Tri-Chevy

Long ago lust of The Keed: a ’55 convertible. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)

—Featuring these cars on the cover of my Hemmings Classic-Car magazine is like putting a Corvette on the cover of Car-and-Driver magazine.
Sell more magazines!
Some pimply teenager peruses the magazine display in my supermarket and snags the new Car-and-Driver magazine.
Some aging geezer, probably a ‘boomer, peruses that same magazine display, sees these Tri-Chevys on the cover of the newest Classic-Car magazine, and deposits it in his wussy-cart.
It was late 1954.
I was 10 years old.
My lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool hadn’t been born yet; not until 1955.
She’s now 65 years old, but doesn’t look it.
That means the ’55 Chevy is also 65 years old.
Sorry she’s always on my mind, as are many others.
It’s like my interest in automobiles is waining because of my joy interacting with females. (“GASP!”)
I’m still a railfan, but that’s being overshadowed by my interest in females. (“DOUBLE-GASP!”)
Eons ago I was told no attractive female would ever have anything to do with me.
You all know of my dreadful childhood; no need to repeat.
Yrs Trly was lucky to witness one of the most extraordinarily successful remarketings of all time — changing stodgy Chevrolet from basic transportation to an attractive performance car.
We won World War II, so now we could go bonkers.
The ’55 Chevy was all new. “Longer, lower, and wider;” the siren-song of ‘50s auto-junkies.
Prior to 1955, Chevrolets were turkeys; bloated wimp-machines with boat-anchor six-cylinder engines.
Ford had a better handle on it. Its Flat-Head V8 was 1932, but at least it was a V8.
Marketing mavens at General Motors decided even Chevrolet needed a V8 to succeed postwar.
First attempts were to design a V8 as stodgy as the StoveBolt six. Slightly more modern, but still conservative.
Enter Ed Cole.
He convinced GM to market a revolutionary V8: a single thin-wall block casting, with a light-weight valve-train using ball-stud rockers instead of rocker-shafts.
Incredible pressure was applied: design an all-new motor at the drop of a hat. Apparently engineers were motivated.
It was the kind of incredible engineering leap America could be proud of. They produced a prolific revver, the V8 that put Old Henry’s Flat-Head out to pasture.
The ’55-’57 Chevys are not styling triumphs.
I used to lust after a ’55, but I look at ‘em now and the back-end is weak.
The only thing attractive about a ’55 Chevy was that egg-crate grille, inspired by Ferrari.
Remove the trim and the car looks stupid. That wraparound windshield is even more stupid.
Okay, it’s overblown GM styling of the middle ‘50s. Remove the trim, and you have an ersatz Buick.
But underneath was that fantastic high revving motor.
Suddenly Chevrolet was no longer a bloated douche-bag. Hot-rodders everywhere were attracted to that motor.
Lever it into anything and suddenly you had a hot-rod. Even the wonkily-styled Tri-Chevys were attractive.
Harrison Ford drives a hot-rodded ’55 in American Graffiti.
“You ain’t gettin’ no ’57 Chevy!” the father of a bus-driver friend told me once. “You’d beat that thing to death; you’d blow the motor!”
Another retired bus-driver friend tells me his favorite all-time ride was his ’57 Chevy.
My wife-to-be dated the guy her mother wanted her to marry, but he scared her to death demonstrating the 100-mph potential of his ’57 Chevy. (Never again for that dude.)

A step back; a ’56. (A Google-image, photographer unknown.)

—For 1956 Chevrolet decided that beautiful Ferrari-inspired egg-crate grille was toast.
It was still the same basic car, but had a full-width grille that might look better on a truck.
But it’s the same motor; which later became known as the “SmallBlock,” since Chevrolet begin marketing bigger V8s.
The SmallBlock also responded very well to backyard hot-rodding.
Enter Zora Arkus-Duntov, a hot-rodder enamored of Chevrolet’s SmallBlock.
He already had marketed an after-market hemispherical cylinder-head for Old Henry’s Flat-Head, so now he wanted to mate the SmallBlock to Chevrolet’s new Corvette wannabee sportscar.
He succeeded. I think the first V8 ‘Vettes were 1955, although I’m not expert on ‘Vette history.
I’ve seen one, but it was experimental. It may have been the first — it resides in Penn Yan (NY) I think.
Arkus-Duntov became heavily involved in Corvette engineering, and is said to be “the father of the Corvette.”
After 1955 the Corvette body was heavily restyled, but the chassis was pretty much the same as it had been = little more than a modified Chevrolet sedan chassis.
It wasn’t much of a sports car; it handled poorly.
But I still had that fabulous motor.
Chevy’s SmallBlock in a Model-T chassis with a solid rear axle.
About all you could do was drag-race it.
For 1963 Chevrolet and Arkus-Duntov got serious.
The ‘Vette was completely reengineered with an independent-rear-suspension (IRS), the siren-song of sports car junkies at that time.
That IRS was rather crude, but Corvette used it for years.
Corvette also became too civilized, sort of a two seater Caprice.
But it still had that fabulous Ed Cole motor.
Arkus-Duntov began installing Chevy’s Big-Block motor, in order to succeed in the horsepower race.
That Big-Block is heavy. That’s putting a lotta additional weight on the front end.
The ‘Vette is better with the lighter SmallBlock.

The Cadillac wannabee, a ’57. (Photo by Jeff Koch.)

—And now the icon of icons; the most desired classic car of all time.
A ’57 Chevy convertible. These things are selling for well over 100,000 buckaroos for a well-restored example.
The styling is terrible: fins, the dreaded GM bump, that silly wraparound windshield. That front end is a feeble attempt to market a mini-Cadillac. Making it look like a Caddy supposedly made it desirable.
It didn’t work; Ford out-sold Chevrolet in the 1957 model year, first time in eons.
What makes these things desirable, is that fabulous Ed Cole motor; perhaps the most incredible engineering leap this country ever made.
And it was made by stodgy old General Motors.
Cole went on to become president of GM, many V8 motors followed the lead of his SmallBlock, and even Ford developed what could be called a “small-block.”
All through high-school and college Yr Fthfl Srvnt lusted after a Tri-Chevy, although what I wanted was a ’55 210 hardtop; four-on-the-floor, 283 SmallBlock, then 327 during college.
While in college my father purchased a 1957 Belair stationwagon; 283 Power-Pak V8 with four-barrel carburetor and dual exhausts.
The first non-turkey car my father ever bought; also our first V8.
Even the V8 motor in the new Corvette is essentially based on that 65 year old SmallBlock — same bore-centers anyway.
Years ago my brother and I were driving back from chasing trains on Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor. His little boy, a railfan like me, was with us.
“Hey dad,” he said; “look at the antique car.”
“If that thing is an antique,” I shouted; “then so am I!” (’57 Belair two-door hardtop.)
65 years ago Chevy’s image was changed from stodgy to pedal-to-the-metal.
77 years old, and my lust for motoring performance has wained. Here I am on an interstate good for 100 mph stopped in a traffic-jam. All I can do is fiddle the radio knobs.
Look out for self-driving automobiles launching into adjacent cornfields, or some busty divorcee fingering Facebook on her iPhone.

Mitchell’s ’55 210 hardtop, 283, four-on-the-floor. (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

• A “wussy-cart” is one of those new small grocery carts that came into use maybe 20 years ago. A regular shopping cart is as big as a Buick. So named by my brother in Delaware.
• “Old Henry” is Henry Ford.
• Chevrolet’s overhead-valve inline “Stovebolt-six” was introduced in the 1929 model-year at 194+ cubic inches. It continued production for years, upgraded to four main bearings (from three) for the 1937 model-year. In 1950 the Stovebolt was upsized to 235.5 cubic inches (from 216), and later upgrades included full-pressure lubrication and hydraulic (as opposed to mechanical) valve-tappets. The Stovebolt was produced clear through the 1963 model-year, but replaced with a new seven main-bearing inline-six engine in the 1964 model-year. The Stovebolt was also known as “the cast-iron wonder;” called the “Stovebolt” because various bolts could be replaced by stuff from the corner hardware.
• The “GM bump” is a styling fillip used by General Motors during the mid-‘50s. It was a small dip in the side-window bottom, which imitated the beginning of a rear fender.
• Mitchell’s ’55 210 was probably a six in-line three-on-the-tree at first. He converted it to 283, four-on-the-floor. He traded it for a 1958 Corvette; a dreadful mistake. He was the son of the owner of Mitchell’s Department store in Fairfax shopping center, just south/west (whatever my all-knowing brother loudly insists) of where our family lived in northern DE.

Chrome overload

Chrome overload!

—In late 1957, age-13, shortly before my family moved from south Jersey to northern DE……
I and a few of my eighth-grade railfan friends peddled our bicycles to where the Pennsylvania Railroad ducks under Haddon Ave. west of Haddonfield.
The line, from north Philly over the Delaware River on Delair Bridge, came south to junction with the old Camden & Atlantic Railroad, long ago taken over by Pennsy.
Camden & Atlantic went from ferry slips in Camden to Atlantic City, and is why Atlantic City did as well as it did. Philadelphians would ferry to Camden, then railroad to Atlantic City.
Pennsy’s line to Delair Bridge was to circumvent those ferries, and railroad freight to south Jersey also had to be ferried.
Supposedly the line was to continue south of Camden & Atlantic to another Pennsy line into southern NJ.
But it was never built, which was just as well, because freight migrated to trucking.
With the current surfeit of highways, built and maintained by gumint, railroading only makes sense over 400-500 miles, or with long heavy loads.
Freight may travel 50-100 miles in south Jersey, and the only shipper requiring heavy coal-trains is a power-plant near Atlantic City.
Pennsy’s old Camden & Atlantic still exists, but it’s no longer Pennsy. Railroading in south Jersey is done mostly by small independent short-lines.
Right next to the Haddon Ave. overpass back then was a Buick dealer.
Late 1957 was when Detroit introduced its 1958 models, so parked outside under tarps were new 1958 Buicks.
They were hidden, but here was my chance to see the new 1958 Buick.
Buick styling was failing. It reached its zenith in the 1955 model-year. The ’54 looked pretty good too, as did the ’56. The first top-down convertible I rode in was a white 1956 Buick.
Prior to 1954, Buicks looked like bloated douche-bags. GM styling was goofy in the early ‘50s. Olds looked pretty bad too.
After 1956 Buick styling tanked. Stylists ladled acres of glittering chrome on their cars, so their cars were more glitz-wagons than actual cars.
“Well, maybe for 1958 automotive styling would improve!”
But then I lifted the car-cover on a 1958 Buick in that Haddon Ave. Buick dealer.
GACK!
There was that dreadful waffle-iron grille.
Fully uncovered the 1958 Buick is the most gauche car of all time.
Glittering chrome everywhere.
Not long after our visit to that overpass my family moved. Who knows if my railfan friends are still alive?
And automotive styling took off in a worse direction. It didn’t start getting things right until the early ‘60s.
I always say the worst-looking automobile of all time was the 1959 Oldsmobile.
But saying that compares to “the greatest rock-’n’-roll song of all time is….”
“Are you crazy?” “What you been smokin’ boy?”
Someone once told me the ugliest automobile of all time was Pontiac’s Aztek.
To my mind Toyota’s most recent Prius is dreadful; a Mohawk haircut disguised as a car.
I suppose which automobile is ugly depends on what was extant while you were growing up.
For me, the 1958 Buick was a styling disaster.
A ’58 Buick was featured in my most recent issue of Hemmings Classic Car magazine.
Again GACK!
And I just looked at a Google StreetView of that railroad overpass, which is still there (rebuilt of course).
But the Buick dealer is gone.

1957 ThunderBird

1957 ThunderBird. (Photo by Brian Kimball.)

—Here it is readers: one of the automotive style icons Yrs Trly lusted after all through high-school and college, a 1957 ThunderBird.
My most recent issue of Classic Car magazine had one on its cover, although it’s unique in that it’s the supercharged F model.
Ford probably wanted to field a Corvette competitor, which the T-Bird was until 1958, when it went to four seats.
The ’57 T-Bird wasn’t my primary passion at that time. That would be a ’55 Chevy Two-Ten two-door hardtop with Chevrolet’s fabulous new “SmallBlock” V-8, although I wanted a more recent Corvette motor with four-on-the-floor, 1960 or so.
All through college the ’55 Chevy remained my constant desire, and SmallBlock displacement increased to 327 cubes. After college it went up to 350.
But the ’57 T-Bird remained desirable, although its layout is ancient.
The early ‘Vettes were also ancient. The joke was the ‘Vette was a ’53 Chevy with a swanky two-seater fiberglass body.
The earliest ‘Vettes weren’t even a V8. Chevy’s SmallBlock made the ‘Vette desirable, although its chassis was still antique.
The two-seater T-Birds were V8, but by then the new SmallBlock V8 became available in the ‘Vette.
Those two-seater T-Birds were steel body on frame. The ’57 Ford sedans looked awful. The 57 ‘Bird used some of the styling fillips of the sedan, but looked great anyway — even the canted tailfins.
A guy in my high-school had one; he was probably class of ’60 or ’61 — I’m ’62.
His car was probably not high-performance. But it woulda been great for kroozin’, especially top-down.
Sometime during my high-school junior year I wrote a gigantic spec-book replete with pencil side-elevations.
It was an elegantly customized two-seater T-Bird powered by a 440 Dodge B-motor with four-on-the-floor.
I remember someone drag-racing a two-seater ‘Bird — I think it was a ’55 — motivated by a souped-up 427 cubic-inch boat-anchor.
Nice idea, except all it did was light up its drag slicks. All its weight was on the front-end.
So now another classic to add to my list of desirables.
Long-ago I looked at a ’55 Belair two-door hardtop, but it was junk. It needed a total frame-off. And even after that it would still be an antique.
What I drove home, our ’89 Civic All-Wheel-Drive wagon, was much more desirable. Slow, but it didn’t assault my senses.
A few months ago a RetroBird appeared at an auto-repair in Honeoye Falls. A two-seater T-Bird, but not antique.
I almost stopped, but didn’t.
That RetroBird would just be a toy, not something in which to chase trains, or drive long distance.
It also wouldn’t be All-Wheel-Drive.
Furthermore, I have more pleasant things to enjoy— like my lady friends, who I never expected.
That ’57 T-Bird would be no match against the smiling eyes of a happy lady-friend.

“The girl in the white T-Bird.” (Suzanne Somers; “American Graffiti.”) —The ‘Bird is a ’56.

• My brother and I chase and photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.

New wheels

Last ride? (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“How come yer buyin’ a new car?” A friend exclaimed. What’s wrong with what you got?”
“Nothing really,” I answered. “I could keep it another year or two, but my kid-brother in Boston, who recently retired and became part-owner in a used-car dealership that flips cars, suggested he could get me a newer car.
My brother delivered the car Wednesday afternoon. He drove all the way from Boston with my new car on a trailer. His partner came along to help, and cow-tow when commanded.
My brother retired from helping run an electricity power plant. But not yet from being a boss-man.
My previous car was eight years old at 113,000 miles, and was starting to rust. A few minor things didn’t work, and it was filthy.
So after the usual pot-shots and brotherly snide-remarks I said do it.
He bid a 2017 lease-return Ford Escape, and that’s what’s pictured.
Leather seats, and a blizzard of gizmos; the Titanium model, not “Titanic,” as my wife’s brother’s first wife would say.
Brother-to-brother, $1,000 for his dealership.
Seemed fair. He told me the amount he needed, and it was $2,000 less than I expected.
I’m getting a $25,000 used car for $22,000. My figures are probably wrong, but what he needed was way less than what I thought it would be.
Plus it’s brother-to-brother; he’s not just flipping a car. He tested it himself. His buyer is the guy who changed his diapers.
My old car has been stone reliable. Two batteries, two tire-sets, and a complete exhaust-system.
“You got a good one!” my service-guy says. Same Ford dealer I bought it from.
“No,” I thought to myself. “That car got a good owner. One who followed service recommendations, and didn’t scrimp.”
That Ford dealer probably took me to the cleaners when he sold me that car. I bought it not long after my wife died, and was in no shape to play the car-purchase game.
My brother demanded I test-drive my new car as soon as he arrived. All I did was drive it to my nearby town park so I could use their Porta-John.
Fevered machinations began. The license-plates on my old car were removed, along with a few other things I hadn’t got to yet. I already had removed a lot.
I hate to let my old car go. It’s been extremely reliable, but is filthy inside thanks to my previous dog, and the difficulty of arranging interior detailing.
I had it detailed once, but that dealer now only does their own cars. I’d do it myself, but various other things impinge: lawn to mow, laundry to do, bills to pay, and mainly writing. Also a dog to walk when I had one.
PRIORITIES MAN! Cleaning the interior of my previous car was back-burner.
Since it’s a Massachusetts car, my brother couldn’t sell directly to me. We had to involve a local car-dealer, my hairdresser, who also flips cars.
$450 for my hairdresser, plus fees, plus sales-tax equals $2,241.40. The gumint gets most, and my hairdresser is doing me a favor.
“So what do you think?” My brother asked.
“Don’t know yet,” I said. “Every time I go to drive it: ‘gimme the keys!’”
He then wanted to use some distant restaurant to which I never been, and then drive some roundabout route to get directly back to my house afterwards.
“I live here, and you don’t!” I shouted. “It’s the route I’d take if I could ever drive this thing.”
We also coulda had supper in Canandaigua, but heaven-forbid I suggest someplace other than that far-away restaurant he found via Google.
It's a nice car, but rather intimidating = gizmos I’ll never use. I felt so prior century I wonder how I attract ladies as well as I do.
All I want it to do is reliably cart me from pillar-to-post, and stay outta the shop!
We “paired” my iPhone to my new car. “Easy as pie,” my brother’s co-owner said. “Everything is right here on your steering wheel.”
“Same as my old car,” I commented. “I get a Bluetooth phone-call, and I cut it off by mistakenly hitting the wrong button. I hafta pull off the road to answer a Bluetooth, usually by ‘try it and see what happens.’
Don't forget you’re talking to a stroke survivor. I run on what’s left, and it ain’t all eight.
And everything involves computers. I’m using one right now, and I know how computers like to throw hairballs atcha.
What happens when my keyless-start fails? Call Triple-A!
“If anything can fail, it will,” I said.
Even the back tailgate is electric. What if I hafta go manual? Call Triple-A again, and those Ford service-guys drain my wallet.
My impression is this car proves I’m completely out-of-it yet I have many lady-friends.
“Yeah,” my brother bellowed. “At least two blogs per week celebrating his lady-friend exploits.”
“Well yes,” I commented. “You didn’t have the parents I had. They weren’t telling you ‘no pretty lady will associate with you!’”
That it’s happening to me is mind-blowing.

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” (Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám)

• “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” in Omar Khayyám’s Rubáiyát is a line I gleaned thanks to Houghton College’s liberal arts education. Class of 1966, and I never regretted it. (Too many things like that remain.)

T-bucket

EXTREMELY well-done. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“SHADES OF THE ‘60s. Ed ‘Big Daddy’ Roth LIVES ON!”
So said retired bus-driver *** *******, an actual friend, not just a Facebook “friend.”
I put the above picture on my own Facebook so I could screenshot it for my brother ****, who like me appreciates hotrods — I think he does.
**** is not in my iPhone e-mail contacts — not yet.
All I could do is post it to my own Facebook, so I could screenshot it and e-mail to him via this laptop.
Every week I eat out one night per week with other bereaved friends. I’m the token male; all the others are widows.
I been doing it for years. Another guy ate with us a while, but disappeared.
Last week we patronized “Eddie O’Brien’s Grille and Bar,” a restaurant in downtown Canandaigua.
Finished we returned to the parking-lot to get our cars.
Yrs Trly noticed the canvas-top of the car pictured poking above the surrounding cars.
So what do we have here?
I kept walking, and BEHOLD, the fabulous T-Bucket pictured above.
“This thing is worth a photograph,” I said to myself as I unholstered my iPhone.
I thereafter studied the car, a hot-rodded Model-T pickup; although you couldn’t truck anything in a pickup bed only four by three feet, and only a foot deep.
The bed was covered, and had a gas-cap on top. “So that’s where the gas goes,” I said to myself.
The steering-column was almost vertical, putting the steering wheel in your lap like a dinner plate.
Enter my brother ****, stage-right, a Chevy-man like me.
“Only one problem,” he’d say. “It ain’t the Chevy SmallBlock.”
Correct; the center header-pipes aren’t siamesed. They would be on a Chevy SmallBlock.
So it looks like Ford’s small-block, introduced in the ‘60s.
Given my ‘druthers I prefer the turtle-deck T’s over the pickups.
But this car is extremely well done, even if it is a pickup.
It even has disc brakes up front, although I wouldn’t expect much braking out of bicycle tires.
I could do without the flames, but it’s extremely attractive.
Regrettably it would be just a toy, but great fun to tool around in, or just display in car-shows.
Relive those hoary days of teendom when we kroozed the streets hoping to avoid cherry-top.
As I approach age-80, hotrods lose their attraction. But this car could change my mind.

• One could say the car pictured is something Roth would do. But it’s not far out enough — it's too conventional.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) Yrs Trly drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. *** ******* was a fellow bus-driver. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.
• The car pictured in this link is a “turtle-deck T.”
• “Cherry-top” is the police. Early patrol-cars had a single rotating beacon on top, with a red translucent housing. Lit up it looked like a cherry.

A “cripple” mayhap?

—My cousin David reports via Facebook he is at a Toyota dealership in Springfield VA.
“And I guess we’ll be here a while,” he remarked in a comment he later hid.
Dave is the only child of my father’s younger brother Robert (“Rob”).
My Uncle-Rob once told me anyone named Robert was automatically Of-the-Devil. His father’s name was Robert, his name was Robert, and of course my name is Robert.
“A cripple mayhap?” I thought to myself.
Reminds of a trip my wife and I took long ago with our first Irish-Setter “Casey.”
Our car was a 1978 Rabbit purchased used; it had non-factory accessory air-conditioning.
The trip was from our home in Rochester (NY) to my wife’s parents’ home near De Land FL.
We’d take “scenic” routes along the Atlantic coast, and visit Saluda grade, a railfan pilgrimage stop. (I’m a railfan.)
Saluda is the steepest mainline railroad grade in our country: 4.24/4.9%. (That’s 4.24/4.9 feet up for every 100 feet forward; go beyond that and you need cog railway — the drive-wheels won’t hold the rail, they’ll slip.)
Freight-trains had to be tripled to climb Saluda — that’s divide a train into three sections.
Descending safely was also a challenge. There are runaway tracks, and a train had to maintain 8 mph to switch past a runaway track. (And of course there have been runaways.)
Saluda is now closed. I think the track is still there, but it’s no longer operated.
Saluda grade could be deadly. A cheap shot: just run the railroad right up the side of the mountain = no loops, no switchbacks. Then hope for the best!
We stopped in the town of Saluda at the top of the grade. The grade dropped off just like a roller-coaster.
Volkswagen designed a flaw into anything with a transverse engine, and Rabbits used a transverse engine.
Motoring near Saluda our Rabbit died. It wouldn’t even crank. Obviously our battery was dead.
A friendly Volkswagen-owner stopped and jumpstarted our car; apparently there was enough to run our car, but not crank it.
Meanwhile my poor wife was parrying a railfan hot to find Saluda. I was so obsessed I hardly noticed the dead battery. Plus Casey got into tar — it was in her coat. “Gotta find Saluda!”
And of course finding it was nearly impossible = driving all-over-creation in mountainous woods, with a nearly dead battery.
A gas station quick-charged the battery, so we found Saluda, and also found a Motor Lodge in nearby Spartanburg.
Fingers crossed, we hoped the battery would get us to the Volkswagen dealer in Spartanburg.
It did. 170 buckaroos to replace a suspect alternator.
Fiddlesticks! That alternator was probably fine.
Years later I had a 1983 Rabbit GTI. Suddenly it wouldn’t crank!
I got my various testers out, and determined that alternator was charging fine.
But its output wasn’t making it to the battery.
I thereupon wired my own workaround, such that now the alternator was charging the battery.
I poked around and noticed the charging lead was soaked. That alternator was charging everything but the battery.
How many Rabbits, Jettas, and Sciroccos did I see behind tow-trucks? (They all had the transverse motor.) A wonderful way to sell Bosch alternators ($$$$).
I helped a guy with a Scirocco once = dead battery.
“I bet your charging lead is shorting out. Tell that to your mechanic!”

• “Cripple” is bus-lingo. If a bus won’t operate, it’s “crippled.” I drove transit bus 16&1/2 years.

The Beast

The Beast. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—My very first car was the 1958 Triumph TR-3 roadster pictured above, an early fish-mouth.
Later TR-3s had a wider grille-opening.
It wasn’t much of a car: no heat, and very minimal weather protection.
It had a roadster-top which clipped to the windshield and body-cowl. It also had “side-curtains” inserted into receiving-sockets in the doors. They had sliding plexiglass window-sheets. (Click the link readers.)
If it rained you got wet, and if it was cold, you froze.
I remember coming down the hill into Blossburg (PA). It was snowing and I had the top off.
On the shoulder my sister and I put the top up. We were returning to my college in western New York.
Williamsport (PA) seemed to be where it changed from not too bad to frigid. Blossburg is north of Williamsport.
I also remember the windshield-wipers stalling in the snow, and me leaning out the side to see where we were going.
Fortunately that was before we installed the side-curtains.
The car was an old drag-racer, and came with drag-slicks on the rear. Slicks were impossible on wet pavement, but I had the two original Pirelli Cinturatos that came on the rear. I swapped ‘em on, and that made the car tractable.
I later found out the car wasn’t legal; it was registered for only towing — like to a drag-strip.
I drove it at least three months before I realized this. In college I was out of the state where it was registered (DE).
As purchased it was open exhaust (no muffler) = extremely loud. The previous owners lettered “Pizzazz” on the front fenders. My father called it “Pizzazz.” (I sprayed that out with model-car paint, same thing with the two black racing stripes.)
My mother was horrified. My brother was thrilled when I brought it home. That thing was so loud It was waking our entire neighborhood.
It also was insanely powerful. It had been tuned for drag-racing, and could lay rubber even in second gear (four-on-the-floor).
It was so strong a college-friend called it “a beast.” He had a 383 four-speed Plymouth two-door, and before that a Chrysler 300F (I think).
Rudimentary as it was, I used “The Beast” for dates. But mainly “let's go for a ride in ‘The Beast’.”
Even at college I never drove it much.
I also attended a US Grand Prix at Watkins Glen, where me and another friend convinced staggering drunks it was one of the race-cars.
The car crippled in the rural outback returning to my college. The tiny Bakelite finger for the points in the distributor broke.
I got it running with pieces of popsicle-sticks being equivalent to the Bakelite finger. It crippled again when the starter-motor jammed the flywheel ring-gear.
My sister’s boyfriend, her first husband, pushed me all the way back to my college with his brand-new ’65 Tempest convertible. We pushed it with a two-by-eight tied to the rear-bumpers. (First of four husbands.)
Doing that required him driving all the way up from DE to western New York, where my car was crippled.
I was later able to remove the starter-motor, but it was burned out. From then on I’d lasso guys to give me a push. I even got so I could push-start it myself; get it rolling, then hop in and slam it into second-gear. But I usually parked it on downhills.
I remember dating a really pretty girl once. We walked all the way to the downhill where I had it parked, so I could start it without her having to push.
She told me I should be dating the girl I ended up marrying. “You told him that!” My wife-to-be was aghast — she was extremely shy.
The only year in college I had “The Beast” was my senior year. That was also the year I discovered my wife-to-be. I guess she’d been after me since we were freshman, but I never knew. She was extremely shy.
We began hanging together, and one night we were supposed to attend a college music concert, but that fell through.
We decided to take “The Beast” for a ride instead. I lost control on gravel, and the car flipped, ending upside-down on its hood and trunk.
Neither of us was hurt, although I was slightly injured. We managed to wriggle out on-our-own before friends arrived.
And neither of us was paralyzed. Part of that was a TR-3’s cutaway doors. An MGA mighta broke my neck.
You’d think this would be enough to scare off my wife-to-be. But it wasn’t.
Her mother, a real pill, had already picked out a husband for my future wife. She loathed the guy = “a creep!” she always shouted.
He dated her once, scaring the wits outta her demonstrating the 100 mph capability of his ’57 Chevy.
“The Beast” wasn’t damaged much. I’d had the top off, so all that was destroyed was the windshield. I also found out later the rollover broke a steering tie-rod to the left-front wheel, so it had no input.
All it did was follow the lead of the right-front, which still steered.
College finished I packed quite a bit into it, and motored home to northern DE.
My father bought me a used Corvair, which I was to pay for, but couldn’t. “The Beast” got parked next to my famblee home, with hopes I’d return to it some day.
I didn’t. My parents quickly sold it without my permission after I left and moved to Rochester (NY). The one with the title was me, but who cares? 75 smackaroos for groceries!
This fulfilled my mother’s greatest wish.
“God is my copilot!” she’d trumpet.
“So I guess you’re the pilot,” I’d say.
“Don’t get smart,” she’d bellow, glaring at me.

• My college was Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college, and was the first religious institution to not consider me rebellious and of-the-Devil = a threat.
• A motor has a toothed ring-gear on the outside edge of its flywheel, which is how a starter-motor spins the motor.
• Remember my parents were hyper-religious super-zealots, and I was “rebellious.” (Rebellion for Patrick Henry.)

“Suspenders”

David Gaunt’s 1956 Pontiac Star Chief convertible. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—The July 2020 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is a 1956 Pontiac Star Chief convertible.
In 1956 Yrs Trly was twelve years old. ’55 through ’56 cars are great to look at; not the turkeys of the early ‘50s, and not the over-styled glitz-wagons of the late ‘50s.
Our family moved from South Jersey to northern DE in late 1957, shortly after the new 1958 models came out. I remember a friend and I visiting a Buick dealer west of Haddonfield (NJ) shortly before we moved.
The dealer had the new 1958 Buicks on his lot, but they were under wraps because Buick hadn’t introduced yet.
The ’58 Buick had a chromed waffle-iron grill. “Are they kidding?” I exclaimed. “It looks awful!”
Acres of chrome and fluted chrome. A gigantic barge!
Chevy was over-styled too. I liked the new Impala, a cruiser based on GM’s larger wheelbase.
But compared to the grille-insert of a ’57 Chevy, the grille-insert of a ’58 was cheese.
There were lotsa things wrong with the styling of a ’57 Chevy, but fortunately four headlights wasn’t one of them.
And the basic ’58 Chevys were too big. (Bloated.) ’55 through ’57 were the right size.
Ford also switched to style-wagons. Canted fins set atop taillights made to look like jet exhausts.
And all Chryslers from 1957 on had “the Forward-Look,” way too much finning. I remember the fins and trunk of a Plymouth hanging out the garage of a house in our South Jersey suburb.
Cars of the early ‘70s also looked good. But by 1970 I was grown and married.
In high-school (’59-’62) cars of the mid-‘50s became supreme. Stylish, but not over-styled.
And perhaps best was the ’56 Pontiac, although the ’55 Olds looked great too. (I blogged it.)
Bunkie Knudsen (“NUDE-sin,” I think — I couldn’t get a pronunciation) had taken over Pontiac in an attempt to break free of the brand’s stodgy reputation.
Pontiac had a new overhead valve V-8 motor. It wasn’t Chevy’s vaunted SmallBlock, but Pontiac’s V-8 put their ancient flat-head motors out to pasture.
Suddenly Pontiac was no longer grandpop’s car.
I remember a cousin, older than me, having a ’56 Pontiac similar to this car, although his was a hardtop.
He was a navigator for Strategic-Air-Command’s air-to-air refueling planes. “What’ll it be, Regular or Ethyl?” 10-20,000 feet above the ground.
He came to visit our family once, and there in our driveway was his fabulous Pontiac.
For years I was smitten by Chevrolet’s “Hot-Ones,” ‘55 through ’57, but this Pontiac looks better — or maybe the ’55 Olds.
Which I’d prefer is a tossup, and current cars don’t look this good anymore.
This Pontiac also has “suspenders:” two narrow fluted chrome strips across its hood. Those “suspenders” were Pontiac’s last application of its chrome hood-trim: a wide single strip of fluted trim.
Getting away from that chrome trim-strip would release Pontiac from its “grandpop’s” car image. But that chrome trim-strip didn’t go easily. It was narrowed quite a bit, and doubled. And no longer was it center-hood.
1957 was the first Pontiac without the trim-strip.
Choosing between a ’55 Bel Air convertible, and this ’56 Star Chief, I’d take the Pontiac – and not the ’57 Pontiac, which didn't work.

• “Haddonfield” (“ha-din-feeld”) was an old Revolutionary-War town in south Jersey near where I lived as a child.
• The Chevrolet “SmallBlock” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for eons, first to 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The SmallBlock is still manufactured, though much updated. The “SmallBlock” was revolutionary in its time.
• “Regular or Ethyl?” is gas-station lingo from the ‘50s and ‘60s. “Regular” was low grade, and “Ethyl” was high-test, having tetraethyl-lead to make it more resistant to engine-knock. A gas-station pump-jockey would come out when you pulled in, then ask the driver, still inside his car, “What’ll it be, Regular or Ethyl?” —Now that driver pumps his own gas, and tetraethyl-lead has been banned.

Christine?

Is this the actual “Christine?” (Photo by Dan Lyons©.)

—The March 2020 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is Richard Frederick’s 1958 Plymouth Fury hardtop, a car that may have starred in the Christine movie.
I don’t know if this car is the actual “Christine,” but it’s painted that way. Plus the license-plate says “CHRISTN.”
The 1958 Plymouth is the best-looking iteration of that styling idiom — gigantic tailfins.
There were other Chrysler cars styled by Virgil Exner. Dodge looked especially stupid and even mighty Chrysler didn’t look as good.
The ’58 Plymouth is what the ’57 shoulda been. 1957 debuted Exner’s “Forward Look” Chryslers.
The ’57 had only two headlights where four shoulda been. The ’57 put the parking-light next to that single headlight — it looked awful.

A ’57 (coulda-shoulda).

—Stuff like this mattered to me back then — and still does.
My wife, who died eight years ago, learned to drive in a ’57 Plymouth.
I remember her telling me that Plymouth was HUGE!
My wife was “automotively-challenged.” But how does one parallel-park such a barge without tugboats?
Her mother, a real pill, became exasperated. How can anyone be so intimidated? Except my wife was like her father, also “automotively-challenged.”
He bought that ’57 Plymouth because they were about to drive Sea-to-Shining-Sea. “V8 power for the mountains!”
Their ’57 started rusting immediately. Late ‘50s Chrysler products were notorious rusters.
My wife said their ’57 Plymouth was the worst car they ever owned. “Who needs dual exhausts?” her mother bellowed. “That’s two exhaust-pipes and mufflers to replace instead of one.”
When I was about 12, my father befriended two people who also attended Moody Bible Institute in Chicago like him. (Moody wasn’t a college back then; now it is.)
The guy became a Moody representative for Delaware Valley. He had access to lotsa Moody paraphernalia, especially movie-projectors and tape-recorders. He visited churches and gave presentations.
My father was so smitten the Moody guy and his wife became “family.” ****** became “Uncle ******,” and his wife “Aunt ***. They were devout Christians, but not sanctimonious zealots like my father.
****** and *** got a ’57 Plymouth just before our family moved to DE. All I remember is the trunk of that Plymouth swallowed a six-foot roll-up movie screen lid closed.
A high-school friend drove his parents’ ’57 stationwagon. One night he clobbered my parents’ ’53 Chevy behind a shopping-center.
No damage to my car, but the left-front bumper and fender of his car were caved in. We both were 17 or 18. Explain that to your parents!
Thankfully I didn’t have to. I’da been yelled at, and probably smacked. “NO MORE KEYS FOR YOU, BOBBY!”
My very first “girlfriend” (as it were), senior year in high-school, her parents had a ’58 Plymouth hardtop.
I’d ride my junky balloon-tire bicycle four miles to her house so we could talk on her porch.
For whatever reason her mother was thrilled. Her father wasn’t. (“He’ll never amount to anything!”)
It would get so dark her mother fired up that ’58 Plymouth to drive me home.
The cavernous trunk of that ’58 Plymouth swallowed my bicycle lid closed.
Cars like what’s pictured are no longer made. Whitewall tires are gone, as are hardtops.
Nowadays you can get away with flipping your car. Flip “CHRISTN” and the roof would crush.

• RE: “automotively-challenged.......” —Always scared driving, and unable to “take command.” If my wife was driving, I’d hafta drive for her from the passenger-seat. “Keep going. You’ll pass him before he merges.”
• “Delaware Valley” centers around Philadelphia, but also included South Jersey and Northern DE. At that time our family lived in South Jersey.

The best-looking ‘50s car

Michael Bozzo’s 1955 Oldsmobile Super-88 Holiday Coupe. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

—The February 2020 entry in my Tide-mark “Cars of the Fab ‘50s” calendar is what I consider the best-looking car of the 1950 styling-idiom, a 1955 Oldsmobile Super-88 Holiday Coupe, a two-door hardtop.
It’s devoid of the garishness and fins that came later, yet much better-looking than GM’s turkeys of the early ‘50s.
All through high-school and college I lusted after a ’55 Chevy Two-Ten hardtop (like the car pictured below).

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

—You’d think I’d still be lusting after that Chevy, but this Olds looks better.
The chrome headlight surrounds are best-ever. Hood and front-fender shapes are perfect. And the grille and bumper are simple. After 1955 Olds got garish and fat-looking.
Striking is the two-tone paint treatment. Extravagant, yet simple.
Paint-schemes like this went out with the ‘50s, as did whitewall tires. More importantly two-tone paint was common to the average car-buyer.
Two-tone color hung around a while longer, but without the chrome separation molding.
Or perhaps the car-body was a dark color, and the roof a lighter color. Vinyl roofs became popular in the ‘70s.
Wild as it is, this car’s two-tone paint works well.
And sadly the market for ‘50s cars is waning. These are the cars I grew up with. In 1955 I was 11 years old. Cars like this ruled the highways when I was in high-school and college.
The editor of my Classic Car magazine takes on the collector-car crowd for being upset with ‘70s/‘80s/‘90s cars. Older car-guys like me are dying off: “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...”
I have a hard time thinking a late ‘70s Toyota is classic, but I’m an oldster.
Classic Car magazine is becoming what Special-Interest Autos became. Ferrin cars as well as American. Classic Cars promised it wouldn’t do that, and now it is — I didn’t forget.
Owning a ’55 Olds would be pleasant, but I wouldn’t go anywhere with it. Modern cars are what I’m used to; a ’55 Olds only looks nice.
No ‘50s cars for this kid; and no visor above the “Wraparound windshield” as on this ’55 Olds. (That visor looks stupid.)
And now Oldsmobile is GONE; victim of the Japanese auto invasion, and now even South Korea. Oldsmobile marketed some of the all-time classics, particularly the front-wheel-drive Toronado.
The Toro is a lotta car; the ’55 Olds is ordinary. But for 1955 you could buy a great-looking ordinary car. Compare it to some of the wretched excess that came later.
A ’56 Olds looks debatable, and by 1957 Olds was bloated.

• “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on...” is from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.
• Special-Interest Autos failed.
• A “Wraparound windshield” is a one-piece windshield that wraps down around the corners. A techno-marvel that went outta style because that lower corner caught knees.

The End

—So ends my nearly 55-year subscription to Car and Driver magazine.
It began in college, but after Car and Driver claimed Pontiac’s G-T-O was better than Ferrari’s G-T-O (1964).
Which got the effete sportscar junkies all upset, although I think the Ferrari G-T-O was totally unsuited to American driving.
That comparison also made Car and Driver notable. It started in 1955 as Sports Cars Illustrated.
The Pontiac G-T-O Car and Driver tested was a ringer. It had the 421 cubic-inch high-output motor, hot-rodded to the Moon. The standard G-T-O Pontiac was 389 cubic-inches, also hot-rodded.
My introduction to C&D began in the Houghton College laundromat when I picked up a discarded Car and Driver. It was more interesting than my Hot Rod magazines, which seemed aimed at high-schoolers.
Car and Driver was more erudite. It also avoided posturing that European engineering was superior. Suddenly Chevy’s SmallBlock got the attention it deserved. NASCAR was reported. European performance was attractive, but so was American performance.
A lot happened over those 55 years. C&D gave away a Sunoco Blue Z/28 Camaro much like the Penske/Donohue Trans Am Camaros. Pontiac’s overhead-cam six was installed into an XKE Jaguar.
C&D tried to get 200 mph out of a Firebird, but developed a flying machine. It wrecked in the desert, flipping numerous times. (Its driver survived thanks to roll-cage protection.)
Car and Driver brought BMW out of the doldrums. Its 2002 Tii could leave a bellowing 455 TransAm Firebird in the dust.
Head honchos came-and-went. Most notable was David E. Davis, Jr., followed by Leon Mandel — there were others between Davis and Mandel whose names I forget. —Editing a magazine has to be madness.
Another was Csaba Csere (“Chubba-Chedda”), head honcho from 1993 through 2008.
Long-time C&D writer (and one-time head honcho) Brock Yates, with the magazine since 1964 — hired by Davis — left in disgust when Csere didn’t wanna pay his retainer. Yates died in 2016, and Davis in 2011, but not before founding a C&D challenger, Automobile Magazine in 1986 — still being published.
I used to read Car and Driver and Road and Track cover-to-cover. I gave up Road and Track years ago. It wasn’t the good read Car and Driver was.
One-by-one the good writers at C&D disappeared. Best was Patrick Bedard, a former Chrysler engineer who could really write. (He raced the Indy-500 and crashed horribly — he survived.)
Plus my automotive enthusiasm wained as I got older. I ain’t Mario Andretti, and American driving conditions are no longer attractive.
“Them are 200-mph tires!” my niece’s ex-husband bragged, pointing to the tires on his mother-in-law’s Taurus.
“And where, pray tell, do you propose to do 200 mph?” I asked. “And you ain’t gonna get 200 mph out of a V6 Taurus.
You’ll be lucky if you can get 70 or 80. Traffic is so congested you might be crawling.”
In south FL I see Ferraris, Lambos, and Masers. HELLO! Rubber laid at stoplights, then 25-30 mph max. Their drivers are just profiling. “Look what I got!”
I became my paternal grandmother. Performance is for the car to start, and avoid repair.
No way do I chase trains in a Porsche. 200 mph; but where? Expressways became parking-lots.
Car and Driver, with its obsession for automotive performance, is no longer relevant. My iPhone, and this laptop, replaced pedal-to-the-metal.
It’s ironic my final issue has a Corvette on the cover. How many ‘Vettes have graced the cover over 55 years? Corvette sells magazines.
And it’s the new mid-engine ‘Vette. We been awaiting a mid-engine Corvette since the seventies.

• Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati; all hyper-expensive Italian supercars.
• I’m a lifelong railfan. I chase and photograph trains.

Profilin’

The 2020 mid-engine ‘Vette. (Photo by Greg Pajo — Car and Driver.)

—A while ago a fellow retired bus-driver sent me something about a new mid-engined Corvette.
My reaction was “It’s about time;” followed by “It may be too late.”
People were advocating a mid-engine ‘Vette back in the ‘70s. “Mid-engine” meaning the engine is behind the driver, yet in front of the rear driving wheels.
Racecars started doing this in the late ‘60s. Locating engine-mass behind the driver, yet ahead of the driving wheels, allows -a) rear-wheel drive to work better, -b) rear brakes work better, and -c) it reduces polar moment of inertia, allowing quicker turn-in.
All capital ideas, I was smitten! The most desirable hotrods of all time, were the Can-Am cars ’69-‘71. (Canadian-American Challenge Cup.)
First the mid-engine Chaparrals of the United States Road Racing Championship in the middle-to-late ‘60s, then the McLaren Can-Am racers ’69 through ’71.
They were mid-engine two-seaters powered by unlimited Big-Block Chevy V8s. (The Chaparrals were Small-Block at first.) Incredibly light and incredibly fast. Can-Am cars were essentially run-what-ya-brung; the only limitations were two seats and covered wheels.
Most desirable was the fact they were powered by Detroit-iron (although those Chevy Big-Blocks were usually cast aluminum).
I will never forget the sound of a Can-Am field coming toward me. Rolling thunder! Gobs and gobs of torque! That’s goin’ to my grave.
“The new C8 Corvette is an engineering moonshot,” says Car and Driver magazine. “A marketing leap of faith, and a statement about what an American sports car can truly be.”
Just packaging everything required ”moonshot engineering.”
Yr Fthfl Srvnt says the mid-engine ‘Vette may be too late. Us aging car-guys are dying off, replaced by techno-geeks and gamers not interested in automotive performance.
Conspicuous consumption of hydrocarbons, and all the noise it made, is no longer attractive. I’m guilty myself: coal-fired choo-choo trains, a screaming Ferrari, the Packard-Merlin V12 in a Mustang fighter-plane.
Top speed of the mid-engined ‘Vette is projected at 190 mph. Where, pray tell, do you propose to do that?
Yer lucky if you can average 50 on L.A.’s freeways. I have an old train video that shows a bumper-to-bumper traffic-jam inching into Philadelphia.
My almost 55-year subscription to Car and Driver is winding down. My attraction to performance automobiling wained.
My paternal grandmother won: automobiles are only a means of carting our bodies pillar-to-post. Performance is a sham to sell cars to macho wannabees.
There goes a Shelby Mustang: WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP! Probably good for 175, which you can’t do on Canandaigua’s City-Pier.
Would I buy this mid-engine ‘Vette? I’d just be profilin’. I’m not Mario Andretti — a mid-engine ‘Vette would be way faster than me.
So there’s my YMCA buddy in his red C5 Corvette, the “shampoo-bottle.” He’s parked in the sunshine on Canandaigua’s City-Pier, top down.
“Aren’t you the guy with the Spitfire?” I ask.
“Yep, but I got this too,” he boasts.
He’s not doing what his car will do. He’s profiling. (“Hey, look at me!”)
And most ”moonshot engineering” will suffer the same fate.

STAND BACK!
Race-driver Denis Hulme blasts an M8D McLaren
out of the hairpin at Mosport (Ontario, Canada).
(1970 photo by BobbaLew.)

• A Chevrolet “Big-Block” V8 was introduced in the 1965 model-year at 396 cubic-inches. It was made in various displacements: 402, 427 and 454 cubic inches. It’s still made as a truck-motor, but not installed in cars any more; although you can get it as a crate-motor, for self-installation. The Chevrolet “SmallBlock” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first to 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured. The SmallBlock is still manufactured, though much updated. The “Big-Block” could be immensely powerful, and the “SmallBlock” was revolutionary in its time. The Can-Am McLarens used the Big-Block, although usually cast in aluminum to save weight. Corvette uses a 6.2-liter (378+ cubic inches) version of the SmallBlock, vastly developed since 1955, good for 495 claimed horsepower.
• Corvettes came to use “C” for each version. The first Corvettes (1953-1962) are “C1;” the first Sting-Rays (1963-1967) are “C2;” the manta-ray Corvettes (1968-1983) are “C3;” the “C4” was from 1984 to 1996; the “C5” was from 1997 to 2004); the C6 was from 2005 to 2013; the “C7” (currently on sale) is 2014 to 2019. Usage of C-letters came after the C4.
• An editor-friend and fellow car-guy at the Messenger newspaper said the C5 Corvette reminded him of a shampoo-bottle. I always call the C4 the “disco ‘Vette.”
• For years Triumph made a tiny sportscar called the “Spitfire.” It looked great, but needed a lotta engine winding to get anywhere. It’s motor was tiny. I remember only 1,200 cubic centimeters, 73+ cubic inches. Although there may have been slightly larger motors later. A friend bought one for her first car. She let me drive it, and I had to wind the dickens out of it. It was four-speed floor-shift.

Lido

Lido!

—“Lee Iacocca, 1924-2019.”
Not much mention in my October 2019 issue of Hemmings Classic Car magazine. Just a small brief with picture.
Iacocca (Lido Anthony “Lee” Iacocca) was immensely important to automobiling in the ‘60s and ‘70s. He then led Chrysler out of the doldrums in the ‘80s.
Iacocca took risks. He saw a gigantic market in the postwar baby-boom: Boomers desiring performance.
People were buying Corvairs as sporty-cars. Corvair was originally intended to parry Volkswagen.
The formula for a sporty-car already existed. Make Ford’s Falcon long-nose, short-trunk, and viola: the Mustang.
Ford Motor Company had just failed with the Edsel. Henry Ford II (The Deuce), grandson of Old Henry, was leery.
“If that thing fails,” he told Iacocca; “your ass is grass!”
Lido’s Mustang went on to become the most successful marketing play in automobiling.
Thereby skonking General Motors, who had to play catch-up with its Camaro. The first Camaro was 1967; Mustang was introduced in ’64.
Iacocca became the president of the Ford, but clashed with The Deuce. After he was fired he became head-honcho of struggling Chrysler Corporation, on the verge of bankruptcy.
The new K-car was developed — a Ford reject — and Lido saw a market for front-drive minivans, an outgrowth of the K-car. Ford had considered minivans, but didn’t bite.
It took Iacocca to take the risk.
Heavy industry in our nation is no longer willing to take risks. What matters is bottom line keep the income steady.
Leaders like Iacocca, with willingness to take risks, are OUT. Investors are more concerned with steady income; resulting in stifling do-nothing conservatism.
Were it not for Iacocca we might still be driving turkeys. The Mustang is still being made in concept = long hood, short trunk, V8 motor, and relatively small.
Are General Motors, or the Japanese and Germans, capable of such insight? Is even Ford capable? (The Deuce fired Lido.)
Do we have such leaders in our country any more?
In looking for that picture, I did a Google image-search. Hundreds upon hundreds of images; many with “rest-in-peace, Lido.”
I think such leadership died with Lido.

100,000 miles

Made it! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—My 2012 Ford Escape, purchased not long after my wife died over seven years ago, has turned 100,000 miles.
58 long years ago, when I got my driver’s license, getting 100,000 miles out of a car was amazing.
The infamous “Blue-Bomb,” a 1953 Chevrolet , made 100,000 miles, and was the only car our family had which didn’t fail during a vacation-trip. It also was the car in which I learned to drive.
By 100,000 miles it no longer had heat. But it was our only car which started in cold weather. Our replacement, a ’57 Chevy four-door sedan, wouldn’t crank in cold.
The Blue-Bomb finally failed inspection — my father never maintained his cars. The brake shoes were worn into the backing-plates.
Like my Escape the Blue-Bomb was used — “pre-enjoyed,” the salesman said. 5,000 miles on the Chevy, 2,200 on my Escape. My salesman told me my Escape’s original owner died soon after delivery.
100,000 miles over seven years is almost 15,000 miles per year. Many of those miles were trips to Altoona, PA to photograph trains with my brother. Some Altoona trips were just myself. Plus there were trips to south Jersey to visit relatives.
I never made any long trips. Altoona is 255 miles. South Jersey via northern DE is about 365. (I have another brother who lives in northern DE.)
Our “Faithful-Honda,” a 1989 all-wheel-drive Civic stationwagon, made 162,000 before my wife’s accident totaled it. It was the BEST car we ever owned.
My 1993 Chevy Astrovan, purchased because I’m a Chevy-man, made 140,000 miles.
My Escape is beginning to rust, but not heavily. The Japanese sorta defeated rust, and my Escape is essentially a Mazda Tribute, slightly restyled then rebadged to be Ford’s Escape. —Ford affiliated with Mazda a while ago; Ford’s Probe being essentially a Mazda.
Ford cut loose from Mazda, and is now independent. The newer Escapes are very much Ford. 2012 was the final Mazda Escape.
So far only one unplanned repair. Something was making the radiator-fan work. My Ford dealer was familiar, so it was fixed.
The entire exhaust-system was replaced behind the catalytic-converter. 75,000 miles on the original. I bet it’s stainless-steel. Years ago an exhaust-system rusted away in maybe two years.
And the shock-absorbers are original. Even my ’83 Volkswagen GTI needed new shocks. My ’72 Vega GT needed new shocks at 33,000 — tires too.
But it may need new shocks, although I’m inclined to get a newer car.
100,000 miles, and it still feels fine. Maybe a new car next year. My 2012 Escape is extremely dog-friendly, and newer Escapes aren’t.
I don’t look forward to switching, and I’d like to go smaller. No gigantic pickups for this kid.
I also would like to buy American. I can still see that oily black pillar of smoke towering over the Arizona.
This is a flip-flop. 50 years ago I preferred ferrin-cars over American. Now I’m back to American.
And it’s also weird that a Chevy-man prefers Ford.

• Click that “Chevrolet” link, readers. That’s Dinah Shore singing “See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet.”
• My brother and I are both railfans. Altoona is where the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain — the railroad is now Norfolk Southern. The railroad is extremely busy. Every year I do Shutterfly calendars of train-photos my brother and I took. I send ‘em as Christmas presents.
• We called it “the Faithful-Honda” because over 162,000 miles it never was in the shop. Even my wife liked the Honda, and she hated driving.

Bubble-top

Bubble-top. (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

(I wanted to do this last month, but ran outta time.)

—The July 2019 entry in my Tide-mark Muscle-Car calendar is a red 1961 Pontiac Ventura owned by Dennis MacDonald.
When this car was manufactured Yr Fthfl Srvnt was in Eleventh Grade. I was living at home with my holier-than-thou parents who convinced me I was rebellious and stupid because I couldn’t worship my father.
Our family had moved to northern DE by then. I’m native to south Jersey, a child of the ‘burbs. I also consider myself a child of the ‘50s.
By 1961 Pontiac was flowering under Bunkie Knudsen. No longer was it a doughty grandfather’s car. Bunkie made it a performance car.
In my humble opinion the 1961 Pontiac is one of the best-looking cars ever made, especially the “bubble-top” two-door hardtops.
I was so smitten by those Pontiacs I advocated my father buy one. My father was already looking for another car.
I made him extremely angry, that I, his first-born son, rebellious and stupid, would have the awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity (cue Sharpton) to suggest anything other than a used Chevrolet douche-bag. “Disgusting, I tell ya!”
My Pontiac dreamin’ was toast.
We were currently driving a 1953 Chevrolet two-door sedan, the infamous “Blue-Bomb,” the car in which I learned to drive, but a year late, since at age-16 I was “too immature.”
The “Blue-Bomb” became car number-two after a two-tone green 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air four-door sedan, PowerGlide six, came into our family. It was slower than our ’53.
I look at this calendar car and wonder about all that sheet-metal behind its passenger compartment. Were all cars like that back then? They sure aren’t now.
But it’s a Ventura, not a Catalina. The Ventura might have had that longer tail. But it does have the aluminum wheels, a lightweight extra-cost option.
“Bubble-top” since the side-pillars are so thin.
NO WAYwould a Bubble-top survive a rollover. That top would crush.
And pretty as it is, it wouldn’t be pretty to the air. Cars became bars-of-soap, to make them more slippery to the atmosphere. By so doing a car needed less fuel.
Look at cars now and it’s hard to tell which brand is which. They all look the same except for taillights and front fascia.
Not too long ago I was passed by a top-down ’64 Pontiac G-T-O. It too had a gigantic tail; trunk-space that could swallow multiple suitcases. (Remember suitcases?)
You could land a Corsair fighter-plane on its trunklid.
This Ventura looks the same, but is one of the prettiest cars of all time. —A “Cat” looks better.
The prettiest car was the Jaguar XK-E, but narrow. No doubt my saying that will prompt fevered blustering.
Years ago at the Mighty Mezz I declared the greatest rock-n-roll song of all time was “Louie-Louie” as covered by the Kingsmen.
I was bombarded with beachballs.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 13 years ago. BEST job I ever had. I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)

“Sock-in-the-Wash”

Sergy. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—The September issue of my Hemmings Classic Car magazine has a cover-feature of a 1954 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible.
It immediately reminded me of my sister’s first boyfriend, Sergei Serochnikov (“sir-gay”). My sister called him “Sergy.”
Sergei had a 1954 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible, powder-blue with a navy insert.
My sister died of pancreatic cancer almost eight years ago. She was slightly younger than me; I’m first-born of seven. Four of us remain.
My sister had a very hard life. She married four times. I’m only once despite being “heathen” and a “bleeding-heart Liberal” (her words; “heathen” is my wife’s aunt).
My parents were hyper-religious. My wife’s relatives were too, although not as judgmental.
Thankfully the last time my sister married she got it right. Her last husband seemed able to deal with her, or her with him. My wife was always the BEST friend I ever had, and she’s gone too.
“Sergy” was a really nice guy, a child of Russian immigrants. He was Class of ’61, I think, at Brandywine High-School. My sister was Class of ’64; I’m ’62.
My sister was madly smitten with “Sergy.” I used to criticize her, like it was all an act.
My father, probably angry my sister dated anyone, called him “Sock-in-the-Wash.”
Sergy took my sister to the Senior Prom, after a screaming Mexican standoff between my sister and my hyper-religious father, who considered dancing Of-the-Devil.
My mother settled it: “Oh Tom, I don’t think it will hurt.” So ended my father’s position as head-of-household.
Prom for me? Are you kidding? I never went to no prom. My wife didn’t either, but not for the same reasons.
At that time our family car was a 1953 Chevy, the infamous “Blue-Bomb” (it was navy-blue). It was the car in which I learned to drive. But a year late because at age-16 I was “too immature” — that is, I couldn’t worship my father.
Sergy let me drive his car. Top-down, but it was more a pig than the Blue-Bomb. It was probably better maintained — my father never did any such thing — but was a PowerGlide Six. (The Blue Bomb was also PowerGlide.)
PowerGlide was Chevrolet’s introductory two-speed automatic transmission. “Slip-and-Slide with PowerGlide.”
The engine was a 235.5 cubic-inch version of their venerable “Cast-iron Wonder” introduced in 1937. It was also called the “Stovebolt-Six,” because it could be overhauled with stuff from your hardware-store, e.g. stove-bolts.
The fact Sergy’s car was a convertible made it overly attractive to my sister. The guy who became my sister’s first husband bought a brand-new Pontiac convertible while I was in college.’64 or ’65 I think.
A ’54 Chevy was a turkey compared to Chevrolets for 1955.
Top-down is attractive, but would I consider such a car?
That magazine-car’s owner gets to relive his youth, but no way would I drive such a thing.
And convertibles were skonked by air-conditioning. Beyond 10 miles, no top-down for this kid.

“See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet”
(Long-ago photo by Bobbalew)

• “ See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet ” was Dinah Shore in the ‘50s.
• The Blue Bomb was the only car our family had that made an entire vacation-trip without breaking down — at least while I was growing up. It went all the way to Minneapolis/St.Paul and then back. 1960. (I coulda been driving then, but was “immature.” “Thomas, you gotta let him drive.”) It failed inspection just after 100,000 miles. (No lining on the brake-shoes.)
• The picture is just before my accident, which punched in the front. No bodywork; “just make it drivable.”

200 mph!

“Them tires are good for 200 mph,” bragged my niece’s ex regarding tires on a Ford Taurus he finagled for my niece’s mother.
“And where, pray tell, do you expect to attain 200 mph?” I snapped.
I doubt a V6 Taurus could do 200 mph. 120, maybe even 130. Four doors, 3,500 pounds or more, maybe even 4,000+. 200 mph is an 800+ horsepower mega-V8 in a 2,000 pound car. Approach 200 mph and ya also gotta make sure the car doesn’t fly.
Car and Driver magazine tried to get 200 mph out of a turbocharged Firebird. It took off, flipped, and destroyed the car. The driver survived, thanks to roll-cage protection.
There are interstates straight enough for 200 mph, assuming no traffic. Portions of the NY Thruway could accommodate 200 mph if no one else was on the road.
A Jaguar ad on the back of a recent Car and Driver celebrates the fact its F-type SVR can do 200 mph. Stuck in traffic on a Houston freeway is hardly 200 mph.
I did the math. 14 miles to Canandaigua takes 25 minutes. That’s .56 miles-per-minute, 33.6 mph average. There are portions I hit 60 or so, but also farm-equipment, stop-signs, and Granny plodding along. I suppose I could hurl caution to the winds, and shave maybe a minute or two. That ups my average to over 36 mph.
LA-DEE-DAH!
200 mph my foot!
“Always follow local speed limits,” the ad says in tiny print. “200 mph” is much larger print. “The only car you’ll wanna drive,” it trumpets.
I set my krooze at 70 on the clock. Some interstates in PA are 70 mph. NY’s speed-limit may be 65 — that is, I don’t remember ever seeing 70, although the Thruway may be 70.
Even at 70+ I get passed. Giant Lincoln Navigators fly by doing 100 perhaps.
But 200? I don’t think so. Does anyone actually take this serious? That Jag can probably hit 200, but ya need an arrow-straight interstate with no traffic. Sooner-or-later ya gotta slow or stop. 200 mph is not the real world.
I used to like fast and powerful cars. But more important now are reliable starting and operation, plus little-or-no shop time.
Sure, I’m gonna go to the supermarket in a 200 mph Jag.

What were they thinking?

Fer cryin’ out loud!

Better yet, “What were they smokin’?”
Every time I see one of these travesties, I nearly throw up.
A friend of mine, ex of the Mighty Mezz, disputed my claiming the ’59 Olds was the ugliest car of all time.

UGLIEST car of all time.

Inspiration in college = 904 racer by Porsche. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“It’s the Pontiac Aztek,” he exclaimed. Score one for him! —But even the Aztek looks good compared to this thing.
I admit as an old geezer I tilt toward cars I consider attractive. That is, not necessarily aero-friendly but pleasing to my eye. Go back far enough and the 904 Porsche was very attractive. I was drawing back then, and many of my cars had 904 styling cues.
Get a 904 up near 140, and it tries to fly. Racers grafted air-dams to counter that.
For a long time, up through the ‘30s, automotive styling was dictated by function. The passenger enclosure was the largest segment, with motor enclosure up front, and luggage enclosure behind. Often the “trunk” was an actual trunk. Wheels and tires were at the four corners separate from the enclosures.
Slowly this all melded such that tire enclosures became part of the motor and trunk boxes.
Humans still determined the largest segment of the car body. The motor and trunk could be small, but the car still had to enclose humans. Those humans sat erect, and had to be able to look out.
Stylists were trying to ram that large passenger box through the air. The driver also had to be able to see ahead.
Classic three-box styling evolved, perhaps best exemplified by the ’55 Chevy. Two boxes were at each end of the passenger box. One, at front, encased the motor and front wheels, and the box at the rear was the trunk and rear wheels.
The passenger box had to have glass windows above the other two boxes so passengers (and driver) could see over the front and rear boxes.
Automotive styling has since evolved such that the motor and trunk boxes melded into the passenger box. The front windshield can be extended far over the motor box, and the car can become fastback. All to make the car more aero-friendly.
Fastback a car and ya run into poor visibility. This Prius’ solution was to do glass below the fastback. Honda is doing that too. (Ugh!)
A more aerodynamic car shape has better gas-mileage — manufacturers are trying to meet stringent gumint-mandated mileage goals.
Cars became bars of soap. I look at what’s marketed now, and they all look the same. There are slight differences in motor air-intakes — the grillwork. Behind that they’re identical, although with differing taillights.
All if which is okay. I compare Chevrolet’s new Malibu to a Kia or Accord and they’re not repugnant.
The reason is tumblehome. Car styling wraps inward. It’s that bar-of-soap thing.
This new Prius doesn’t do that. It reminds of a dude with a purple-dyed Mohawk haircut. Fenders come to a point aiming outward. They got the wheels and tires looking like donut mini-spares.
Early Priuses weren’t too bad, but I wouldn’t touch this newbie with a 10-foot pole. And that’s even though hybrid auto technology is good.

Shelby Mustang, versus.....

Dodge Challenger.

I compare Ford’s new Mustang to the new Dodge Challenger. Mustang is the better car, but Challenger looks better. The Challenger is following muscle-car styling laid down in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
Mustang has independent-rear-suspension and a double-overhead-cam V8; the Challenger has neither. The Challenger also looks much less air-friendly than the Mustang.
But I’ll take the Challenger unless they graft Prius spikes to it.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well.) (“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)
• My drawing ability, which was fairly good, was lost with my stroke.