Remember all the cars you've owned over the years? Unless you're Jay Leno it probably won't take too long.
In a previous installment of this series, I described the cars which were most memorable and/or the most traumatic for me. That exercise, I soon realized, was only the tip of the iceberg, because they have all caused me some kind of trauma.
The first installment showed a hapless, mechanically challenged individual, who should have found a different obsession besides automobiles because he was clearly playing in the wrong league. This sequel shows the same hapless, mechanically challenged individual evolving through periods in his car owning life similar as an artist evolves through his/her creative journey.
The first was my French Period, a little blue Simca, which most people on this side of the pond have never seen. Some Americans may have problems with the French, but that tiny six year old four-banger got me from Seattle to Montana, north to Canada, then South to California, and East to Alabama before succumbing to ring wear, and then it sold for enough to pay off an outstanding bill and buy me a bus ticket back home to Seattle and a draft deferment.
Back from Alabama, I started my “trucker” period with a '49 Chevy pick-up with a "51 Jimmy straight six, the one with the quarter windows in the back of the cab, which Chevrolet tried to revive a couple of years back. I found out later that the "49-'51 Chev and GMC engines were the same. I wanted to put my Rebel flag in the back window with a gun rack for my .22 caliber bolt action Remington, with extended 10 shot clip, but I couldn't find one. The truck was fun, and the chicks loved it. It was painted baby blue, not exactly trucker colors, but with tricked-out wheel treatments had the used car guys offering me jobs.
A couple of cars later I bought a "63 Buick Skylark V6 with optional three on the floor. This was a relatively uneventful time in my auto evolution, which was okay because I needed the rest. As it turned out, the Buick was the introduction to one of my most enjoyable periods, the sports car era.
I had driven the Skylark for a couple of years, when I made the mistake of dropping into the Dodge dealership, just to look around. There on the lot was a Sunbeam Tiger, a Sunbeam Alpine, modified to fit a small Ford V8. It was love at first test drive, and when I returned I was sold. The only problem though, used cars needed a 10 percent down payment, which I didn"t have. Guess what though, I could buy a brand new Alpine with no down payment. They had me hooked and started reeling me in, even though the Alpine only had a four banger with a different feel and sound when it drove. I still loved the way the tight suspension took the corners and had that roller coaster feel going up and down hills.
The hook was set and they and they had only to play the line to land me. The salesman came back telling me that the Buick wasn't as good a trade-in as he thought, and I had one more chance to take the dark blue Alpine with the light blue interior before his manager changed his mind. In the net and on the boat, I was landed.
It drove off the lot a little slower than I hoped, but there I was with a brand new shiny blue sports car with the top down and mortgaged up to my eyeballs. I had a good job though for a single guy, and didn't run into financial problems until I returned to finish college. So the niftiest car I ever had before or since went on the auction block as a voluntary repo.
Part of the problem in parting with this car was the psychological investment that I already had in it. The Alpine is British and comes with the toggle (flip) switches, with a 1725 cc high rev engine under the bonnet (hood), with sparking (spark) plugs, and petrol (gas) tank. It was a way of life, and I bought the shop manual with the exploded views of the parts assemblies and directions how to repair everything. This didn't help me much because no mater how badly the mechanically challenged want to be mechanics it is not, and forever will not, be possible.
I drove the Alpine up to Orcas Island in the San Juan Island group located between Washington State and Vancouver Island Canada several times. I would dart between settlements, art colonies, and fishing villages and up and down country roads a little too fast and always with the top down no matter how cold or wet. When it rained the toneau cover snapped on, the passenger side sipped up, the driving hat and gloves went on and you kept on driving no matter what; it was “sports car.”
Coming back to earth and reentering the college scene was a rude awakening requiring the ultimate sacrifice of my beloved sports car. No automobile since that time brought me the joy and satisfaction that one did, but all good things must come to an end.
