One of us had gotten hold of a phone handset, likely cut from a phone booth but what do I know? We'd pull up next to someone at a light and one of us would yell “RING, RING” and put the thing to his ear. The he would shout to the car next to us, holding out the headset...”It's for you!”

Most folks would just stare. A few would laugh and shake their heads. But one guy sort of stopped us cold.

“Tell them I'm on the pot,” he shouted as he pulled away from the light.

Two of us, of which I was one, also had the ability to do a very credible imitation of a siren. It was high, and it was loud. It also was quite successful in making cars ahead of us to pull over to the shoulder, allowing us to motor by collapsing with laughter.

When I left for college I took the Chevy with me. As a freshman I was actually not supposed to have a car...in those more paternalistic days universities wanted to do their best to help eliminate distractions which might contribute to a higher dropout rate.

But I found that I could make money giving kids rides back and forth to Miami. I had a high school sweetheart down there who I was trying to keep up a relationship with, so the idea of taking kids back and forth and more than covering my out-of-pocket expenses to drive down and see her was quite appealing.

For some reason dad did not object. The problem was that, of course, I cold not get a permit to park it on campus. I guess I could have left it on some side street during the week (I only drove it on weekends and then only down home and back)...but I don't think the thought ever occurred to me.

In those innocent times campus police departments did not have to deal with much...no sexual assaults, mass shootings, or even much in the way of radical demonstrations or office takeovers (those came later). We used to call them “kiddie cops” and other than parking violations I have no idea what they did. But the parking lot in front of their office seemed, crazily, to be the ideal place to leave the car. Sort of “hiding in plain sight.”

I got away with it for almost the full year. Finally, one day as I was opening the door to start another run down to Miami, a cop stopped me.

“We've been wondering whose car this was,” He said.I guess accessing the DMV records in those largely pre-computer days never occurred to him. The car was registered to my dad, but it would not have taken much to then find out if there was a student with the same last name and home address. Brilliant.

The car, like all the ones dad had, finally got too expensive to maintain, and was replaced with a monster...a 59 Biscayne with those huge rear wings...a downscale version of the equally 'over the top” 59 Cadillac.

But one of the final memories of the car is not a happy one. It was during a top down run to Miami for Thanksgiving with four other kids in the car that I learned of the assassination of President Kennedy.

I had stopped for fuel outside a little town called Leesburg, and when I walked out one of the kids said “Kennedy has been shot.”

I thought it was a joke...she had hear the news from the radio in another car which had left.

“Turn on the radio,” she said.

The rest of the trip, the days following, and even the return to school, were both a blur...and a horror. Truly the end of an innocent age and an unreal sense of “this can't be happening here.”

I truly hated the Biscayne. And then one day it showed it felt the same about me.

Uncool? Yeah, But I'm Riding and You're Walking!

Uncool? Yeah, But I'm Riding and You're Walking!

Don't ask me why or how dad decided to buy me a two wheel motorized vehicle for commuting to school. Given his opposition years later to me buying a real motorcycle it still baffles me.

Perhaps he thought I couldn't possibly get killed on a motorized bicycle which could barely make 25mph. I guess he was right, because I didn't.

So there I was, all of 14, which was the minimum age to drive anything in Florida at the time, with something called a “Moped.” Although the term seems to have originated in Sweden, as best I recall mine was made in Yugoslavia and looked a bit like a heavy duty girl's bike, with the main frame tube enlarged and squared off to hold the gas tank. I believe it had two speeds...slow and slower...but must have had a centrifugal clutch as I think shifting was done by rotating one of the handgrips.

Yes, it's got pedals
What of it?

Yes, I did say pedals. While it was possible to pedal the thing if you ran out of gas it was quite a bit heavier than a normal bike, and would pretty much wear you out if you tried this for any real distance.

You got it running by pedaling like it really was a normal bike, until the engine kicked in. Then you sort of zoned out for 20 or 30 minutes until you reached your Junior High School. Best I recall this device did NOT make me the envy of my peers. It was so slow that I often tried pedaling to supplement the motor...to no real effect. I don't think it reduced my nerd factor at all. Still, it gave me one thing the rest of these cool guys did not have...independence. Turns out that, as slow as it was, I could still convince it to go other places beside school.

About a year later, again for reasons that were then and remain now unclear, the moped got replaced with a Cushman Eagle. It sort of amazes me that these have become somewhat collectible, as it was really just a bit less dismal than the moped. But it at least looked like a motorcycle...well, sort of. And the tank shifter seemed kind of cool. Still had the centrifugal clutch and two speeds, but these were now at least slow and...a bit less slow.

To me these devices were simply tools...a way to get places I otherwise could not...or at least not without someone else's parent. For dad I suppose it was a way to avoid being in any way, shape, or form, one of those parents.

I never thought I would ride any other vehicle with two wheels and could not wait to reach 16 so I could graduate to driving a car on my own. Meantime, since dad would not teach me, I managed to find someone with a friend who was over 18, a requirement for a novice driver to try four wheels. And best of all, the car was a stick shift (I think it was a Ford Falcon). So the first thing I learned to drive required using both hands and feet...something that for me would normally have seen as unlikely as walking naked on the moon. I wasn't exactly coordinated. But I not only managed but did so without destroying the guy's clutch.

Dad's only comment when I told him I was driving a car? “Good. That way I don't have to worry about you destroying one of ours.” And when I turned 16 he actually got me one...not the 57 Chevy at first, but a rather stodgy, despite the ram's head hood ornament and two-toned paint, Dodge.

It was a V8 that couldn't get out of its own way.

Mine was not a convertible
but had this kind of paint layout...dark and light blue
the only sexy thing about the car

Beginnings

Beginnings

If you are looking for a blog about the latest news from the auto industry or what it's like to drive the hottest new Belchfire 8...this is not that. This blog is simply a collection of my own experience with cars, with an emphasis on the sports cars I've owned, the races I've participated in, and the wonderful people I've met, many of whom became lifelong friends.

I have been lucky enough, as someone without “big bucks” to spend, to enjoy some very special machinery, and many experiences that are, for most enthusiasts, out of reach dreams. My goal in writing some of my recollections is just to wander through them as they come to mind, with the original impetus being conversations I've had with friends when an ad on a car on Bring A Trailer or some magazine has triggered them.

So...here I go.

I guess, in one sense, you could “blame” my lifelong interest (obsession?) with cars on my dad. While not intimately involved in the mechanical doings of autos he was nonetheless interested enough to sometimes own and drive some pretty unusual machinery in mid-20^th century America.

While most of our family transport was American iron, at least some of that was at the sharper end of the offerings of the time. Though we could not afford new cars, there often seemed to be a year or two old Cadillac or Buick in the drive...and then there were the more exotic Europeans. I recall rather vividly a Hillman Minx convertible and a Simca Aronde, and though time might be playing tricks on me, seem also to think we had a Renault Dauphine at some point. Later, after I was granted my first sports car...which dad could hardly refuse since I was going to make the payments on it...he must have been at least somewhat impressed with it as Mom wound up with an Austin America.

Come to think of it, I believe that was actually a new car. It would have been ok if not for the painfully slow acceleration with the automatic transmission that was marginal for the car's power even in flat South Florida. As I look back I'm surprised that dad was able to recognize how much practical space was crammed into this oversized Mini. The transverse engine and front wheel drive really provided a lot of cabin room, though I can't really comment on the rear seats.

I only drove it a couple of times and we did not have it very long. Like most imports of the day the Austin required more “fussy” upkeep than most Americans were willing to commit, and it was in the shop often.

While I think the Austin came after the Corvairs (yes, plural), I'm not really sure. By the early 1960s I had lost interest in American cars, even though I had, at one point, every high school senior's dream...a 57 Bel Aire convertible. A story for another time. I don't even recall why I got attracted to the sports car magazines of the day, but quickly became caught up in the mystique of high revving, excellent handling European two passenger rides including some pretty exotic names like Ferrari and Aston Martin. So devouring “Road and Track” and “Car and Driver” every month became very much part of my routine by the time I was a freshman in college.

But dad's experience with foreign cars had been less than stellar, so he refused to financially support the idea of yet another finicky twiddling little puddle jumper. The Simca seemed to break down every 30 miles. The Hillman was fun since the top could be rolled back to uncover only the front seats, leaving the back under cover, or be put all the way down. It was not as unreliable as the Simca, a name dad was attracted to as it was very close to the Hebrew word for joy...which it was not.

Simca Aronde

While dad liked cars, his limited budget only allowed for used models which were likely not the top representatives of the selection in terms of prior care. Thus they did not last long before needing more work than was cost justified, or, in at least one case for me, literally self-destructing in a blaze of glory. So after a short succession of these I was granted a car which was as close to a Euro-sports car as he would allow...a 1961 Corvair Monza.

Dad liked the car so much he then bought two 1960 sedans...a green one for himself and a red one for mom. Pretty sexy. Mine was a three speed floor shift, while both of theirs were automatics with that weird shift selector poking out of the dash.

But I guess before I launch into experiences with what I called the “Gold Bug” I ought to back up and at least provide a summary of how I got to that point.