Car-Bits

New Cars

2008-10-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

When I look at some of my model cars, I am not surprised by being transported back in time. It is a phenomenon exploited by the mints, and I am delighted to be willingly ensnared by their trap and swept up in reverie. Those of us of a certain age may recall the very moment when we saw many of the cars of the ‘50s and ‘60s for the first time on those fall days when they were brand new. It occurs to me that diecasts capture a very precise moment in the history of each car, and therein lays part of their special appeal.

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Autumn is a time of change, of endings and beginnings: when summer vacation fades to a memory; the baseball season winds down, and football begins; and the leaves, turning from green to yellow, gold and brown, fall to the ground. We would rake them down to the curb, pile them up and set them ablaze. I loved the smell of burning leaves back then; the evening air was thick with their aroma. As it grew dark and only a few glowing embers remained, I would look up into the night sky, and there I would see an occurrence unique to that time of year. It was an annual event, as welcome as Christmas or a birthday, and we all received presents. Crisscrossing beams of light would dance across the night sky announcing the arrival of next year’s cars.

In the evenings after school, we kids, drawn like moths to a flame (800 million candle power’s worth), would ride our bikes to the sources of those lights. Arriving, we would see, for the first time, dozens of gleaming new cars, their shiny new paint reflecting the strings of light and flapping streamers. Prospective buyers (followed by attentive, hopeful, and sometimes, scheming salesmen) would stroll down the rows of cars, peering in the windows, looking under the hood, running their hands over the unfamiliar, but alluring sheet metal and chrome. Car lots were rose gardens in full bloom, flush with fresh automobiles. It was a time of celebration.

We do rejoice in the new, be it the New Year, a fresh idea, a newly-crowned sports champion, a flower blossom just opened, or a car. In the ‘50s and ‘60s the car companies counted on this hunger for new things. Their styling studios relied on the buying public’s propensity to covet the most recent trend, the latest gadgets, the fresh face and fins of clay-turned-to-stampings. It was a drug, and we were hooked.

In metropolitan Detroit the cars would often show up before print ads. Many fall days I watched with fascination as new Bonnevilles, Catalinas and Venturas were unloaded from the transporter at Glenn Pontiac a mere half block from my home. Could that be why I still favor the make? Yes, that, and the fact that the first muscle car I drove was a GTO. It is not for nothing that our teens are called the formative years. As adolescents, we are soft clay readily shaped and influenced by our environment and the potter’s hands of the stylists.

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Over the years new car introductions were not always limited to the fall. My first recollection of this deviation was when Ford announced the 1963 ½ Total Performance cars in the spring of that year. Foremost among these were the Falcon Sprint and fastback Galaxy 500XL. It struck me as wrong, but at least the cars were worthy of the upset. We can also forgive Ford for the April introduction of the 1964 ½ Mustang at the New York Worlds Fair. And did I not personally benefit when in April of 1968 the Cobra Jet Mustang appeared? Those were the exceptions because even today most of the next year’s crop is still introduced in the fall. Those autumn days and nights of yore gave us our first look at the new shapes and colors that, these many years later, we still covet and can finally possess, if only in scale.

Now, how shall we define a car as “new?” Picture a factory-fresh vehicle with just a few tenths on the odometer waiting at the dealer for a new master. That is what I perceive a new car to be. One which, when you sit in it, has that “new car smell,” that might still have the window sticker and an as-yet-unread owner’s manual in the glove compartment. The new car owner has yet to learn all the features, to determine the perfect seat position, and become familiar with the sounds of the engine, the horn, the heater blower. So much territory to cover, so much pleasure in the discovery. It is a rare and wonderful experience to take the new keys and fit them to our key ring. Our hearts swell with pride, self-satisfaction, and anticipation as we walk up to the car for the first time, open the door, slip behind the wheel, and start the engine.

It is a fleeting moment, however. After an all-too-short period of time, the newness wears off. Dirt and dust adhere to it right away; our accumulated junk trashes the interior, trunk, and glove box; the seat begins to take on the shape of our bottoms. Eventually rock chips and dings erode what was only recently a pristine exterior. Rust takes longer to notice, but attacks immediately. (We don’t even want to talk about the depreciation.) Yet, the elation of that first moment, that first day we took delivery, makes it all seem worthwhile, keeps us coming back for more. The attraction of ephemera works on us just that way.

I propose that a diecast car might serve to remind us of that specific time, as well. So, let us take a minute to think about this diecast intellectually. What is it about this little piece of history that is unique? What stage in the life of the real car did the mint capture?

It is a moment frozen in time.

This is how new cars look after the dealer prep, but before any road miles are piled on. All evidence of the manufacturing process has been removed: the protective spray on the paint, plastic seat covers, paper floor mat, that blue film on the white wall tires, the window stickers – all gone. It is the automobile in its newest, purest, road ready form, the way the brochure depicts the car, uncompromised by careless ownership and the ravages of time. It is what I imagine when I think of a new car. These are the cars of the mints.

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I have been fortunate enough to experience this moment, not so much lately, though I would if I could. (I spend far too much on diecasts, you see.) Eleven times I have been handed the keys to a new car. There is an exciting buildup to that moment: gathering brochures, pouring over them, shuffling the options, and placing the order (not that much fun), and then waiting. The interval between signing the order and taking delivery has a parallel in dating, i.e. the time between making the date and the moment she opens the door. Well, sort of like that. The first time I went through the process, I ended up on a blind date with a different brand of car. For two months I juggled options and colors on a Pontiac LeMans only find myself behind the wheel of a 1967 Mustang.

There is one more anecdote regarding that first new car of mine: When my girlfriend first saw it, her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “It’s beautiful!” That look, those words completely validated my choice of cars . . . and me as a stud. Nothing has ever equaled that moment. A new car can do that for you.

Thinking back on some of the cars I have owned, even the used ones, I recall evidence of their newness, traces of the time when they rolled off the lot for the first time. One of those cars was 36 years old. Up above the windshield of the ’28 Ford, on the passenger side, was a small black metal frame. It held a form, faded with age but still readable, on which was printed, “Hamilton Motor Sales – Hamilton, Ontario.” It was a Canadian Ford! The unique screw heads in the interior confirmed the fact. That old Ford was manufactured in November 1927, only one month after Model A production commenced. What that must have been like! Did that first owner feel the same pride as I felt when it became my first car? I like to think so.

I had gone a couple of months without a car when I finally took delivery of a ’69 Charger R/T. I distinctly remember being a little peeved when first pulling out of Hodges Dodges in Ferndale, Michigan with an empty gas tank, but, oh, the sound of that 440, the suppleness of the leather seats, the view looking out over the sculpted hood. I have retained a few souvenirs from that moment: an unused, spare set of keys, the order form, the window sticker and the build-sheet placed under the rear seat during production. The way it looked and felt that day is how I now best remember the car. And years later, when I built a plastic model of it, I fashioned it as a stock, new car.

Currently I am having a GMP ’68 Mustang Cobra Jet altered by master modeler Paul Kravchak to match the one I bought back in 1968. When finished, it will have the gold C-stripes of that car along with a few other touches. It will be the closest I can get to re-possessing the original 1:1 vehicle. Not cheap, but much, much less than getting a clean 428 Mustang at auction today. When it finally takes its place on the top shelf of the display cabinet, I have no doubt what I will see, what I will feel and remember when I look at it. It will recreate for me that first day I brought the car home and photographed it for posterity.

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New cars are not quite the same today, not as exciting, in my view. Stop by a car dealer and look over their inventory. Can you tell one year from the next? I know I have difficulty discerning a 2006 from a 2007 Mustang. And, what about Hondas and Camrys? Body styles can last three, four, or more years. The biggest difference might merely be a color screen for the navigation system, a remapped computer program for its six-speed automatic transmission, slightly altered blobs of taillights, or a different shade of silver paint. When styling does change, it is customarily evolutionary. The designers are loath to take a chance at challenging or offending their existing customer base. The resultant cars tend to be uninspiring and generic. There may be more than a hint of generational snobbishness in these thoughts, but I do have to look carefully to discern even the brand. I can fully appreciate that today’s cars are superior in almost every way: they are safer, more fuel efficient, handle incredibly. But, where is the art?

No wonder, then, that folks who came of age in the 50s and 60s feel nostalgic about the automobiles of that era. Each year brought new shapes, grills, taillights, wheel covers, trim and colors. Each car was individual even though they may have shared platforms. It was a colorful time rich with choices and visual excitement. Each year seemed to bring ever more captivating designs. We would flock to the car lots to get that first glimpse, spin our heads when a new model drove by, and dream of owning and driving that one car in which we thought we would look our best. We could imagine how it would feel to get behind the wheel for the first time and say. “This is my car.”

Looking in my display case, it is not too much of a stretch to think of these cars as inclusions trapped in amber, captured forever in that brief moment when they were new.

Danbury Mint 1:24 1968 Corvette Annual Edition

2008-09-21T13:48:00.000-07:00

I never liked the ’68 Corvette. They supplanted, to my mind, the best looking Corvette ever, the 1967 C2. When GM sought a replacement for the C2 they turned to the Mako Shark II concept car for inspiration – with mixed results.

Longer, lower, with Coke-bottle sides, Kamm-style rear end, and pontoon fenders, the C3 body was a radical departure from its predecessor. The tall fenders were a problem as the driver could not see over them. The redesign cost Chevrolet an additional year before the car was ready for production. That ’67 Vette was, then, an unintended carryover until the C3 was corrected. Odd how these things happen.

Apparently, not all the problems had been worked out. The rush to production left the ’68 suffering from poor panel fit, engine cooling issues, squeaks, and overall sloppy quality control. Chevrolet brought back Zora Arkus-Duntov as Chief Corvette Engineer to help sort out these missteps.

Thanks to the passage of time and with the help of some delightful diecast versions from the Danbury Mint, these 1968 Corvettes have grown on me. When first introduced in 2000, DM’s British green ’68 L88 convertible was a high water mark among diecast cars.

The doors swing on internal hinges, and the car sits at a proper height despite the articulating suspension. Details and features abound. Emblems, trim and markings are scaled precisely. Beautiful Kelsey-Hayes Rally wheels and redline tires add to the cars authenticity. The hood opens to reveal many of the finer pieces of the real car: wires, hoses and clamps, belts, clutch-fan, decals and data plate. Individual parts are finished in contrasting shades with varying degrees of gloss, all of which add to the illusion of reality.

Hidden within the highly-detailed interior, under the hinged boot deck, is a top modeled in the down position. Below it are opening storage bins. The cockpit is replete with flocked carpeting, tilting seats covered in real leather, separate chrome trim pieces, accurate instrument decals, and movable sun visors.

As I stated, DM has helped me form a more favorable view of the C3 Corvette. Even after eight years, the green ’68, I believe, is still one of Danbury’s best executions. Thus, when a newer rendition was announced for their Annual Edition series, I had to consider it. It didn’t hurt that it is painted Tuxedo black. Those who have seen my collection know my predilection for black Chevrolets.

The Real Deal

All the high praise lavished on the green car applies to this latest black one. The well-appointed and splendid interior is finished in red this time. A little too dark a red, perhaps, but it sets off the glass-smooth black exterior wonderfully. A precise fitting up-top in black is a good match to complement the sophisticated, formal whole. This is a car in which you could comfortably arrive at a black-tie event.

One point of contention arose when this diecast first came to light. The center-section grille bars are black. On the British green car they are chrome. Cars sold in states that require a front license plate do away with this piece. This fact may account for the scarcity of cars with the piece intact today. A web search reveals that the GM replacement part is indeed black. One may suppose that DM corrected themselves with this black grille.

It is very much up to individuals’ tastes whether they like the C3 Corvette, whether a black car trips their switch, even whether they feel the need to add another Corvette to their collections. For me, it was an easy decision. Here we have a diecast of a car I’ve grown to appreciate, another lovely version of one of Danbury’s best efforts, and it’s black.

Let’s enjoy a few photos of a new favorite, one that doesn’t overheat, has better fitting panels than the 1:1 car (the headlight doors, notwithstanding), and does not squeak.

1969 Dodge Charger R/T

2008-09-19T08:40:00.001-07:00

One thing I most dread about purchasing a new car is navigating with the car salesmen routine. For me, it has not been from experience, but rather the lack of it. It wasn’t until the late 80’s that I had to walk into a showroom and try to make a deal. Mostly I’ve bought with the help of friends or through connections. My third car, then, was another unorthodox event in car buying.

In the late sixties I worked at Chrysler’s Highland Park, Michigan General Office. When I was hired I owned a ’68 Mustang CJ, but it met an untimely end just one month later. I had always been an owner of Ford cars, but now there was the opportunity to sample the Chrysler lineup (and discount). Most of my fellow employees shared the opinion that Chrysler products were inferior, or as my boss put it, “the product stinks.” That attitude did not engender much confidence, and the only MoPar that I would even consider was the Dodge Charger. But it was, and still is, a surprisingly good looking automobile. The joke was that the styling for the Charger snuck through when the head of design was on vacation. This is one urban legend I believe to be true.

It was suggested that I talk to the Product Planning Department engineers before buying. Unlike GM and Ford, Chrysler was run by bean counters, but these Product Planning types were real car-guys. Their desks were strewn with Motor Trend, Car and Driver, and Road & Track magazines. They asked good questions, offered honest opinions, and I took their recommendations. First were the brakes; at that time they were not confident of the disc brakes and advised the heavy-duty drums as a better bet. Next was the Performance Axel Package for better straight line acceleration. Thankfully, they also convinced me that vinyl roofs added too much weight with little benefit in stop-light contests. Lastly, Performance Hood Paint, code V21. When I ordered the car through Hodges Dodge, the salesman had no knowledge or information on the hood paint option, but I convinced him to include it nonetheless.

So now it was set: a Charger R/T SE (Special Edition) with 440 Magnum V8, Torqueflite automatic, chrome stamped road wheel, red streak tires, console, tape player, tinted glass, 3.55 axel, Sure Grip differential, deleted Bumblebee stripes, special hood paint. Total sticker: $4,427.95. Employee price: $3,800. Nice! Nothing to do but count down the days until delivery, right?

Wrong! On the Friday that I placed the order, I selected Bright blue (B5), but I was not really excited about that color. The very next morning I saw three Chargers in that same paint and panicked. Monday morning I called the dealer, wanting to change the color, only to be told the order had already gone through. Then I called the Dodge Regional Sales Office, got a hold of the right person and changed the paint to Copper metallic (T5.) It’s good to have connections.

As part of my job in the Central Banking Department, I talked regularly with all the locations around the country. This included the Hamtramck Assembly Plant, and when I mentioned that the car was going to be manufactured there, my contact, George Stone, said he often had lunch with the person in charge of production. As a result, my vehicle was designated a “protected unit,” and moved up in the build schedule by about two weeks. George sent his notes regarding their communications, and I still have them.

When I took delivery of the car a few weeks later, my excitement was tempered by the fact that the gas tank was on empty, and I barely had enough fuel to get to a gas station. Filling the tank (with that oh-so cool gas cap) with Shell Premium gas cost a bundle - $8.50! Imagine that today!

The Charger was of a very different character from what I was used to. Long, wide and roomy with leather seats and console – all firsts for me. It even sounded different: the reduction starter that my mother thought sounded like a threshing machine; the tell-tale rattle of the heat rise on deceleration. After owning a series of relatively light-weight cars that afforded quick acceleration off the line, this rather heavy Charger moved out in a more linear fashion – much like a bus. Speed built slowly, deceptively until, that is, you noticed the speedometer. To be honest, I remember it more as a boulevard cruiser than a drag racer. It was a beautiful car that everyone loved; my buddies, my parents, the girls, even the jerk who stole it.

One evening, about a month into ownership, the Dodge disappeared. I actually heard it happen. Someone did a burn-out in front of the house, and when I looked out the window, I saw unfamiliar taillights receding down the street. “Idiot,” I thought! Well, imagine my surprise the following morning. All that remained were tire marks from the car being backed quickly around the corner. The previous night’s hole shot was a decoy. It is easier loosing a girlfriend – at least you usually don’t have to keep making payment. (Ex-wives are a different matter.)

Only three days later the police located the car along side a highway where it would be easily spotted. It sat a little high in the front. Well, no wonder, as the engine and transmission had been removed. The car-theft ring – busted just one month later – would swipe cars with expensive drive-trains, thereby totaling the car. At the insurance auction, they would be the high bidder, get a clear title, and reassemble the car. In my case, however, a new car was located that had been wrecked in transit, thus providing me with a new engine and transmission. Two and a half months later I got the car back on the road, but somehow the bloom was off the rose.

Nineteen-sixty nine was a seminal year in many respects. Society and world events were in transition. Public support for the Viet Nam War was ebbing. On Broadway, musicals like “Hair” raised a few eyebrows, and Woodstock happened. In Detroit, we started listening to WABX, one of the first underground FM radio stations. Depending on the music pole one quoted, the number one song for the year was either “Sugar, Sugar” or “Hey, Jude.” To my way of thinking, the writing was on the wall for street performance cars. Sure, Chrysler introduced the Challenger for 1970, but it arrived a little late to the dance. More to the point, for me, increased insurance rates and the crack-down by police on street racing inexorably discouraged racing, performance car production, and sales. This was my last muscle car; I sold the Charger and bought a used Volkswagen. Long live Muscle Cars.

The intervening years have seen me in mostly practical, boring cars and utilitarian trucks. There was the motorcycle and sports car, but never anything over 250 hp. Yet, the impact of the great cars, imprinted upon our memories at such an impressionable age, remains a strong influence, if even in our subconscious. A few years ago I had one of the most vivid dreams ever. In this present-day dreamland, I somehow remembered that I still had, in storage, both the Charger and the Cobra Jet. I found myself behind the wheel of the Charger driving it out on the storage container when . . . I woke up. For about twenty minutes I bumped around the house, desperately trying to recall where these storage containers where located. When the truth finally sunk in, I was depressed for weeks. I’m still not over it.

Small Car Beginnings

2008-09-16T18:13:00.000-07:00

Before I held title to a real automobile, I had dirtied my hands with the paint and glue of many model car kits. This was, and still is, a recommended method of teaching kids not just about cars. Youngsters gain the fundamental skills of planning, execution, and project completion – like a first date, come to think of it. It’s a fact that I recall that first model better than the most recent. True, the experience was new, but it was also unique in a very dark way.

In 1960 I was 13 years old, and along with puberty there came a desire for all things automotive. For many guys, the two are bonded in a self-destructive, symbiotic relationship, and growing up in Detroit just intensified the linkage. While over at a friend’s house, I was shown something he had put together himself. It was a 1/25 scale model of a ’60 Buick. It looked – well – real, not toy-like, but a precise miniature of a real car with the scale grille, interior and motor of the full size Electra.

Now, I knew something about models. My dad used to amuse my brother and me by building scale plastic airplanes when we were very young. How tough could it be? You just follow the directions, glue everything together, and you’re done. This being only a few years away from driver’s training, hand-building a model car was a logical step towards real-car ownership.

I scraped up a buck and a quarter, hopped on my bike, and sped on down to Jack Davis Hobbies. In retrospect, the shop was tiny in comparison to the mega-stores of today, but to my wide eyes, it was a cornucopia overflowing with possibilities. Planes hanging from the ceiling, tracks lined with model trains, scale ships, doll houses, and craft supplies of every description filled my wide eyes. With little deliberation, I selected a 1960 Ford convertible, threw in a tube of glue, and headed home.

Opening the box revealed a bewildering array of white plastic parts, a tree of bright chrome bits, four tires, two axles, a sheet of decals, and a set of instructions. I did not even know what some of the parts were, but this was going to be so cool.

I spread some newspaper on the kitchen table and went to work. I dabbed some black paint on the seats, glued the windshield into place, installed the interior, then the bumpers. Ramming the axles through the chassis, it was now time for some custom touches. I applied everything in the box: spinner hub caps, bubble skirts, lake pipes, louvers, spot lights, dual antennas, even a Continental tire kit. Done! I was so proud of myself. In the span of a few hours, I had assembled a masterpiece.

The timing could not have been better as Jack Davis Hobbies was then hosting a model car contest. Now was the chance to have my own creation on display for all to see and admire. With a flourish, I whipped out the Ford Sunliner, turned it over to the clerk, and left the store justifiably smug. Riding home, the bike wheels didn’t even touch the ground.

The very next day, I stopped by the hobby shop on the way home from school. It looked like my entry was in good company. The display case was lined with about twenty other cars. Some were models of contemporary hardtops and convertibles, but there were other, more exotic hot rods: a candy-apple red ‘40 Ford sedan with a dropped front axle; a deuce coupe sporting flames, a big V8, and chrome-reversed rims; numerous dragsters; and some really outlandish customs reshaped with body putty and gleaming with metal-flake paint jobs. Here I was participating right along with these other talented craftsmen.
I stood back to let some other kids ogle at the models. Eager to hear what they were saying about the entrants, I leaned a little closer.

“Look at that Chevy, man!”
“Wow! And, look at those flames?”
“Yeah, Cool!”

Apparently, these guys knew what was hip, and for a few minutes, I listened to them, noting their admiration for some of the more special cars in the case. Then it turned ugly:

“Oh, man! Look at that piece of crap!” “ He didn’t even paint it!”

I knew immediately what they were talking about; mine was the only unpainted model in the contest. I could have died. The only thing I wanted was to get the hell out of there. I waited in agony until they left, made some excuse to the store clerk, withdrew my entry, and dragged my pitiful, sorry ass home.

It was a hard lesson in self-pity, but in a dual state of distress and denial, I logically shifted the blame onto the model, and it was going to have to pay the ultimate price for my failure. Forming a one-man firing squad, my sullen footsteps sounding a death march, I took the condemned out to the alley. Placing it on the killing ground, I measured off ten paces, and, without remorse on my part, I pumped it full of BBs.

In my rage and shame, wishing to wipe away any trace of the crime, I doused the shattered carcass with lighter fluid and torched it. In a cloud of black smoke worthy of a refinery blaze, the 1960 Ford Sunliner winged its way into the evening air and was no more.

I built other models following that episode, but once I obtained a driver’s license, I put plastic and glue aside in favor of full scale pursuits. It wasn’t until many years later, on a whim, that I took up the hobby again. Three to six month’s work go into today’s efforts. There is a rewarding satisfaction to be gained from the careful research, patient planning, painting, and assembling of scale models. Though The Smithsonian employs highly skilled professionals building displays that are a real objects d’art, but I do it for my own amusement. I am happy to report my receipt of 13 first-place results, 7 seconds, and a 4 thirds over a two year period. Oh, yes, that includes two “Best Paint in Show” awards. So, there!

I do wonder how I will react if one of the mints produces a 1960 Ford, and, if I bought one, will I have any dark urges? I can tell you this, however; every time I see a full-size ‘60 Ford, I want to ram the bastard.

Danbury Mint’s 1:24 1968 Bullitt Mustang

2008-09-14T06:36:00.000-07:00

How well does it compare with the real car?

Before I begin I want make it abundantly clear how very much I like this little green car. It was very apparent that some mint or another would produce it. There was a time when it was believed GMP would create this icon, but, as it turned out, it fell to Danbury Mint. And I couldn’t be happier. With its introduction we are assured of more scale ’67 and ’68 Mustangs of an extremely high caliber.

A while ago I researched and wrote an article on the subject of the Hollywood film Bullitt and, specifically, Steve McQueen’s car(s). More than just watch the movie and comment on what I saw, I traced the two Mustangs from their purchase by the studio, modifications made to them, their differences, and ultimate fates. In the process I gained enough knowledge to sufficiently compare those real Mustangs with this latest diecast version. (I also wish to point out that I owned a ’67 and a ’68 Mustang GT fastback, both when new.) Here, then, is my take:

Body: The proportions look dead on. In profile the car appears exactly as the real ’68 fastback with the possible exception of the cowl height. To my eye it is ever so slightly too low. All other aspects of the body shape are excellent.

Windows: Windows, Bob? Yes. It’s a minor thing, but I do look for this on any model Mustang – the faint, thin line that runs down the middle of the backlight. No one, to my knowledge, has modeled this.

Trim: DM continues to excel at trim and badging, and this car is a fine example. No silver paint here; everything is chrome. One area that deserves special notice is the grill opening. Here, inside of the chrome surround, Danbury has correctly applied argent paint as used on the 1:1 cars. DM excels at headlight lenses, and these are among the best ever. Two items could have been modeled differently: 1) the real front side marker light lenses were clear with amber bulbs. DM’s version gives the impression that it has an amber lens. And, 2) the windshield frame is at least half again as thick as should be.

The cars of Bullitt, for whatever reason, had various bright trim pieces painted body color: the rocker panel moldings, quarter panel trim, rear side markers, headlight and taillight bezels were all painted Highland green. DM did omit the F-O-R-D and M-U-S-T-A-N-G letters from the hood and trunk, and rightly so; however, their quarter panel trim has no green paint. Also, I would have gone with the standard, non-GT gas cap with a black painted center.

DM could have placed the antenna on the right rear fender. The chase-scene car shows it located there. The square side view mirror was replaced with a round unit painted black, and DM matches it, but it should be farther down on the door.

Wheels / Tires: I do wish it were easier for the mints to duplicate sidewall detail on tires. There must be some licensing issues, but hasn’t DM made Firestone tires already? These tires are painfully plain to the extent that they look like inner tubes. The American Torq-Thrust wheels are nicely done yet have three detractions: 1) the outer portion of the rim is too flat, that is, the concentric ring just inside the outer edge should be set deeper; 2) the Torq-Thrust wheels were not chromed, but had a machined, satin finish—like, well, like those on the movie car; and 3) the spokes could have been a slightly lighter shade of charcoal than these appear to be. Not the light-grey style, but not quite so black like these.

Interior: When I peer through the doors and windows of the DM car, I am taken back four decades to a time when I sat behind the wheel of a ’68 Mustang. The seats, dash, instrument bezels, air extractors, window and door bits, door sills, shifter, and chrome-trimmed pedals are extraordinary. This is really a tour-de-force in modeling.

There are three interior items I cannot verify – the speaker grill trim with reflectors on the lower, inner door panels and the two consoles. The optional Interior Décor Group would include those door pieces plus a roof console, but not the floor console. It’s unclear whether the roof console was removed for the movie. At any rate, there is none in the diecast. I saw no evidence of a floor console while watching the film. Perhaps all future DM Mustangs will have a floor console.

I am very familiar with the steering wheel of the Bullitt car. I had the same Nardi unit in my ’68 Mustang, although Tony Nancy didn’t cover mine with black leather. Both mine and movie car had the gold and black Shelby center horn button. This scale steering wheel here is an altogether different unit. I do recognize it as that found in the car of David Kunz, whose replica of the Bullitt Mustang is well-known and widely photographed. Original Nardi wheels go for up to $5,000 today, or you could always buy a whole ’67 Shelby Mustang—it was standard on those GT 350s and 500s.

Undercarriage: I cannot swear to the accuracy of the motor. The movie car had modification, but all those mentioned were internal. I don’t believe it had a blue alternator, though. The export braces are Ford items. For all I know that’s all that was added to beef up the front end. DM correctly eliminated the muffler, leaving just the resonators. I may apply some darker paint to the exhaust tips to better replicate those of McQueen’s car. This car sits a little low in front. You should easily be able to see the tread at the top of the tire from the side view.

Well, it sounds like I found a lot to complain about, but these few nits are not deal killers. They’re just minor differences that take nothing away from the overall excellence of DM’s effort. One thing is for certain—when I look into the display case all I see is the best Bullitt Mustang in scale, and I thank the folks at Danbury Mint for making it possible.

Afterthought: Although this article concentrates on the Mustang, I owned a ’69 Charger R/T when the movie premiered. While watching the DVD again to check my Ford facts, I did confirm one suspicion about the Charger. On the movie Dodge the ‘Charger’ script on the back panel (shown below), between the taillights, has the ‘g’ centered under the trunk lock rather than shoved over to the left as here.

Update:

Since its introduction, Danbury’s Bullitt Mustang has undergone a minor revision. The antenna has been relocated to right rear fender – a good move. More troubling are the changes in the suspension. First, both front and rear wheels have been moved slightly back in relation to the wheel openings. This lends an unnatural look to the stance. Second, the front of the car sits even lower than before. If anything, it should have been raised. This is the most obvious and the most egregious error which first appeared on DM’s red ’67 Mustang convertible. The third alteration is a now almost total lack of suspension movement. I am not beholden to working suspension – they give rise to the problems that plague the DM ’67-’68 Mustangs. DM’s white ’71 Hemi Cuda dispenses with articulated suspension and benefits greatly. I hope it’s a trend – a trend that came too late for this Mustang.

The Bullitt Mustang

2008-09-14T06:24:00.000-07:00

In the fall of 1968, Warner Bothers/Seven Arts released the movie “Bullitt” staring Steve McQueen that set a standard for realism which was a high-water mark in filmmaking for years. With the star-status leverage he was enjoying at the time, McQueen was able to fulfill his vision of the most violent, realistic and dangerous chase scene ever attempted. The objective was to make Bullitt as real as possible. Real doctors and nurses were used, for example, in the hospital scenes, which were filmed in a real hospital. And so, the car chase would be shot on actual city streets, not some Hollywood back lot. It is a tribute to McQueen's persuasiveness and credibility that the city of San Francisco agreed to the mayhem he proposed creating on its streets.

The chase scene lasted about 10 minutes and took two weeks to film. The drivers reached speeds of over a hundred miles an hour on the streets of San Francisco, with Bullitt in his Highland Green 1968 GT Ford Mustang chasing the hit men in their Black 1968 Dodge Charger 440 R/T.
The chase scene was not sped up to give the false impression of speed, and there were no speedometer shots to "prove" that it was a high-speed pursuit. Instead, director Peter Yates and cinematographer William Fraker used their considerable combined experience, along with the latest technology of the era, to put the realism of the chase right in our faces. The combination of Steve McQueen at the pinnacle of his popularity, the believability of the footage shot in one of America’s most beautiful and dramatic cities, with some of the hottest cars from Detroit at the height of the muscle car era, make this, almost 40 years later, the reigning number-one Hollywood car chase movie.

8R02S125558, a.k.a., The Bullitt Mustang – air born

The Cars

Whether the choice of the Mustang was McQueen's idea or not is unclear. All we do know for certain is that two of them were bought for the movie; both were fastbacks with consecutive VIN codes (8R02S125558 & 8R02S125559 – the surviving car). The cars were painted Highland green with black interiors and came with the following equipment: Interior Decor Group, also known as deluxe interior, comprised of a wood grain dashboard, shift knob, and steering wheel, special door trim, an overhead console with map lights. Other options were the fold-down rear seat, tachometer, and clock; GT Equipment Package which came with C-stripe, fog lamps, GT emblem on fenders, GT pop-open gas cap, GT letters on hubcaps, heavy duty suspension, stiffer front and rear springs, larger front and rear shock absorbers, larger diameter front stabilizer, dual exhausts with chrome "quad" outlets, and tachometer; a louvered hood; and the 390 cid 4bbl motor which came with a chrome dress-up kit. Steering was manual, not power assisted.

The movie was filmed during May 1968. By noting the style of the rear side marker reflectors on the Mustang(s), one can safely deduce that these were produced prior to April 1968, and more than likely came before the labor strike in the fall of 1967. It is understood Ford changed the reflectors during the strike. As the antenna is placed on the right rear fender, this indicates a dealer installation of the radio. An interpretation of the VIN codes could clear up these questions.

Pre-battle damage

Veteran race driver and builder Max Balchowski was enlisted to modify the cars for the rigors of the high-speed pursuit scenes. Balchowski added GR70 radial tires on 15x7 American Racing Torque Thrusts wheels, and, at the request of McQueen, a '67 Shelby Mustang wood wheel, covered in black leather (Nardi unit, custom covered with leather by Steve’s friend Tony Nancy), heavier duty springs, Koni racing shocks, and fabricated reinforcing braces for the inner fenders. He also did some minor tuning to the 390-cubic-inch 4V engine for a little more top-end power, like jetting the carb and re-curving the distributor advance. One Mustang was modified with extra welding, bracing and engine work to handle all of the heavy abuse - the jumping and crashing - while the other was used mostly during the high-speed scenes. Although we can see boxed-steel framing underneath the Mustangs, this framing was actually installed to support camera and lighting equipment for the interior shots. Both cars reportedly had roll-bar cages. The exhaust system consisted of just the resonators and two un-chromed, straight pipes exiting out the back. The transverse muffler was removed. The sound of the car as it leaves the car wash, prior to the chase is real; for the chase scene, recordings of a Ford GT-40’s engine, gear changes, and exhaust were dubbed over that of the Mustang in post-production.

Several pieces were removed from the cars, including the driving lights, running pony grille emblem, Mustang lettering, backup lights, the C-stripes, and even the GT badges. Some modifications were most curious: The sill moldings, quarter panel trim, headlight and taillight bezels were painted body color. The stock, square side view mirror was replaced with a round, black-painted unit. The center of the gas cap was painted black, as well.

In spite of research that showed the two Mustangs were identical when ordered, there is the mystery of why the cars appeared to be so different throughout the film. For instance, one had the GT Equipment Group and one did not. This would have meant that the emblems, grilles, gas caps, exhaust tips, and other important details would have been different on both cars. One had a rear GT valance with exhaust cut-outs, and, confusingly, one did not.

Filming

Steve McQueen did most of the actual driving in the sequence, but Bud Elkins, a professional stunt driver, performed all of the jumps in the chase. Carey Loftin, who was in charge of all the stunts, wrestled the Mustang across the road at the end. If McQueen can be seen in the car or in the rear view mirror, he was the driver. At first McQueen attempted to drive the Mustang himself, but he was no stuntman. After overshooting a couple of corners, he quit in disgust and gave the car back to Ekins. Yet the sequence where McQueen overshoots the corner and smokes his tires wildly is included in Bullitt - it was so realistic McQueen could not bring himself to leave it out.

Of the two Mustangs, the designated jump car received so much abuse that it was scrapped after filming. At one point the movie viewer sees the engine oil explode from under the car as the pan was ripped open on a particularly hard landing. Mechanics welded it up that night and shooting resumed, but liability issues force the car’s eminent destruction.

History & Myth

After production was finished, the second car was sold to Robert Ross, an employee of Warner Bros. A friend of his, who drove the car at the time says, "The car was not at all beat up like you might imagine," he recalled, "it was very nice because it had not been abused like the Mustang that did all of the jumping. It was a fun car to drive, very powerful but also very squirrelly."

After only a year or so, Ross sold the car to a policeman on the East Coast. Two years later the car was sold again. In 1972, a 24-year-old man got the bargain of a lifetime when he happened upon the Bullitt car, with documentation, for what he says was "an unbelievably low price." He still owns the car, but has not seen it for many years, as it is stored in a relative’s garage several states away. He is not a hardcore Mustang enthusiast and tells us that his initial interest in the car was a combination of the low asking price and the fact that Steve McQueen had driven it. The VIN code, 8R02S125559, appears on his registration.

The current owner has made no changes to the car but it was equipped with an aftermarket shifter and non-stock steering wheel when he bought it 1972, and that's exactly how it sits now, with approximately 40,000 miles on the odometer. "Otherwise," he told us, "the engine compartment, interior and paint all look original."

Despite the fact that he doesn't get to drive it much any more, he insists that it will never be for sale. Steve McQueen himself tried to buy it back in 1977, but the owner had already promised that it would not leave the family, flattered though he was by the offer.

What are his plans for the car? Does he foresee a restoration? Steve McQueen's request not to restore the car matches his own feelings about keeping it in original movie condition. He says that the fastback is protected from the elements and should be well-preserved for years to come.

Epilogue

The enduring scenes of the evil Charger and the powerful Mustang have etched themselves into film making history. The sequences were the brain child of Steve McQueen; he knew what he wanted and how he wanted it to appear on film. No one has duplicated the electricity or the savage ferocity that manifested itself in Bullitt chase scenes, and it's doubtful any one ever will.

References

David Kunz (published in Mustang & Fords Nov 99)
Anthony Bologna (published in Mustang & Fords Nov 99)
Brad Bowling (published in Mustang Illustrated Apr 90)
Joe Scalzo (published in Car Life Aug 69)
Susan Encinas (published in Muscle Car Review Mar 87)
Ford Motor Company

Triumph Bonneville

2008-09-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

The first diecast I bought was the Franklin Mint 1969 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle in 2001. The diecast cars would have to wait another three years. At $135, the entry fee seemed pretty steep to a plastic model builder, but I was not going to pass this up. It is as close as I could get to the real 1970 Bonneville of my younger days. As a diecast, this motorcycle fulfills its purpose perfectly as an evocative symbol of times past.

I bought a motorcycle to alleviate the loss of thrills and speed in my life after I sold my last factory hot rod. As the curtain drew closed on the sixties, the reality of higher insurance, police crackdowns, and government regulations foretold the end of the muscle car era for my generation of motor heads. My somewhat rebellious nature landed me in a quick succession of Volkswagens. Yet, a year and a half into this sabbatical, and not long after the movie “Easy Rider” came out, I got it in my head to go two wheeling.

In the spring of 1970 I walked into Henderson Motorcycles (NW Detroit) and laid down $1,350 on a new 650 Bonneville. Until that day, I had only been on the back of a Honda Dream – once – some five years prior. I knew nothing of how they worked, how to operate the controls, nada. With the paperwork out of the way, I sauntered over to the parts counter, assuming I would at least need a helmet and gloves. Fortunately for me, Ken Henderson, the owner, overheard me ask, “Is there anything else I need?” He, no doubt, had seen it many times before: a novice or, worse yet, a pretender rolls in like Captain America, and ends up a statistic. Getting right to the point, and leaving no room for any b.s. from me, he said, rhetorically,

”You don’t know how to ride, do you.”

“No, - Sir.”

Directly across the street, there was a little-used park with a paved circular path just perfect for learning how to start, stop, turn – a motorcycle rider’s course, if you will. It did help to know how to ride a bicycle and work a car’s clutch. I got the hang of it in short order, and Ken deemed me safe enough to cut loose. Now I was ready to head on down the long, lonesome highway. Better top off the tank first. Working at a Union gas station, only a half mile away, was my friend Larry. He and I showed off all our new vehicles to each other, so this would be my first stop for some petrol and bragging. The problem was negotiating the eight lanes of Telegraph Avenue at the height of Friday night rush hour; even the smaller cars loomed large and menacing when in motion.

Relieved to have survived even that short trek, I pulled up to the pumps, doffed the helmet and pulled out a much needed smoke. Larry came rushing out, looking very displeased. Imagine my chagrin when he unceremoniously yanked the cigarette away before I could light it – right next to the gas pumps. What a dope! I never made that mistake again.

My 1970 Triumph Bonneville

The thing about motorcycles is the power-to-weight ratio. In the case of the relatively light Triumph, each of the 54 horses has only to accelerate seven pounds of bike. Any car with a ratio under 10 to 1 is mighty fast. Unlike cars, motorcycles shake themselves apart; you have to tighten things up periodically, as I found out after losing the side cover one day. And, even medium-sized dogs pose the same mortal threat, proportionally, as a moose does to, say, a pickup truck. Another characteristic or two about Triumphs in particular: they never start on the first kick, if they don’t start on the second kick, they never will, and they will always leak oil – just a drop or so, but – always. Oh, yes, one more thing. Most worthwhile girls are thrilled with a spirited ride or two, but it’s not enough to win them forever.

My favorite old flame first put her arms around me during a bike ride. Girls had to hold on, you know. And Wendy Baker, a sweet, leggy strawberry blond, who was my date for my brother’s wedding, almost lost her blouse during a short 100+ mph blast down the interstate. I was unfortunately consumed with driving and missed the whole show. Then there was Melinda Pemberton. I only knew her for a few years. She was the rival, of sorts, of my one-time girlfriend, Linda. The two were classmates as high school seniors; one just as lovely as the other. The way thing stood at the time, I considered myself lucky to have Linda, but I always thrilled at the sight of Miss Pemberton. It was on a bike trip a couple of years later that I ran into her again.

The July Fourth weekend was coming up when Denton (I don’t remember his first name, but his father owned Denton Buick) and I, eager for an adventure, planned a bike trip. This was to be a 200 mile ride from Detroit to Saugatuck, a normally sleepy resort town on the shores of Lake Michigan. This was quite a daunting trek for basically a car guy. Early Saturday afternoon we headed out, my Triumph and Denton’s BSA making for an all-English caravan. We did not travel very far beyond the Detroit city limits before trouble ensued.

I only laid the bike down once while I owned it, and it was for no explainable reason. Approaching a left-hand curve on a two lane road with no traffic in sight, I just lost the will to turn with the road. Next, I was on the shoulder, in gravel, heading for the guard rail. At the last second, I came to my senses and whipped the handle bars to the left. Suddenly, everything went silent. I was on my side in a cloud of brown dust. Denton rolled up, jumped off, expecting the worst, but - I was unhurt; not so much as a scratch. I still have the T-shirt, full of holes from the fall, as a souvenir and reminder of the good luck (touch wood) that accompanies me during my many near-disasters. Apparently I got the bike slowed down enough so that when I laid it on its side, the left foot peg just dug in and spun me 180 degrees. The throttle cable was kind of messed up, but a little masking tape put things back in working order, and we continued on. What a stud! If that happened today, I’d be crying for my mother.

I must have missed the bit about Saugatuck being a gathering place for bikers on July 4th weekends. We rolled into the town after sundown to find all the rooms taken. Every motel was stuffed with motorcycles, mostly all Harleys. OK, no problem, as we had sleeping bags and only needed to get a little out of town to camp in the woods. What good fortune to see a sign pointing to a monastery down a narrow dirt road lined with tall pines. After a short distance, the trees gave way to clearing with the monastery just beyond the little valley at our feet. We rolled the now-silent bikes down the slope to a large teepee, and spent the night in relative comfort, dry and bug-free. Before dawn we packed out only to return an hour later for a free meal and a shower.

Quite unexpectedly, Denton and I ran into, of all people, Melinda and a friend. I don’t know if it was the relative comfort of familiar faces in an unfamiliar place, maybe the sociable atmosphere of the holiday, or our newly-endowed coolness with motorcycles, but fate dealt a good hand that day as we shared their camp fire and each other’s company. As Denton and the other girl hit it off, Melinda and I cycled around the nearby country side, taking in the tranquil forests and picture-perfect farms on that idyllic summer afternoon.

There were many family farms throughout the area, some of which sold fresh vegetables. And, what could be better than roasted sweet corn? The first roadside stand we passed was closed, but we rudely interrupted the family’s dinner and talked them into selling us 18 ears. Laughing at our boldness, we roared off down the road toward the setting sun, back to the campgrounds and a star-filled night full of wonderful, future memories.

This is really the best part of mementos such as diecasts, is it not? Revisiting the past through these metal amulets, these tokens of a bygone era when most of our days were still before us. We are taken back to a time when life was a joy ride through an almost infinite array of adventures, thrills and temptations.

I sold the Bonneville the very next spring. Coincidentally, it was the end of the line for Triumph, as well. The year I got into motorcycles, Honda and Kawasaki introduced sophisticated machines that foretold the demise of the classic British bike and would even send H-D reeling. One year was enough for me to experience the thrill and excitement of two-wheeling, but I do love my comforts, and motorcycles are not comfortable. You are subject and vulnerable to the elements: rain, cold, bugs, winter. No one rides a bike in the winter in Michigan. It is put away, and it eats at you, just sitting in the garage for months on end. Needing something to counter the VW I still drove, I bought my roommate’s 1967 Austin Healey 3000. At least it had a top and a heater – and it was English.

Other than a couple of BMWs and Indians, Franklin Mint markets primarily Harley-Davidson in 1:10 scale, except for this lone Triumph. As I stated, the FM is one year off from my original, yet when I look at it, play with it, in the back of my mind I hear the distinctive sound of the vertical twin, the clunk of the gears, the roar of the exhaust as I blast down some winding blacktop on a beautiful Indian summer day, scattering golden leaves in the wake of my memories.

The Franklin Mint's 1:10 1969 Triumph Bonneville

1961 Ferrari 250 GT SWB

2008-09-13T11:38:00.000-07:00

When CMC released its beautiful representation of this notable Ferrari, I was inspired to make some statement about the car. For those unfamiliar with this particular Italian icon, here is a brief history and description of one of the most sought after cars in the world.

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Ferrari automobiles are unlike any other cars on Earth. This is a bit of an understatement considering that the company and its founder are unique in the extreme. Enzo Ferrari’s prime motivation was to build race cars and win. The production and sale of road cars was only tolerated to help finance the various racing programs; this is the opposite of every other successful factory team. Up through the early sixties, virtually all road-going cars were based on race cars. The engine, drive line, and chassis were fundamentally track items detuned, re-geared, and beefed up for practicality and longevity. This practice reached its high point with the development of the 250 GT street cars.

Based on the Tour de France, first developed in 1957, all subsequent cars of this lineage used the Colombo-designed V-12 of 3.0 liters with overhead cams and multiple carburetors. The bodies were penned by Pininfarina and assembled by Scaglietti. At the 1959 Paris Auto Show Ferrari introduced a shortened version of this line. For production, the 250 GT Short Wheelbase (SWB) or Berlinetta, was built on an even more abbreviated 94.5 inch, 18 year old GT chassis. Available in both competition and street versions, either could be used for either purpose. The street car, known as the Lusso (luxury), was to be powered by a 220 -240 bhp engine enclosed in a steel body with aluminum trunk lid, hood and doors. New to Ferrari were tubular shocks and Dunlap disc brakes at all four corners. Power was delivered through a 4-speed, fully-synchronized transmission and limited-slip differential.

The shape styled by Sergio Pininfarina was a masterpiece: aesthetically simple, clean and balanced, even after 45 years. The forward thrust of the eggcrate grill that blends into the smooth, rounded form at the rear is an uncanny combination of aggression and restraint that perfectly expressed the car’s dual purpose. Although the body was not particularly aerodynamic, the Berlinetta excelled at both track and road course events. Famed driver, Augie Pabst, praised the SWB as both predictable and reliable, two virtues he deemed necessary in a winning car.

These were the epitome of grand touring cars for their time. Race-based and bred, outfitted with leather and carpet for touring, the 250 GT SWB was the last car of its kind from Ferrari, fully competitive in either environment. It culminated in its final form as the full-out racer car, the GTO, only 39 of which were ever constructed. All subsequent production for street and track took different paths. Race cars progressed to a mid-engine layout with the 250 LM, and street cars diverged with the svelte, comfort-first 275 GTB.

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The preceding description of the actual, historical car serves, perhaps, to explain why CMC has chosen to model this Ferrari 250 GT Berlinetta passo corto. Although no two vehicles were built with identically specifications and details, this particular image is most assuredly representative of Modena’s ultimate Grandturisimo. Hand-built from 1,141 individual parts, perfectly proportioned, highly detailed, and finished in the most glorious, smooth red paint, it is the reigning king of my diecast collection.

Lithe, powerful lines with spare, tasteful details are a hallmark of the SWB. This is the classic example of the “long hood, short rear deck” body style still employed by designers to this day. The line flows back from the predominate headlights, arcing over the jaunty cut of the wheel openings to the start of the rear quarter panels. Rising again, it passes over the rear wheels, the shape attaining a muscularity which then falls off down to the bumper. This would be the last Ferrari body to feature this rounded tail element. The duck-tail spoiler of the GTO would gain favor until the 365 GTB Daytona in the late sixties.

At no point is the roof level; in profile it drops off immediately, across the backlight, down the trunk lid to the very back. The angle of the windshield is repeated from the A-pillar, vent frame and to the door line. The forward thrust of the grill and front fascia is reflected along the flanks by way of the back of both wheel openings, the two air extractors, and the rear end. Below the beltline everything leans into the wind, while the whole greenhouse slants backward. These two disparate halves of the car are tied only by the rear line of the door opening, and it is enough, for Pininfarina had achieved magic.

Hood, doors, and trunk all open to reveal the spectacular detail and sumptuous interior. The doors spring shut, so getting them open again, tugging gently on the handles, requires some nerve. All the panels open wide and stay open. An actual screen is used in the hood scoop. Taillights, turn signals, reflectors and driving lights are jewel-like, although the headlights are a bit milky. Photo-etched pieces provide realism for the Ferrari lettering, emblem, and prancing horse, as well as Pininfarina’s logo on the lower front fender.

Note the exquisite window framing and beautiful wood steering wheel. Door panel details include marvelous handles, window cranks, vent window latches, and usable map pockets. Black weather striping surrounds the door opening. Black leather tops the door panels and covers the dash. The instrument panel displays readable gauges and the various knobs and toggle switches of the prototype. Sun visors may be flipped down. The rear package shelf sports leather straps for luggage.

A comparison with the 1:1 car is cause for confusion. Which is which? All the underhood components, tubes, wire, clamps and labels are replicated in scale, location and color. The most prominent feature is the exquisite air cleaner covering three Weber 36 DCL carbs, followed by the correct, crinkle-finish cam covers. From there, the list is endless: throttle linkage, fuel lines, washer bag with clear line, ribbed flex tube for fresh air, original orange shocks, dual horns, copper radiator overflow tube, heater hoses, hydraulic reservoirs, alternator bracket, data plate, and every tube, wire, clamp, clip, and doodad Ferrari ever engineered.

Although even road-going Berlinettas had full aluminum belly pans, I am glad the CMC car is modeled with it removed. Take note of the plethora of lines and clamps. The polished leaf springs are correct for this car – even street cars shared the race version’s low-friction springs.

What would a Ferrari be without a set of Borrani wheels? These CMC wire wheels raise the bar to almost impossible heights for anyone else attempting to model a Ferrari. No plain black wall tires here; these are Michelin X Radials. The knockoff unscrew, allowing removal of tires and wheels to reveal precision Dunlap calipers and discs. Any one have a tire pressure gauge?

The real thing

If you had the means, one of the approximately 170 full-size SWB’s could be yours for a princely sum. On June 28, 2005, a pristine 250 SWB Berlinetta sold for $1,328,000. If that is too rich for your blood, I strongly suggest moving quickly to get the CMC model before they are gone. Then you, too, can experience the mystique that is Ferrari.

Road Trip

2008-09-13T06:38:00.000-07:00

Road trips can be the ultimate car experience. Living with and relying on a car for extended periods can be both fulfilling and scary. Although this is a personal recollection, it’s meant to evoke an inner reflection for the reader. The call of the open road is something we have all heard and yearn to answer.

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Pity the individual whose driving is confined to commuting to work and back, or just going to the mall. That is not what cars are for. Cars are meant for travel, for discovery, for adventure. It is human nature to be curious, to seek out new experiences, to reach beyond the bounds of everyday routines. From a very early age I felt the call of the open road, wondering what was over the horizon. Not long after I learned to stay up on a bicycle, I rode 12 blocks to the next main thoroughfare and stared across it to the other side, wondering what was over there. As I got older I continued west until I eventually reached the edge of the continent. Today I drive very little; my commute is on a huge ferry boat, and the Jeep sits unused five days a week. With the high cost of gas, repairs, insurance, and so many nuts on the road, I am, for the moment, quite content with this arrangement. But it was not always this way.

“Don’t be too anxious to put miles on it,” my dad said when I got my first new car, a 1967 Mustang.

“Sure, Dad,” I lied, and over the next twelve months I ran up 33,000 miles on that odometer. During the following thirty years I drove enough to go to the moon and back many times over: trips to Florida, to California and back a half dozen times, down into Mexico, nine trips deep into the Colorado Plateau.

We have all taken long car trips, and your first ones, like mine, were probably during summer vacations with parents. I learned much that was useful watching, listening and learning from my dad: how to prepare the car; what tools and spares to take along; how to read a map, plan a route and follow highway signs. When stopping for a meal, he parked where he could keep an eye on the car. I learned how to predict dips in the road by the dark spots on the pavement. (Drips of oil poised to fall from loose drain plugs are dislodged by the sudden downward movement of the car hitting a dip.) We all learned how to judge passing distance years before we could drive. I learned how to duck when dad reached around to smack me. While trying not to fidget, I acquired much of value from those long trips, lessons that would serve me well when I finally took the wheel.

I came of age at a particularly propitious time; we early boomers enjoyed the combined fruits of plentiful good-paying jobs, the dawn of the muscle car era, cheap gas and a nearly completed interstate highway system. It was uncommon but not unheard of for a few guys to pile in a car and head out of state. I would perk up my ears to these tales of adventure. A case in point was the three neighborhood guys who drove to California in a ’62 Ford Galaxy with a 406 engine. I knew about it at the time; it was legendary and I envied that freedom. This occurred while I was still in high school without a car. I was impatient to stretch my own legs.

In late 1967 I had my first solo, cross-country opportunity when I turned my wheels west to follow the Mother Road. Picking up Route 66 up in Joliet, IL, I had every intention of making my own journey to the coast. On a gray December morning in Springfield, Illinois I had stopped for gas. The attendant, after seeing the tri-power engine, closed the hood of the Mustang and asked where I was headed. “California,” I replied. “Well, you’ll get a chance to open up the throttle in Nevada,” he advised me. “There are no speed limits.” Oh, yeah.

I only got as far as Oklahoma City, then south to the Gulf Coast of Texas on that aborted first attempt, but many more trips were to follow. One did finally bring me to the western terminus of Rte. 66 at the Santa Monica Pier. But, it was out on the two-lane blacktops where I felt most alive, most liberated, most vulnerable to the unknowns of strange places, people, and circumstances, like that time when crossing Wyoming.

In the spring of 1975 I was returning to California from the Kentucky Derby. Having originally grown up in Detroit, where Louisville was only six hours away, it had become a tradition for as many as 20 of us to zip down I-75 during the night arriving in Louisville in time for breakfast. We would then spend the rest of the morning and afternoon on the infield grass at Churchill Downs enjoying ourselves. I had missed the greatest Derby ever in 1974 when Secretariat set the track record on his way to the Triple Crown. I was determined to join the other 120 thousand revelers singing “My Old Kentucky Home” and share a mint julep with my friends once again.

Some of the gang at Churchill Downs - 1975

This particular pilgrimage was to cover 7,400 miles across 16 states. The return trip would take me from Kentucky out to Seattle then south back to California. I had spent the second night in a really cheap ($5/night) motel in Sundance, WY as a fierce storm passed through. The converted house trailer (I did say cheap) rattled and shook, waking me often with visions of Wizard of Oz-type flights. Indeed, the storm moved east hammering Omaha with five tornados. In the morning I continued west under ominous skies and intermittent heavy rains. My unfortunate ride was a ’71 Mercury Capri, the German import with a 2.0 liter English Ford engine and a four speed. Small, economical – yes. Parts availability in Pickup-Truck-Land, as I soon would learn – poor. Still, I had no obvious reason for alarm as I flew west on Route 20 across the Bighorn Basin and on toward Cody.
Now, there had been construction on this two-lane highway until the weather put a halt to any more work. It was difficult to see as the poor wipers were barely keeping up with the downpour. I could barely make out a sign that read “Pavement Ends” as I shot passed it. Not two seconds later the car headed off into a mixture of red mud and rock that rivaled quicksand. I was in trouble. If I stopped, I was sure the car would sink. The only way to keep moving was to put the transmission in second gear, keep the revs up, and go. It was X-treme mud wrestling. After about a half mile I was relieved to find myself back on pavement, when . . . it happened again. Finally free, with a firm road again under the wheels, I limped down the last stretch to Cody.

The car was covered in sludge with rocks as large as ¾ of an inch. The cowl was two inches deep in this conglomerate, and the poor engine was gasping. Knowing I had to find a repair garage, I was nonetheless too embarrassed to bring it to anyone without hosing the mud off first. To my apparent good fortune, there was a Ford dealer in Cody. I left the car there and took a room at the Irma Hotel, a 1902 structure built by Buffalo Bill and still listed on the National Register of Historic Places. I got a brass bed, pitcher of water, use of the bathroom down the hall, and a good view of the square dancers at the VFW hall across the street – all for $4.00. It would not have seemed out of place to have heard gun shots.

The Irma Hotel - Cody, Wyoming

I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and hopeful of quickly getting back on the road. Not so fast, buckaroo. The Capri had two problems. A broken camshaft belt tensioner allowed the valve timing to be way off – repairable. Worse was a clutch plate now worn, burned, cracked, and not in stock. I could wait there in Cody, or limp up to Billings, the largest city in Montana. I chose Billings over common sense.

Just take it easy, I told my self. I had driven cars with slipping clutches before, but that was back east where the land is flat. It went well at first, accelerating down one hill and letting the car bleed off speed near the top of the next. Then I encountered an elderly driver in an Oldsmobile who liked his cruise control. As I pulled out to pass, the road started uphill again. I only managed to pull even with him before dropping back. Each of the three times this happened, he gave me increasingly bemused looks. I should have put him in the ditch.

Eventually I did make it to the Ford Dealer in Billings only to be reminded that I drove a Mercury product. The Mercury dealer informed me that a clutch would have to be sent from Great Falls via Greyhound bus. I would be in Billings longer than I thought, but there would be no more cheap motels for me. I took a room in the Northern Hotel, at that time the tallest building in the city, probably the state. After settling in, I went down to the restaurant for a late lunch. Wondering how to amuse myself while being waylaid, I asked the waitress what there was to do within walking distance. She rattled off some bar names, all of which sounded rather “western” in flavor –The Spur, The Silver Dollar – see what I mean? So I said, “I’ll never be able to find them. Why don’t you show me?”

“Okay. I get off in fifteen minutes.” Just like that.

Mary Peters (I kid you not) was from Kalispell, MT, just west of the Montana Rockies, but had come to Billings to find work. The state had an abundance of three resources: oil, minerals, and cattle, and this largest city held the best employment prospects. Thus it was that we ran into each other, two travelers open to the other’s company. You have to be prepared when traveling, prepared to take on some cowboy bars and the cowgirls who frequent them.

Road Warrior, Lite

The Greyhound arrived, repairs were made, and goodbyes were said. On the third day I continued west on I-90 all the way to Seattle arriving on a Saturday night. I had to pick up some materials for my employer, but that would have to wait until the store open on Monday. I whiled away that Sunday driving around the Olympic Peninsula adding hundreds of more miles to the trip. Finally, seventeen days after I began, I pulled up to my house in Central California. Later that summer I moved up to San Francisco and lived for a time with three young women on Haight Street. Shortly thereafter Mary came to stay for three months. You don’t get that sitting at home.

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If you are thinking I obsess over the details of the past, consider this:

This trip covered 7,389 miles; averaged 434 miles per day; consumed 7 quarts of oil and 246.9 gallons of gas for $144.90 and the Capri got 29.9 mpg. So, there!

You pull out of your driveway thinking about your final destination only to realize that it is the journey that matters. There is a life waiting out there on the road, unanticipated experiences that take precedence over the end points. I do not recall who won the Kentucky Derby that year or the goods I picked up in Seattle, but the images and moments of Wyoming and Montana are always just below the surface, easily retrieved for stories like this, for those times when the pavement ends, or perhaps when I see a cowboy bar. Today, as I think about going back to Michigan to visit my parents, I dread the prospect of flying. Where is the fun in that? The last time I flew back to Detroit, 9/11 occurred. I think driving will be a more satisfying way to make the trip. Gas prices be damned, there is still a lot of wonderful country to explore and places to visit, like in Hall City, SD, just west of Mt. Rushmore, where you can get the best homemade rhubarb pie in the world.