BACKTRACKING
Cars Back When
by
Terry Hogan
Do you
remember cars back whenÉ? You
know, back when they only had an AM radio. Back when the AM radio often counted the firing of the spark
plugs by the clicking noise. Do
you remember when the windshield washers worked off a vacuum so that when you
went to pass a car in a rain storm, the wipers stopped sweeping the windshield
clean?
Do you
remember when the exhaust system would Òeat upÓ about every two years and youÕd
be under the car trying to loosen up the C-clamps to take the pipes and
mufflers off? If so, you can
probably still feel the rust dropping precisely into your eyes. If fact, the
rust still might be lodged in the corner of your eye.
Do you
remember when tires lasted two years; had wide white sidewalls, and contained
inner tubes? Flat tires were
common and cars actually came with a wrench that worked to twist off lug nuts.
But the jacks generally werenÕt much.
Do you
remember when the cigarette lighter was used to light cigarettes and not to
charge your cell phone? Speaking
of cell phones, do you remember when you would climb into a 10 year old car and
drive across country and not worry that somebody couldnÕt reach you
immediately?
Do you
remember having to replace spark plugs, rotor and distributor caps
frequently. Cars still have spark
plugs but they last nearly forever now, in the absence of lead in the gas. I believe rotors and distributor caps
are gone down the path with the buggy whip, replaced by electronic systems.
Do you
remember when the exhaust system was louder than the radio? Or how about when
cars were pushed by rear wheels rather than pulled by front wheels?
Do you remember snow tires? Studded tires? Slicks? How about running Òblack wheelsÓ or
ÒmoonsÓ or Òbaby moonsÓ?
Do you
remember when you could buy a new car for $3,000? I bought a year old Õ67 black Camaro convertible in
Galesburg in 1968. It cost about
$3,000 and the car payments were $59/month. I recently saw a restored Õ67 black Camaro 2-door hardtop. The asking price was $56,000. I was told that a convertible (Òrag
topÓ he called it) would be substantially more expensive, if he had one, but he
didnÕt. Nostalgia is an expensive
path to walk.
This
whole theme came from a recent tour of a building next to a car collision
repair shop near where I live. I
had been visiting the repair shop to see if it had gotten tired yet of holding
one of our cars hostage. It had
not. I was told for the third time
in three weeks that it was scheduled to go to the paint shop the next day.
I
walked out of the gigantic metal building full of damaged and apparently
neglected cars, hosting spiders, mice, and who knows what else, while they
languished, waiting for their turn for repairs. I was both muttering and thinking very unkind thoughts about
the touted repair shop, when I looked through an open bay of an adjacent
building and saw about 150 restored cars.
These were pristine, shiny, un-dented, loved and cared for. And, they
were all for sale. You want a 55 Chevy?
They had several. How about a 56
Chevy red and white convertible? They had one. They had Corvettes, Camaros, and about any type of muscle
car you could dream of. Most were
restored. A few had been upgraded
to surprise the unwary of the street.
No competitive bidding.
Just ask the price; plop the money down; and drive it home and explain
it to the wife. (SheÕd understand).
This
was where I saw the 67 black Camaro, waiting for me to take her home. She saw the gleam in my eyes, as well
as a hint of a love long passed.
She knew we were meant to leave the building together. To start a new life together, sharing
our common dreams in my garage. I
lingered by her side and admired her interior. She was tender and sleek while having the muscle to take
care of herself. She was only waiting for me to ask her what she was doing in a
place like this. She was waiting
for me to take her home.
I still
donÕt have our wrecked car out of the shop. And no, I do not have the beautiful 67 black Camaro, powered
by a 396 cubic inch old-fashioned, gas guzzling, high compression, V-8. She is
probably still sitting in line, waiting for Mr. Right – an old
gray-haired guy with both memories and money.
061208