The Great Ride

It’s funny, I write this blog entry on an airplane heading from New York to Texas. It sort of reminds me of another trip I took from New York to Texas. And although I am not sitting in First Class, this one is a pretty easy trip, comparatively speaking.

The summer of 1980 was one of the hottest summers on record, but I escaped the heat, heading north to New York. My folks had returned from Italy and my Mom opened a small restaurant. I went up for the summer to work for her and help run the place. But in my heart of hearts, I knew I did not want to go back to riding the Austrian Puch Newport Moped when I returned to college in the fall. It was just too small and slow and besides I could not get a date riding that thing to save my life. So I decided to upgrade to a full-blown motorcycle. I took a look around at the 2-wheeled landscape in New York and with my meager budget, had so settle for something small.

I ended up with a Honda CB400F. This was a small café style motorcycle with low slung handlebars and a very cool four-into-one exhaust. It had a great classic look.

In my infinite wisdom, I decide to ride that bad boy from New York to Texas. On a Honda CB400F, a very small motorcycle with a 392cc motor. What was I thinking? I had a plan to equip it for the journey. I bought a tank bag that strapped to the top of the gas tank. Inside I placed my rain gear and a CB-Radio. Yep, “Breaker-One-Nine”. I bought a microphone and headphone for my helmet and would run the cable out of the tank bag and run it up my jacket where it would poke out for the last few feet into the helmet (giving me range of motion). I installed cruise control. You twisted the throttle and when you got to the speed you wanted, you flipped down a lever that held the throttle in place. Need to slow down or speed up? Un-flick the lever, adjust the throttle and reset the lever. Pretty low tech, but it allowed me to ride one handed, giving the other hand and arm a break. I also bought a sissy-bar (but a low one, tall ones looked stupid on a Honda CD400F). On one side of the sissy-bar where the passenger would sit was a huge back pack from Italy that carried most of my stuff and on the luggage rack behind the sissy-bar was the rest of my stuff. Yep I even had boots, gloves, a denim jacket and rain gear. Man I was prepared. No tools though, thank GOD I would not need them!

On the first day of my trip, I hugged my Mom and Step-Dad good bye and headed out. I know there were tears in my Mom’s eye as she figured that she would never see me again as I would no doubt be killed on this long journey. But she said that I had to learn these lessons on my own and begrudgingly let me go. The first part of the trip was brilliant and the weather cooperated. I headed south down the New Jersey Turnpike, went through Philadelphia and skirted our nation’s capital before I turned southwest and headed through Maryland. Once off the Interstate I picked up major secondary roads and made pretty good time.

The one thing that I noticed was that the longer you rode…the more tired you got. The small motorcycle vibrated constantly and after a while (like 45 minutes) your butt started to get really sore from the stiff seat and the constant vibration of the small motor. Plus the riding position (a low café style with low slung handlebars) was not optimal for long distance riding, but shorter distances of 10-20 miles followed by long periods of rest. So my wrists and arms were getting sore too. The small motor really buzzed, sending up a constant high-pitched vibration to your hands, wrists, forearms, elbows, upper arms, shoulders, neck and head. This was going to be a long trip.

Midafternoon found me being overtaken by a huge Harley gang. I got nervous as the engulfed me, passing me on both sides. But they all gave me the low wave salute of fellow bikers and one got close enough to me to holler over the thump of his huge V-Twin and the whine of my inline 4, saying I should ride with them for a while.  I did and we rode for about 100 miles together until they went a different direction and I had to stop for gas. It was great, that feeling of flowing along as part of a huge group, they were pretty cool.

Stopping to fill up (which I had to do every 150 miles or so), I saw the clouds start to gather and judging by their color; turning from white to gray, figured rain was on the way. So I changed into rain gear and headed back out. About 50 miles later the rain hit. Sheets of rain, buckets of rain, torrents of rain, a boat load of rain. I soldiered on trying to ride against it, but after I filled up the tank one more time, I ran out of steam. It was getting dark and I tried to find a motel. Finally out of the gloom of the rain, I saw a rainbow up ahead; a crappy motel. I was saved. Checking in I noticed that they had a diner attached. Thankfully I would not have to venture out to eat. After I checked in I went to my room and peeled off my soaked clothing. Even though I was wearing rain gear, I was soaked like a drowned rat. Called my folks to let them know where I was and that I was okay, I made it down to the diner where I ate a very meager dinner and went to bed.

Outside the main part of the storm crackled and roared as rain lashed the motel. I had found a place under an overhang to park my bike, so at least it was dry. The next day, the storm continued to rage outside. I sat on the bed and held my head in my hands; I could not believe how crappy this trip was turning out and thought that maybe I had made a mistake undertaking so long a journey on such a small motorcycle. But I could not turn back; I had no choice but to ride on. Watching the local news, they predicted…more rain. I could not stay, I needed to keep moving, so I put on dry cloths, rain gear and headed back out into the pouring rain. There is nothing as bad as being wet and cold while riding a motorcycle. It was hard to see and I had to battle the spray of trucks. I was soon soaked to the bone again and I heard the constant CB-chatter from the truckers feeling sorry for me and alerting others to be on the lookout for one lone motorcycle. It felt like it would never end. But it did…

Crossing the West Virginia / Kentucky border the clouds started to break, revealing gaps, the sun and a promise of a beautiful day. I stopped under an overpass and peeled off my rain gear, stowed it and waited a while for the roads to dry a bit more before setting off again. As the day moved on towards afternoon, I swept down the road, the day getting better as I rode west. The beauty of Eastern Kentucky, the air crisp, the Honda CB400F buzzing beneath me, I felt pretty good as I rode into Lexington. I stayed a few days and guess what? I called a gal I knew in high school, telling her I was in town for a few days while riding my motorcycle from New York to Texas. She agreed to go out with me on a date. Oh yes, upgrading from the Austrian Puch to the Honda CB400F was already paying dividends.

In one day, I rode 620 miles from Lexington to Little Rock and almost fell off the motorcycle when I stopped for the day, I was so exhausted. The first motel would not rent me a room. I must have cut a dashing figure; motorcycle garb, sweaty, dirty and dusty, bugs splatted on the helmet. To this day, I will not stay at that chain… I went to another motel next door and they gladly rented me a room. I still use that chain sometimes.

I rode the sections from Little Rock to Dallas to Austin on some of the hottest days of the summer. Breaking my own rule and peeling off my denim jacket, riding with just my short sleeved shirt. Arriving in Austin, my arms and hands were wind burned, the tan lasting well into the late fall before it faded. I owned that bike for a while before my folks gave me their car (a FIAT Strada, but that is another story). They finally decided that they did not want me riding a motorcycle anymore and who could blame them. Besides, I was ready to get back to 4-wheeled transportation.

Until next time. 

Back in the U.S. of A

After almost a year in Italy, it was about time for me to return to the states and commence my college education. I did not want to leave, but the fact is I was deported. Something about being over 18, not enrolled in school or working (obviously being a lead singer in a rock band did not count or help for that matter). My Step-Dad received a letter from an Italian Magistrate and we dutifully showed up for the hearing. I was given 3 weeks to leave the country and that was it. I stayed until the last possible second.

I had been accepted into the UT and flew directly from Milano Italy to Austin, TX. Now many of you may know Austin to be an uber-hip city, but in 1979? Not so much. Once again, I felt like I have been put in a time warp and sent back about 10 years into the past. But now I needed to get on with the job of going to school. My Mom and Step-Dad had sent me with $2000 to start off my school career. It seemed like a lot of money. And if I had spent it wisely, it probably would have lasted me much longer.

I bought a car. You are not going to believe this but I bought a dark green ’72 Vega. It was like bad karma, it was terrible, but for $500 it ran. The folks selling it must have put some magic elixir into it because if did not shake, rattle or demand more oil during the test drive. Even after I got it home it seemed to run okay for a few days. But suddenly the potion wore off and slowly (no come to think of it …quickly), it turned into the piece of crap I remembered from ’72 when my Mom originally test drove one of its evil siblings. During the fall freshman semester it seems like I dumped a lot of oil in this thing to keep it running. And it ran worse and worse, rattling and clanking, sometimes it seemed that the engine would shake apart. I dumped in more oil to quench its thirst.

I distinctly remember one day. I had to get my wisdom teeth pulled and a family friend set me up with a dentist he knew. He said the dentist would help me out on the cost since I was not earning too much money at my new job. I went to the dentist office, they numbed my mouth (no local anesthesia for me, no…that cost extra….), pulled the teeth and propped me up afterwards. The dentist gave me two Tylenol and pat on the back, saying that should do the trick. I asked him for something stronger as I was in pretty good pain and had to work that night. He told me that he did not believe in stronger pain medicine; that was all I was going to get. Funny, when I arrived I did not see the blinking sign saying this guy was also practicing sado masochism as well. Reaching into my back pocket for my check book, it was not there. I had forgotten to bring it with me. He demanded my license and held it, making me drive all the way home and back so I could pay him (thank God I was not stopped by the police). What a great guy, so compassionate! I was in so much pain, it was awful. He actually gave me some of his cards and told me to pass them out to my friends. Oh yes, the highest recommendation - avoid him at all costs (unless you were in the Aggie Crop that is…sorry gratuitous Texas A&M dig here…). I remember thanking our family friend profusely, telling him that he could skip giving me any more recommendations on doctors, dentists, restaurants or anything else…ever. Come to think of it, he was an Aggie too.

I continued pouring oil into the Vega, it continued to devour it at an alarming rate. Finally one day I was near college campus heading home from class and it died. I had owned in only four months. I called our family friend (yes the same one that recommended the dentist) and asked him what to do. He said he liked the car and would give me $400 for it. Deal. I took the $400 and added another $200 that I had scrimped together and bought an Austrian Puch Newport Moped. Talk about your basic transportation, but hey it was cheap! It started (if you pedaled it fast enough) and got great gas mileage.

I was so smart though, my job was on the north side of Austin and my apartment was on the south side of Austin. So I figured out this convoluted route along some major but mostly back streets and it took forever to get to and from work or school. It was a bit hairy at times having many cars piled up behind me all wanting to get around the slow moving moped. Come on! I was getting along at a pretty good clip of 28mph. It is amazing I did not die riding this thing at night. The headlight was sooooo bright and it dimmed when you were off the throttle or the motor idled at stop lights. The people at work took pity on me and I remember loading it the back of one gal’s car, it just fit in the trunk of her mid-70’s Mercury. I remember one night she gave me a lift somewhere and she asked me to be careful as I got it out of the trunk as she has just had the car repainted. SCRAPE…..as I took a huge gash of paint off the quarter panel. She just stared at me and hung her head shaking it slowly back and forth. She was a good sport and continued to give me rides; her Mercury with the moped sticking out of the trunk.

We did get stopped a couple of times by the local police. But we never got a ticket, or a warning. See this gal had a thing for cops and being a pretty decent looking gal herself, I think a lot of them had a thing for her…. Anyway…I remember one time we got stopped and the officer dutifully asked for her license. She took a look as his name badge and remembered meeting some place or another. So rather than getting a ticket, she ended up with a date that Friday night. Pretty good deal all around if you think about it. I got a ride home, no ticket was issued and she got a…well she got to go out with another police officer. Like I said, everybody won.

Our Mercury –Moped combination was a common sight at a couple of the clubs we frequently after work. We never feared it would be stolen, it looked just too ridiculous. There is nothing quite as sexy as trying to pick up a hot gal when riding a moped, especially a moped with one seat, especially when it was hanging out the back of a mid-70’s Mercury. It did not get any better than that.

I did not have many dates my freshman year. As a matter of fact…I had none.

Until next time.

Living the Dolce Vita

As an American teenager, living in Europe, that magical year between high school and college and adulthood that was supposed to follow, it was a great year. I would never trade that experience for anything. I got to travel around a bit, discover Italy, Germany, Switzerland and Austria. But the main thing I did while living in Italy? Played in a rock band.

An American teenager living in Milano and a lead singer in a rock band? Well remember the part in my earlier post about checking out the chicks in Italy? When you are a lead singer in a rock band, they check you out. It was fun (I do not want to say how much fun; my wife may be reading this…). The band was called BTN as in Better Than Nothing. They needed a singer and I auditioned. We practiced a few songs feeling things out, trying to figure out if we all jived together or not and it went pretty well, until we played Dog Eat Dog by Ted Nugent, aka "The Nuge". We totally rocked as I knew all the lyrics by heart. I was in.

We played some strange and fun gigs. Some paid, some didn’t, some paid well. I remember playing at American military bases. We would play high school dances or the NCO club and what I recall was that they paid a lot, fed us, put us up for the night and got us into the base PX (Note. My Mom would send a shopping list with me with items like M&M’s, Raisin Bran, peanut butter and other things that we could not get in Europe). But the one that stands out in my mind the most was when we were on TV.

Now Italian TV was not like TV in the States (as we called America). For one thing, it was in Italian. And the second thing was that frequently it made no sense. There were a lot of independent channels and they made even less sense. I worked hard on my Italian and towards the end of my stay was fairly conversant in the language. But sometimes I could not figure out what was going on. Like watching the serious interview show and there was that moment when the host would drop his voice to a whisper and ask the fallen local magistrate why he stole all the Lira from the poor children’s funds, when suddenly Beepo the clown would come flying out and bounce a beach ball off the hosts head, pull a tiny monkey that played tiny cymbals from inside the sack tied around her waist and told the audience that she had been a very bad clown while squirting the camera from the purple flower in her lapel. I did not understand it at all, but the studio audience collectively wet their pants, they were laughing so hard.

One of the guys in the band had a connection (wink wink) with a friend of a friend of a friend that was opening a bar / art gallery. This bar owner had paid for one of the local channels to do a TV Show covering the first four weeks of partying (Oh I think there may have been a new artist launch each week, but the focus was on the owner and her friends partying very hard). And BTN was hired as the house band. It paid stupid money, and there was good reason for this, as we would find out.

One of the bonus’ of having me in the band was I had access to a car (as did one other member of our 5-man outfit). So we piled all our gear into every available centimeter of the 127 and (as I recall) an Alfa Romeo Alfetta and went across town to the bar, err…Art Gallery. We dutifully arrived mid-afternoon to set up our gear and do sound check. Parking right in front of the place, we got out of our cars and locked the doors. We were going to go for a quick look inside to get the lay of the land. Now in Milano (or anywhere in Italy for that matter) you always locked the door to your car and never left anything in sight as it would be boosted in seconds. There were no high-end radios in Italian cars, they would not make it two seconds before someone would come by and feel the need to liberate whatever you had. It was like a sport, although a sport that involved a lot of broken glass and tears.

We looked suspiciously around the street we were on and felt that maybe it was best to have someone stand guard outside to protect the valuable contents of our automobiles. As we tried to decide who would stay, we heard a soft chuckle come from the main entrance to the club. Turning we saw the large and dark figure of main door man / bouncer who had arrived early to let us in. He had the look of someone who had just got off the train from Naples or Sicily maybe….not someone to be trifled with.

“Why are you guys locking the doors to your cars?” he asked.

“Well, we don’t want our stuff stolen…” our lead guitarist answered.

Taking a drag on his cigarette he chuckled again. “Take a look around; what kind of neighborhood do you think we are in?” Motioning for us to look beyond the arc of his lit cigarette.

Looking around, the street seemed a bit ominous. People passing by averted their eyes, the stores were all spotlessly clean, there was no garbage on the street (Milano was terrible about garbage in the street and this place was pristine). And the vendors had that look…like they did not care one way or the other if you came in, bought or turned away. They were….protected. He answered his own question for us.

“This my friends is a protected neighborhood…” he said while using the nail of this thumb to pull down the skin below his eye.

“Ahh… a protected neighborhood.” Replied one of my band mates. Then turning to me put his hand beside his mouth so only I could see it and mouthed “Mafia”.

“And who do you think owns this place?” he asked.

We all collectively turned to the band mate who had set this gig up for us who suddenly found great interest in his shoe laces, preferring not look us in the eyes. He had neglected to tell us that the club belonged to the local Mafia Don’s mistress or girlfriend (one of many no doubt).

“Your cars are completely safe here. Nobody will even look or God forbid touch them. On this street, right now, they do not exist. Leave them unlocked, open even, your equipment is completely safe here.” Then finishing his thought, he turned back inside and said to himself…”and God help them if they do…”

We unloaded our gear, set it up, did sound check and preformed four shows over the next four weeks. They were crazy parties with lots of blue lighting, beautiful people gyrating to the groove we laid down or crowding around the bar…err..sorry…art gallery. And there was this one hot gal that wore next to nothing but danced holding a large bamboo bird cage with no bird inside (yeah I thought that was strange too). At the end of our show, our cars were still out front, untouched…and unlocked. A few weeks later the whole bizarre event was brought to the small screen in what could only be described as crazy Italian TV editing, with the camera zooming in and out, in and out, in and out….it gave me a headache watching it on TV. I did not even finish watching the first episode. But man did that gig pay well.

Until next time.

An American Teenager driving in Europe, or why I am lucky to still be alive

What a dream. A chance to spend a whole year in Europe, checking out the scene, checking out the chicks, checking out different countries and cities and the chicks in those different countries and cities. Flying into Milano Italy in 1978, it was like a different planet. See I had just flown in from the planet Lexington KY which was light years behind the eternally hip fashion center of Milano.

My Step-dad picked my Mom and me up at Malpenza airport up in the family car; a baby shit green Fiat 127. What? Never heard of the Fiat 127? Google it. The car was not that bad if you lived in Italy, it was what it was, a small two door hatch back (or 3-door as it’s known in Europe) and offered basic no frills transportation. My Step-dad was always looking for a deal and indeed he may have outdone himself. This car had been at the dealer when a freak hail storm had damaged many cars, this was one of them. Covered in hail dents, it was appropriately dubbed Dimples by my Mom. But it had come at a bargain basement price.

The drive home was terrifying. There were seemingly no traffic rules. Lanes? We don’t need any stinking lanes. When stopped at a stop light, cars crowded into any random open spot. In the lane, in between the lane, half way up on the side walk, anywhere there was an opening that might give the driver an advantage once the light….turned green. It was the start of a Formula One race, knowing the light was about to change, the cars in front started creeping forward and then….Bang! Off like a shot, each car trying to out drag the other to get ahead. Tiny engines from Fiats, Alfas, Alfasuds, Autobianchis, Innocentis, Lancias, all revving to the breaking point to get that one fraction of a meter in front of the car besides them. Oh you have not heard of Alfasud, Autobianchi or Innocenti? The Alfasud was a ploy by the Italian government to move some manufacturing (read jobs) down to Southern Italy, the Autobianchi was Fiats second brand and Innocenti was basically a licensed Mini. The joke was to never buy an Alfasud built on Monday after the home team (Naples) lost a football (or soccer) match as the car might be built with a certain inattention to detail and a certain indifference. And don’t buy the ones built on Friday either, as the workers were already thinking of the weekend and the football match to come. That only gave the buyer three good days of auto building per week and the odds were not in the buyers favor.

I digress…as we made our way to our apartment near the Central Train Station, I vowed to never drive in Italy... of course, I was driving the Fiat that evening. How was it that an 18 year old could drive in Italy without an Italian driver’s license? Easy…the Triple A. They sold an “International” driver’s license, good for one year, allowing the licensee (in this case yours truly) to drive anywhere in the world where the US had good diplomatic relations. This excluded Communist Russia, Communist China, Communist Cuba, Communist…you get the picture. All this could be yours too, for $20. Funny thing though, it worked. I was stopped on several occasions and when I gave the Italian Police (or whatever country I happened to be in) the "International" license, they would look at it for several minutes before handing it back to me telling me to get lost. It was either a get out of jail free card...or they had no idea what it was, but it kinda looked official. No telling...

My Mom and I arrived on a Friday and since it was the beginning of the weekend, we did what a lot of Milanese did; head out of town (and the heat) for the weekend. In our case we had an apartment up in the sub-Alps. My Step-dad, a bit of an ass-buster, threw me the keys and said “Man-up!” or some other sensitive dad-to-son pep talk. So off we went. My Mom was smart; she read a book the whole trip up, every time we went anywhere. She did not want to see the antics we did on our trips. Smart woman!

He explained the rules; there were no rules. If you want to pass a car, flash your lights briefly. This lets the car you are passing and the car coming directly towards you know that you are about to do something stupid; namely make a pass, where there is a common passing lane (meaning either direction can use it). What transpires is thus; the car you are passing moves slightly to the right, the car (or large truck) coming towards you moves slightly to the left and you zoom in between. It was a bit of a pucker factor moment. My mom in the back seat serenely reading her book and me inching out into no-man’s land. “Go for it…don’t be a pussy, make the pass” soothed my Step-dad. I did it - it worked, we did not die.

Wow! That was fun. I could get used to this. I did. My Step-dad was sort of my BIF (Bad Influence Father). We constantly tried to best each other. Like timing each other to see who could drive up to the mountains fastest. Who could get back to Milano on Sunday fastest. Who could make the most passes before the common passing lane ended, etc. That tiny 900cc motor was just brutalized every time we turned the key. But it ran and ran. Fiat made good stuff, as long as it stayed in Italy. If for some reason that Fiat went to the US, it turned into CRAP.

But that is another story.

Until next time.

Turning a wrench – for the first time

Well, I was going to give everyone an update on the progress of getting the first book out. And I will, next week. But right now, I post this from the airport in Pittsburgh, PA. Old man winter has once again descended with his heavy hand and snow has closed the airport. So I scrambled to book another flight, and I got one....tomorrow morning....at 5:22 AM. Then I tried to get a hotel room. No such luck, everything miles around the airport is booked to bursting. Sooooo, I will test the new lounges in the Southwest Airlines departure area to see just how comfy they are. Whoever says business travel is glamorous has not done it....

So on to the story!

If I had the money, I would have turned my 1965 Mustang into some sort of ultimate road racer. Stuffed a huge 390 cu. in. side oiler V-8 under the hood…somehow. But the budget, the actual money I had saved, meant something else completely different. So for several weeks during the summer in between my junior and senior year of high school, I put in massive hours at the grocery store where among other things I was a sacker, cashier, dairy, produce and aisle stocker. Quick side note: the first time I restocked milk, nobody told me about rotating the newer stuff so I put the newest milk in front. I am willing to bet that we actually sold the older milk first as most everyone reaches in back for the newer stuff. Maybe I was ahead of my time, or just engaging in counterintuitive marketing…not sure which.

So taking a look at my car, I realized it needed a lot of stuff. Somebody had put a lot of rock salt in the trunk at some point in time and a bunch of it leaked out too (just like the Camaro I looked at) and both the rear quarter panels started to get Swiss-cheesy and then developed huge gaping holes. It looked real cool…literally. The passenger floorboard was getting thin and finally rusted away, giving the passenger glimpses of the rolling road if they looked at the right spots (this also caused the passenger to get wet during hard rain…hell, during any rain) and the passenger door would not shut unless it was closed with just the perfect amount of force (thank God it had seatbelts, which I made every passenger wear). Then there were cooling issues, rough idle, terrible gas mileage and on and on. Fact was; it was just getting to the point of being worn out.

I saved up $500. Real money back in 1977. So guess what I decided to spend it on? Did I decide to make it safer and fix the brakes, floor panels, squeaky shocks and passenger door latch? Nooooo, I decided to make it go faster. I had a friend help me put it up on jack stands and proceeded to take a wrench to it. Only problem, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I took off part after part, the carb and intake manifold, the heads, water pump and yes the radiator. I sent the heads and radiator to a shop my Uncle recommended. I traded the intake manifold for one that would fit a larger four barrel carburetor and with my Uncles help, also traded the puny two barrel stock carb for a Holly 750 cfm four barrel Double Pumper. Man this was the biggest carburetor I had ever seen.

I got the parts back and started putting it back together. Once I was done I had another problem; there was a whole box of parts left over. Screws, washers, bolts, nuts, fittings, it was dozens and dozens of them. “Holy shit, where did all these parts come from and where in the hell do they go? Oh well, let’s see if this thing starts.” I am sure I said and spent several days getting everything ready for the big moment. Spark plugs in? Check. Spark plug wires in and more important in on the right plug? Check…I think. Fuel line connected? Check. Battery connected? Oh yeah, it was ready to go.

It took a couple of tries, but it finally caught and settled into a very rough idle. I frantically checked to make sure all the wires were connected correctly and discovered one of the vacuum lines was loose. I connected the line and the idle smoothed out. IT LIVES! IT IS ALIVE! I jumped in to take it for a quick spin around the neighborhood. After a few blocks, I could not resist it any more. You see, that male urge; namely youth and testosterone reared their mutual ugly heads and I had to nail it to see if all the huge performance mods I had made (namely new intake and carburetor) would make this old hulk go faster. I stomped my foot to the floor….and….it died. Shit! After coasting to a stop, I started it again and it ran at idle and low revs but every time I pressed on the accelerator just a little bit, it simply chugged to a stop, with no fire in its belly.

I actually ran the car like this for several days and just got use to coasting to a stop (hopefully in a safe spot) and restarting the car. I asked one of my gearhead friends what he thought was going on. He peered under the hood and pointed to the carb asking what it was. Proudly, I told him it was a Holly 750 Double Pumper. He started laughing, then as he tried to keep his balance by resting his hand on the fender, his hand slipped off and he fell to the ground clutching his sides. What is so funny I asked? He told me that the carb I had installed was meant for a motor like a 396 or 454 Chevy motor. In my little 289, it was like running a fire engine hose through your garden sprinkler and wondering why every time you turned on the hose, the sprinkler ended up in the neighbor’s yard. The 750 was delivering way more fuel than the little Ford V-8 could ever handle. OH….

But he was there for me man…I was so lucky, he had a Chevy Chevelle SS 396 and if I would only trade him my Holly 750 Double Pumper, he would get me a suitable carb that the 289 could handle. I was out of options, so I agreed. I removed the monstrous Holly and put on a Rochester QuadraJet Four barrel carburetor my friend sourced for me. And miracle of miracles, it ran. Of course I had addressed none of the other issues that I should have, but boy it sure did seem to run faster. At least it made this huge sucking sound from under the hood. And I never did find out if any of those extra left over parts were important enough to keep the car running, it chugged its way all the way through graduation; when I left for Italy.

Funny thing, my dad sold my car and got $500 for it. He kept the money too….

Until next time.

My first car

History looks 20/20 when it is fading in the rearview mirror. I should know, I have looked there occasionally and yep…if looks perfect as it fades in the distance.

In 1976 I was offered the chance to move to Milano Italy. My Mom and her third husband moved to Italy on assignment for the company he worked for and they said I should come over and finish out my high school career at the American School of Milan. Problem was, I decided to stay with my Dad in Kentucky. Turns out I had a great time in my junior and senior years in Lexington, but in that haze of 20/20 revisionist history, I think the years in Milano would have been better. Reason I stayed? I had a car, a girl friend and had a lot going on at school. Still if I could do it over again, I would have learned to speak Italian earlier.

So my dad in his massive generosity gave me $500 dollars for my first car. I looked for weeks in the Lexington Harold Tribune scanning the car ads for something cool. But $500 and something cool were an oxymoron, at least in Lexington. There were no Fiat’s, Alfa’s Healey’s, MG’s, Triumph’s, or Renault’s for $500. Hell, there was not even a decent VW Beetle for $500. I came to the slow realization that being a “fer’in” car guy in Lexington KY in the mid-70’s was not going to yield any positive results. So I had to set my sights lower in the automotive pecking order.

I looked at a ’67 Camaro, problem was both rear quarter panels were nonexistent, they had rusted away. I asked why, and the owner actually told me that they had been hauling some rock salt around in the trunk and some of it must have leaked out. Must have leaked out!? That is sort of like saying the deTomaso Pantara kind of leaked fuel. Crap, you didn’t get near one of those things with a lit match.

I looked at a ’68 Chrysler Imperial; this gargantuan four-door was owned by a little old lady that only drove it to church on sunny Sundays. Really. It had about 15,000 miles and looked brand new. Man, I wanted to buy that car. But my Step-Mom, not known for her automotive mojo, said no. I needed something sportier she said. All I know is that back seat was HUGE. You could do stuff back there, fun stuff! Hmmm…sporty car - smaller back seat, ginormous Chrysler - huge back seat…maybe she had some evil plan to keep me in the front seat. Anyway we passed on it.

Then I went to look at a ’65 Mustang, a light green coupe with a green vinyl interior. It had the 289 cu in V-8 and rare for the ’65 model, a factory 4-speed (instead of the normal 3-speed or automatic). Problem was, the owner would not take a penny less than $550. I hauled my Dad out to look at it and let him drive it. He begrudgingly let me have the extra $50. I had a car! Of course I had no job or way to pay for gas, insurance, ETC, but I had a car. And even though the back seat was small, it did hold two people…

It served me well my junior and senior years. But it had a couple of features that I discovered (and would come in very handy later). Like the hidden panel at the leading edge of the console. To the untrained eye, it was just a large metal plate that abutted the instrument console. But a push at the top, the panel tilted upwards to reveal a huge secret compartment that could hold…well, it could hold a lot….of stuff…

Still, we had a few adventures during our two years together. After school I would head out on the back-roads and take them down by the Kentucky River. And maybe if I had a little extra time, I would drive the car further away from Lexington. And as the miles piled on, we dropped back decades in time as we flowed deeper and deeper into the country; old farms hiding stills out back, barns with faded advertising on the sides pushing Marathon Ethyl gas and old cigarette brands that have thankfully long faded from view. I would push it until the Lexington AM stations started to merge into back-country stations advertising local feed stores, Bucks Bait Shop and Garage and Gran Pa’s miracle cold remedy and elixir and realized that maybe I had pushed too far. Better to turn around and beat a path back to my back door, arriving just in time for dinner and a hundred questions as to where I had been.

Yeah, history looks a perfect 20/20 in the rearview; a cloudy spring day, the highway slick with rain and the spray coming off the back of the car. Dark green shadows hiding narrow curves, blasted from the gray rock of the hills hugging the river. I learned how to drive on those narrow ribbons of roads and they are still there…calling me back. Except now I would rather take them on a perfect summer afternoon in my Cayman S, the sound of the flat-six blasting its angry engine note off those old rocks. I hope they remember me; I have been there before.

Until next time.

Finally - our cars improve…well a little anyway

After a one week break to look at some really ugly cars, it is back to the stories that I have dredged up from my foggy memory. I would like to thank everyone for participating in the poll and it looks like you agreed with me, the Pontiac Aztek is one truly hideous car. As a matter of fact I saw a burgundy one today (see my comment below regarding burgundy cars...) and it was just butt ugly. Surely as the owner walks up to it asks themselves why they own such a piece of shit. And shaking their heads as they use the key (not the remote as it is no doubt broken) wonder where it all went very wrong... In a couple of weeks, we will take a look at the worst of the current cars. Yes, crap you can actually go out and buy right now, off the showroom floor.

Now on the the story....

At one point my Mom thought we could actually afford a new car, so we went shopping. Her budget was not exactly what you would call very big so we had three choices: a Ford Pinto, Chevy Vega and an AMC Gremlin - classic cars all! These were the top of the heap, the bomb, the…running out of complementary words here. No beating around the bush - shit…they were beyond crap. In response to the Arab oil embargo and the first wave of cheap foreign cars from Japan, these cars were a rushed into production as an attempt to compete in a changing world. Not their best effort… Even today, I cringe when I see one; they do not bring back great memories, just bad ones.

We test drove the Vega first and my Mom hated it. It was clanky and rough and just felt cheap (which it was). Next was the Pinto. I remember the one we looked at was the special USA Edition, white with tiny red white and blue stripes and it had oversized USA stickers affixed to the sides. It seemed sad and desperate, an attempt to lure American buyers to buy American versus the new wave of imports. The USA theme was continued on its interior with a red, white and blue motif. And she almost bought it, but just could not get close enough on price.

That left the Gremlin. This bad boy was mustard yellow with racing stripes down each side. They were supposed to make it look like it was going fast and I think that maybe it was helping ...a little. The way I look at it, those racing stripes were just helping the car along towards a patina of rust that was sure to quickly follow. I have a fond memory of the test drive; I sat in back with the sales guy. If central casting in Hollywood put out a call for a mid-70’s car salesman, this guy nailed it. He was a fat guy with a Dunlap. Oh, you do not know what a Dunlap is? It means your belly had done lapped over your belt…a Dunlap. Brown polyester pants (several polyesters died in the making of those pants…), a pale faded yellow short-sleeve shirt, bursting out with a peak of belly fat in between the buttons and a short wide brown striped tie. He had close cropped gray hair and huge bushy mustache and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke. This guy screamed for all the world to see that he was ready to make a deal and he did not care how much he had to screw you over to get it.

The test drive itself was awful. The car was slow, rough and the interior was terrible, like the designers haphazardly placed the controls on any surface that looked remotely accessible. The back seats were hard as a board and were bolt upright. I squirmed around trying to get comfortable and I distinctly remember the salesman, arm draped over the rear seat declaring indeed how comfortable they were. He actually made a comment to my Mom telling her how safe and relaxed I would be in the back seat. I glared at him and then shook my head at my Mom as she looked at me in the rearview mirror. She did not buy it.

Things did not work out that time…thankfully. And we did not buy any of those classic iconic automobiles. A couple of months later, my Mom got a great new job at an ad agency that did product development for large national accounts. For the first time in a long time, we had money. We moved into a prestigious apartment complex and she enrolled me in the best schools in the area. And my Uncle asked to buy Old Blue back, he missed it. So it finally came to a head. We had to get new car, so we went shopping again.

Our list was longer this time; it included VW, Honda and Toyota and believe it or not FIAT. There was a dealer close to our home and it also sold Alfa Romeo and Lotus. While she test drove the FIAT and negotiated with the dealer, I spent a long time sitting in both an Alfa GTV and a Lotus Europa. The Alfa was silver and it just looked fast just sitting there. It just felt right; all the controls close to hand. I loved how the shift lever protruded from just below the main instrument panel. You had to reach up to it. I spent a long time pretending to shift gears, imaging myself driving it. It was no Lamborghini or Ferrari; those cars were long ago and far away. Well they were in St. Louis anyway…

Then I sat in the Lotus. Low slung and only inches from the ground, its tiny interior seemed to fit me like a glove. I had started my growth spurt and was maybe 5’7” so it felt like it was built for me. Thank God I was not taller… The thin form fitting seats hugged me tightly and the tiny steering wheel and stubby gear shift felt readily to hand. This was one of Mr. Chapman’s creations and like he said; all you had to do was “just add lightness”. It had just what it needed, nothing more. It felt like a race car, at least as close as I had ever been to one. I no doubt asked my Mom to consider either the Alfa or Lotus but I think the price and especially in the case of the Lotus, the practicality left them out of the new car conversation.

She ended up buying a Fiat 124, burgundy with a tan interior and you guessed it, an automatic too. I am telling you those early automatic versions of European cars were all slow. Geez, at this rate, we were never going to get back to my idea of what we should be driving, namely a sports car. And what was it with all those burgundy European cars we ended up with? I did not (and still do not like) burgundy cars. I did let her take me all the way to school in this car. Besides I was tired of walking the 6 miles in the snow, uphill, both ways. I needed a break from all that walking.

Until next time.