Itinerant Air-Cooled Greetings From New York
Posted: Sun Jun 05, 2016 6:17 pm
Remember this?
That was the then 419,000 mile Road Warrior just after I finished spray-painting it and refreshing the interior in October of 2001. I was a HVAC tech at the time.
Remember this?
That is the NaranjaWesty with 10,050 additional miles since I bought it on October 26, 2015 at 41,841 miles.
You have noted by now that they were photographed at the exact same spot, the Lake Shore Road bridge over the Lake Ontario State Parkway.
I drove from Woodstock home base to Rochester NY to say hello to the stored cars in the barn. Western New York gave me unexpectedly warm and lovely weather. Here is I-390 northbound through the glacial gouges of the last Ice Age:
Rochester skyline:
First up was the 1962 Lincoln Continental. Is NaranjaWesty giving the Lincoln an assist here?
Naw, the Lincoln is running the voltage inverter so I can dremel down the latches on Naranja's new cheapo retractable seatbelts. See, NO WAY was I going to allow this plasticky crap to sully the interior of the Westy, NO WAY:
All I had to do was narrow the plasticky new crap belt latch by 1/8" and I could use the original solid receivers that stay close to the walls of the aisle.
ANYways, the Lincoln, the Lincoln. That car knows how to make me feel horrible. Started up in four seconds, idled beautifully, shifted firmly, drove quietly, cruise control operated flawlessly, door locks glided up and down, brakes still work perfectly, engine thundered quietly on its worn main bearings, what a WASTE of a good car. Drove it to the gas station without plates or registration or insurance. Bad me:
I think Miami's own Cuban Chrome Gang would love this car:
The car daintily drank a full gallon of gas which represents the six miles total since I last filled it:
While I was taking the below shot, a star-struck guy in a pick up truck tumbled out the driver's door,
"That thing, that thing, that is it. That is beautiful, man. How long have you owned it? Oh I need one of those. That is it."
I carefully undocked and steered hard portside and throttled up the hill. From my left, a SUV that said "Sheriff" comes up to his stop sign.
My heart skips, dammit I don't need this, and I accelerate more firmly just to give me time to execute some crazy notion that I might dive into a driveway yonder and be off the public road.
"Who me? On the road? No officer, this thing hasn't driven in at least twenty years, it always smokes a little. Here? Me? Oh, I am, no, I don't LIVE here, but I visit my car here, friend, what friend? no I left, he, owner of the house? no, actually I drive a Volkswagen, friend's name? uh, Dave?"
Fortunately, it appears that my hot rod Lincoln has opened up sufficient distance. I relax a bit and begin the throttle-down/brake sequence in preparation for a "turn" in about a quarter of a mile (that's how we do it with 5,200 lb Lincolns with single circuit drum brakes). But damn, there is that SUV popping up in my rear view mirror. I have to get out of here, I can't afford an arrest and a tow.
"Call upon your heritage!" I urge the Lincoln, "your ancestors used to outrun The Law." It is a sloppy skidding turn, but the downshift was authoritative and we booked up Sawyer Road while I prayed for a curve in the road to at least block the sight of my chrome rear bumper without a license plate. There's the curve and the car wallows like a top heavy cruise ship on the rocks and the tires . . . . well, I say fu**it, I ain't subjecting this car to such indignity. We haul down from 70mph at impending lock-up to a stop at Lake Shore Road in a tidy 2,000 feet or so. The SUV comes up and passes me. No "Sheriff" on the side. It is a different SUV.
"That heart rate is GUILT, boy, you suffer GUILT when you drive with no plates, no registration, no common sense, BOY." The car enjoyed that little canter. Back at the barn, it is the Mercedes' turn for some license plate-free motoring. The Mercedes has low tire pressures. 22 year old tires! But they are Michelin MXV-4s, the good stuff, and the sidewalls are fine and they get me to the gas station where I pump them up to 44 psi and tear the hell out of there for some back road German barnstorming. An old Mercedes 450 SEL V8 will do that to you:
Next day, I take the Squareback out. It actually started, but grumpily. I flogged it a little to clear out the injectors and get the engine up to temp. Such a tight little car, really, it takes the bumps like any old new Volkswagen used to. Clock started and held its time. Sipped barely a half gallon to refill the tank. The gas door sprang open so nice (that is the original sticker):
Drove it back to the storage unit at 65 mph on NY Rt 18, man, I remember that cross-country trip with this car in December 2007. I lived in it for almost four months. We have a working familiarity. Came back to the barn to meet:
Ol Musty and our new member, jeffro.
We performed a get-acquainted inspection on the car, and spent a lot of time on twiddling with the EMPI carbs and timing. Maximum timing was off the scale, idle timing was 24*BTDC. Jeffro says he doesn't know a whole lot about cars, he says he has too many pokers in the fire to commit to knowing a whole lot about cars, but I'll tell you what, jeffro has one of the sharpest minds I've happened across. And dammittohell, his engine thought it would be fun to trip me up so it could watch me stammer with its owner and get stymied by its recalcitrant #2 cylinder with its carburetor refusing to respond to our ministrations. Did we also talk about the world, the future of the world, education, kids, helping hands, forgiveness, getting screwed over, taxes, juvenile delinquency, old school republicanism in the new Trump Paradigm, hypocrisy in the church and front beam replacement? Sure. It was a pleasure. All of it.
Late in the day, I drove the Squareback again:
Put all of these loyal cars back to sleep, drove into the gorgeous evening:
It is about orange and green:
That was the then 419,000 mile Road Warrior just after I finished spray-painting it and refreshing the interior in October of 2001. I was a HVAC tech at the time.
Remember this?
That is the NaranjaWesty with 10,050 additional miles since I bought it on October 26, 2015 at 41,841 miles.
You have noted by now that they were photographed at the exact same spot, the Lake Shore Road bridge over the Lake Ontario State Parkway.
I drove from Woodstock home base to Rochester NY to say hello to the stored cars in the barn. Western New York gave me unexpectedly warm and lovely weather. Here is I-390 northbound through the glacial gouges of the last Ice Age:
Rochester skyline:
First up was the 1962 Lincoln Continental. Is NaranjaWesty giving the Lincoln an assist here?
Naw, the Lincoln is running the voltage inverter so I can dremel down the latches on Naranja's new cheapo retractable seatbelts. See, NO WAY was I going to allow this plasticky crap to sully the interior of the Westy, NO WAY:
All I had to do was narrow the plasticky new crap belt latch by 1/8" and I could use the original solid receivers that stay close to the walls of the aisle.
ANYways, the Lincoln, the Lincoln. That car knows how to make me feel horrible. Started up in four seconds, idled beautifully, shifted firmly, drove quietly, cruise control operated flawlessly, door locks glided up and down, brakes still work perfectly, engine thundered quietly on its worn main bearings, what a WASTE of a good car. Drove it to the gas station without plates or registration or insurance. Bad me:
I think Miami's own Cuban Chrome Gang would love this car:
The car daintily drank a full gallon of gas which represents the six miles total since I last filled it:
While I was taking the below shot, a star-struck guy in a pick up truck tumbled out the driver's door,
"That thing, that thing, that is it. That is beautiful, man. How long have you owned it? Oh I need one of those. That is it."
I carefully undocked and steered hard portside and throttled up the hill. From my left, a SUV that said "Sheriff" comes up to his stop sign.
My heart skips, dammit I don't need this, and I accelerate more firmly just to give me time to execute some crazy notion that I might dive into a driveway yonder and be off the public road.
"Who me? On the road? No officer, this thing hasn't driven in at least twenty years, it always smokes a little. Here? Me? Oh, I am, no, I don't LIVE here, but I visit my car here, friend, what friend? no I left, he, owner of the house? no, actually I drive a Volkswagen, friend's name? uh, Dave?"
Fortunately, it appears that my hot rod Lincoln has opened up sufficient distance. I relax a bit and begin the throttle-down/brake sequence in preparation for a "turn" in about a quarter of a mile (that's how we do it with 5,200 lb Lincolns with single circuit drum brakes). But damn, there is that SUV popping up in my rear view mirror. I have to get out of here, I can't afford an arrest and a tow.
"Call upon your heritage!" I urge the Lincoln, "your ancestors used to outrun The Law." It is a sloppy skidding turn, but the downshift was authoritative and we booked up Sawyer Road while I prayed for a curve in the road to at least block the sight of my chrome rear bumper without a license plate. There's the curve and the car wallows like a top heavy cruise ship on the rocks and the tires . . . . well, I say fu**it, I ain't subjecting this car to such indignity. We haul down from 70mph at impending lock-up to a stop at Lake Shore Road in a tidy 2,000 feet or so. The SUV comes up and passes me. No "Sheriff" on the side. It is a different SUV.
"That heart rate is GUILT, boy, you suffer GUILT when you drive with no plates, no registration, no common sense, BOY." The car enjoyed that little canter. Back at the barn, it is the Mercedes' turn for some license plate-free motoring. The Mercedes has low tire pressures. 22 year old tires! But they are Michelin MXV-4s, the good stuff, and the sidewalls are fine and they get me to the gas station where I pump them up to 44 psi and tear the hell out of there for some back road German barnstorming. An old Mercedes 450 SEL V8 will do that to you:
Next day, I take the Squareback out. It actually started, but grumpily. I flogged it a little to clear out the injectors and get the engine up to temp. Such a tight little car, really, it takes the bumps like any old new Volkswagen used to. Clock started and held its time. Sipped barely a half gallon to refill the tank. The gas door sprang open so nice (that is the original sticker):
Drove it back to the storage unit at 65 mph on NY Rt 18, man, I remember that cross-country trip with this car in December 2007. I lived in it for almost four months. We have a working familiarity. Came back to the barn to meet:
Ol Musty and our new member, jeffro.
We performed a get-acquainted inspection on the car, and spent a lot of time on twiddling with the EMPI carbs and timing. Maximum timing was off the scale, idle timing was 24*BTDC. Jeffro says he doesn't know a whole lot about cars, he says he has too many pokers in the fire to commit to knowing a whole lot about cars, but I'll tell you what, jeffro has one of the sharpest minds I've happened across. And dammittohell, his engine thought it would be fun to trip me up so it could watch me stammer with its owner and get stymied by its recalcitrant #2 cylinder with its carburetor refusing to respond to our ministrations. Did we also talk about the world, the future of the world, education, kids, helping hands, forgiveness, getting screwed over, taxes, juvenile delinquency, old school republicanism in the new Trump Paradigm, hypocrisy in the church and front beam replacement? Sure. It was a pleasure. All of it.
Late in the day, I drove the Squareback again:
Put all of these loyal cars back to sleep, drove into the gorgeous evening:
It is about orange and green:
lol
It reminded me of the very first car my dad bought for me back when I was 18 and still without a driver's license; a 1965 comvertible MUSTANG with chromed bumpers and from grill that it's brilliant "bling" could be seen from a mile away. Nowadays I compare my recently purchased "chrome" bumpers from Brazil, and see them rusting right before my eyes in less than a year and cannot help but she'd a tear and reminisce about the "good-old days" and the meaning of a quality-built product... a product such as your Lincoln.
)