John: “Hey Bill, how much are you asking for that old Falcon?”
Bill: “$100 bucks”
John: “I only have $50 bucks right now.”
Bill: “Ok, give me $50 bucks and it’s yours.”
It was the summer of ’65 and I was eighteen. I had just been promoted to apprentice pressman at Utley Brothers. The guys in the shop gave me a certificate declaring that I was now a Printer’s Devil. With that great honor came the grungiest jobs in the plant, but the pay was worth it.
At that time, I was making the princely sum of 90 cents per hour, which I believe was the minimum wage then. Obviously, my father (Bob Utley) did not believe in nepotism. He had already talked me out of several other cars that I would have had to borrow money for. Dad wasn’t very impressed with my shrewd negotiations. When I took him out to see my new beauty, he said; “ I think Bill should have given you $50 bucks to dispose of it.”
OK, it wasn’t the car of my dreams, but it was mine. For several years, I had borrowed my parent’s cars, but those weren’t always available. Now I could come and go as I pleased.
It was a well-used white1960 Ford Falcon that had not been pampered. In fact, it looked like it had been used as a truggy in the Baja 1000 and finished dead last. The odometer froze long ago at 74k. This car had absolutely no amenities, not even have a radio. It had power nothing. It had a six-cylinder engine with a standard shift (3-on-the-tree) and no synchromesh. That means if you wanted to downshift to first gear, first you had to bring the car to a complete stop. The original specs said that it had 90 ponies. But, I think about 40 of those ponies had long since moved out to pasture.
Now, mind you, this bird-of-prey was no chick-magnet, but since I was already dating the prettiest girl in town, it didn’t matter. Actually, the exterior of the Falcon wasn’t all that bad, with some dents and some rust here and there. A few hours with the ball-peen hammer, some Bondo, some white paint, and she was looking pretty good. For good measure I painted a couple of bright blue racing stripes up the hood, over the top, and down the trunk. Magnifico! If you glanced at it quickly enough, you might have mistaken it for something Carroll Shelby had thrown together. Yeah, right!
Eddie Palmer and I spent most of that summer working on the old Falcon. For some reason that I can’t recall, we pulled the engine out of it. As we worked, we put all the parts into a large cardboard box to make sure we didn’t lose anything.
When we put the engine back in and cranked it up, she purred like a kitten. Neither of us were real mechanics, so we just figured we were really smart guys. While we were cleaning up our mess in the garage, we noticed there were four large bolts still in that cardboard box. Well, the car ran beautifully without them, so they must have not been necessary to begin with, right? We tossed the bolts into the trunk and forgot about it.
For several months I drove it back and forth to work and around town without any major problems. Stopping at a red light at the top of a hill was always a challenge. When the light turned green it took some fancy gas and clutch work to get it over the top. Also, it would frequently fail to turn over when I tried to start it. It wasn’t a big problem as long as I remembered to park on a downhill slope. That way I could get it rolling and pop the clutch in second gear to start it. Did I mention the gas gauge didn’t work either? This kind of stuff just added to the adventure of having my own car.
Well, they say; “All good things must come to an end”, and so it was with that old Falcon. Most evenings after dinner, I’d fire up that old bird and go cruisin’ Main Street.
One evening I was tooling through the parking lot at the local Big Boy. I spotted some friends of mine hanging out, pulled in beside them, and shut off the engine. After about 30 minutes of meaningful dialogue with the guys, I decided to head on home. When I got in the Falcon and turned the key, I heard a familiar clicking sound. “Rats!” I was going to need a push to get it started.
“OK Jim, when I’m ready I’ll wave and you back off”. When we got it out onto the street I put the shifter in second gear and shoved the clutch pedal to the floor. Jim pulled his car behind the Falcon and began to push. When he got me up to about 40, I waved, he backed off and I popped the clutch. KABOOM! It was like hitting an invisible brick wall. The Falcon went from 40 to about 10 miles per hour in a split-second. It began to hop violently down the street. I could hear and feel large metal objects hitting the under-carriage. Somehow, I fought it to the shoulder and brought it to a stop.
Steam was rising from the hood. I opened it to find the fan and radiator crushed by the engine, which had been thrust forward. I stood there, dumbfounded, just looking at the mess in the engine bay.
About that time I had an epiphany, actually two. Number one, I had the shifter in reverse, not in second gear. You couldn’t visually tell one from the other. Number two, now I realized what those large bolts were for that I had tossed in the trunk. Those were the bolts that held the engine in place. Incredibly, I had been driving around for months with the engine just sitting there on the frame.
I turned to see (and hear) about two dozens guys in the Big Boy parking lot howling with laughter. One of them was quick to capitalize on my disaster.
Ron: “Hey John, do you think you might want to sell what’s left of that old Falcon”?
Bill: “$100 bucks”
John: “I only have $50 bucks right now.”
Bill: “Ok, give me $50 bucks and it’s yours.”
It was the summer of ’65 and I was eighteen. I had just been promoted to apprentice pressman at Utley Brothers. The guys in the shop gave me a certificate declaring that I was now a Printer’s Devil. With that great honor came the grungiest jobs in the plant, but the pay was worth it.
At that time, I was making the princely sum of 90 cents per hour, which I believe was the minimum wage then. Obviously, my father (Bob Utley) did not believe in nepotism. He had already talked me out of several other cars that I would have had to borrow money for. Dad wasn’t very impressed with my shrewd negotiations. When I took him out to see my new beauty, he said; “ I think Bill should have given you $50 bucks to dispose of it.”
OK, it wasn’t the car of my dreams, but it was mine. For several years, I had borrowed my parent’s cars, but those weren’t always available. Now I could come and go as I pleased.
It was a well-used white1960 Ford Falcon that had not been pampered. In fact, it looked like it had been used as a truggy in the Baja 1000 and finished dead last. The odometer froze long ago at 74k. This car had absolutely no amenities, not even have a radio. It had power nothing. It had a six-cylinder engine with a standard shift (3-on-the-tree) and no synchromesh. That means if you wanted to downshift to first gear, first you had to bring the car to a complete stop. The original specs said that it had 90 ponies. But, I think about 40 of those ponies had long since moved out to pasture.
Now, mind you, this bird-of-prey was no chick-magnet, but since I was already dating the prettiest girl in town, it didn’t matter. Actually, the exterior of the Falcon wasn’t all that bad, with some dents and some rust here and there. A few hours with the ball-peen hammer, some Bondo, some white paint, and she was looking pretty good. For good measure I painted a couple of bright blue racing stripes up the hood, over the top, and down the trunk. Magnifico! If you glanced at it quickly enough, you might have mistaken it for something Carroll Shelby had thrown together. Yeah, right!
Eddie Palmer and I spent most of that summer working on the old Falcon. For some reason that I can’t recall, we pulled the engine out of it. As we worked, we put all the parts into a large cardboard box to make sure we didn’t lose anything.
When we put the engine back in and cranked it up, she purred like a kitten. Neither of us were real mechanics, so we just figured we were really smart guys. While we were cleaning up our mess in the garage, we noticed there were four large bolts still in that cardboard box. Well, the car ran beautifully without them, so they must have not been necessary to begin with, right? We tossed the bolts into the trunk and forgot about it.
For several months I drove it back and forth to work and around town without any major problems. Stopping at a red light at the top of a hill was always a challenge. When the light turned green it took some fancy gas and clutch work to get it over the top. Also, it would frequently fail to turn over when I tried to start it. It wasn’t a big problem as long as I remembered to park on a downhill slope. That way I could get it rolling and pop the clutch in second gear to start it. Did I mention the gas gauge didn’t work either? This kind of stuff just added to the adventure of having my own car.
Well, they say; “All good things must come to an end”, and so it was with that old Falcon. Most evenings after dinner, I’d fire up that old bird and go cruisin’ Main Street.
One evening I was tooling through the parking lot at the local Big Boy. I spotted some friends of mine hanging out, pulled in beside them, and shut off the engine. After about 30 minutes of meaningful dialogue with the guys, I decided to head on home. When I got in the Falcon and turned the key, I heard a familiar clicking sound. “Rats!” I was going to need a push to get it started.
“OK Jim, when I’m ready I’ll wave and you back off”. When we got it out onto the street I put the shifter in second gear and shoved the clutch pedal to the floor. Jim pulled his car behind the Falcon and began to push. When he got me up to about 40, I waved, he backed off and I popped the clutch. KABOOM! It was like hitting an invisible brick wall. The Falcon went from 40 to about 10 miles per hour in a split-second. It began to hop violently down the street. I could hear and feel large metal objects hitting the under-carriage. Somehow, I fought it to the shoulder and brought it to a stop.
Steam was rising from the hood. I opened it to find the fan and radiator crushed by the engine, which had been thrust forward. I stood there, dumbfounded, just looking at the mess in the engine bay.
About that time I had an epiphany, actually two. Number one, I had the shifter in reverse, not in second gear. You couldn’t visually tell one from the other. Number two, now I realized what those large bolts were for that I had tossed in the trunk. Those were the bolts that held the engine in place. Incredibly, I had been driving around for months with the engine just sitting there on the frame.
I turned to see (and hear) about two dozens guys in the Big Boy parking lot howling with laughter. One of them was quick to capitalize on my disaster.
Ron: “Hey John, do you think you might want to sell what’s left of that old Falcon”?
John: “Sure”, I said, “but I want a least $100 bucks for it”.
Ron: “I’ll give you $50 bucks.”
John: “Ok, give me $50 bucks and it’s yours.”
Ron: “I’ll give you $50 bucks.”
John: “Ok, give me $50 bucks and it’s yours.”
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