Miata Chronicles II - Little Old Lady from Pasadena

What was I going to tell his wife? She wasn’t just his wife; she was one of the most respected criminal prosecutors in the state of Michigan. One evening at dinner she shared with me how much she enjoyed her former job as a federal prosecutor. She told me how she loved going up against big drug dealers and their high priced lawyers. And how satisfying it was to break them down, get them the maximum penalty, and strip them of their ill-gotten wealth. Somehow I just couldn’t picture this pretty little woman, who sings like an angel in church, bringing down the kingpins of the drug world.

So yeah, no problem! I’ll just tell her that I killed her husband in the church parking lot and I’m really sorry about it. But, if it’s any consolation, he died a very happy man.

Suddenly, the engine began to rev again. Then he spoke. “John, that’s the first time in over thirty years I’ve seen a tachometer.” I think I actually saw the needle moving. Considering he is blind, that was quite a feat. Feeling great relief that he wasn’t dead, I said, “J.T., you have no idea how happy I am to hear that!”

I guess I should probably give you a little background on J.T. now. I’ve been blessed to know some outstanding people in my life, but J.T. may be one of the most accomplished people I have ever known. A helicopter pilot and decorated war hero, he was shot down twice over Vietnam. The last mission he flew cost him his eyes and almost his life. During his long recovery and numerous surgeries in Washington, DC, he managed to get a law degree at Georgetown University Law School. He went on to be a spokesperson for the White House and a federal prosecutor. For a number of years now, he has been teaching at a local college. He harbors no bitterness towards his former enemies or about the loss of his sight. His humility is nothing less than inspiring.

“Well J.T., let’s rock & roll!” I said. He slipped the shifter into first gear, eased in the throttle, and let off on the clutch. He began slowly as I verbally guided him through the turns at each of the four corners of the parking lot. His speed increased as he gained confidence in himself and in my ability to direct him safely. He was really enjoying himself. He reminded me of a boy who was at the wheel of a go-cart for the first time.

We had been listening to the oldies station on the radio all day. J.T.’s favorite oldie was “The Little Old Lady From Pasadena”. The second time around, as we were coming into the turn at the back of the lot, his favorite song came on. I turned up the volume and began to sing along while he accelerated rapidly toward the next turn. “She had a brand new, shiny red Super Stock Dodge”.

Then it happened. I forgot he was blind.

To be continued.

The Miata Chronicles I - Jeez, I Killed Him!

Someone once described the climate here in Michigan as nine months of winter and three months of bad sledding. But for the most part, summertime here is beautiful and it’s a great time to drive a convertible.

This was one of those perfect summer days. Pure blue skies and a warm breeze beckoned all ragtop owners to come out and play. I pulled into his driveway about 11:00 on Saturday morning to see him standing there waiting. I came to a stop and got out. “Hey John”, he said, “it’s really sounding good. Did you do something to it?” “Yeah, I put a Racing Beat exhaust system on the other day. I was expecting it to sound like an old MG or something. It didn’t give me quite the low grunt I was hoping for, but it’s not bad. I guess I’ll just settle for a more mellow sound,” I replied.

To protect his pristine reputation, I’ll just refer to him by his initials (J.T.) in this story. For several months I had been promising J.T. we’d spend some quality road time in my Miata when our schedules and the weather permitted. My “baby” was a 1995 Mazda MX-5 M-Edition in Merlot Mica, which is sort of a dark wine color with a high gloss finish. I kept it immaculately clean and covered at all times. It never saw snow, slush, ice, road-salt, or a gravel road. In fact, I would get a weather report before even taking it out of the garage.

“O.K., J.T., where would you like to go today,” I said as we sped off. “Well, I’d like to go to a nursery up in Clarkston. I’m thinking about putting a small pond in my backyard and I wanted to find out what kind of supplies they had for that,” he said.

He didn’t seem to mind the wind that was lashing us at 80 miles an hour as we headed north on I-75 with the top down. He told me of his love affair with an MG he had back in the late 60’s before going off to Vietnam. He loved driving it so much that if it started raining, and the top was down, he would just speed up to let the water blow over him. We stopped for lunch along the way and took some two-lane roads on the return trip.

We were having so much fun that neither of us was ready to call it a day. “Hey J.T., would you like to drive it,” I offered. “Yes, I’d like that, John,” he said “But I’m pretty rusty. We’d better find a safe place to do it.” We decided on the large parking lot behind the church where we both attended. We arrived to find only a few cars parked up close to the building. That left us acres and acres of blacktop to play on. I brought the Miata to a stop and we switched seats.

He fastened his seatbelt, pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and the little engine rumbled to life. Immediately, this huge grin came across his face. He put his right hand on the big chrome gearshift knob and began to expertly feel out the gear positions. He sat there for several moments just revving the engine. I watched in shock as he slumped forward, his face falling against the steering wheel. He did not move. He must have gotten so excited he had a heart attack and died right here in my car. Jeez, I killed him!

To be continued.

"Who's Your Daddy"?

OK all you car buffs and buffettes. Here’s your chance to win a Ten-Day All-Expense Paid Trip to Hawaii for two. The first person to respond to me with correct answers to all 10 questions on the quiz wins. NO CHEATING! NO GOOGLE! The winner goes to Hawaii. Cheaters get nothing. Now, let’s play, “Who’s Your Daddy”?

STOP! READ LEGAL DISCLAIMER. Any resemblance to the name of this quiz and The Maury Povich Show is strictly coincidental and does not obligate me to take the DNA test.

Name the Parent Company for each car model listed:
(1.) XLR
(2.) MDX
(3.) Malibu
(4.) S600
(5.) M6
(6.) GAZ 24-10
(7.) G35
(8.) Mustang
(9.) Z4
(10.) Pacer

Well, how’d you do? Be sure to respond quickly. Of course, the two no-brainers were the #3 Chevy Malibu and the #8 Ford Mustang. You older dudes will know that the #10 Pacer was made by AMC (which no longer exists) back in the ‘70’s. But, what about those other names that are just meaningless alphanumeric characters? What’s with that?

There was a time when car names made sense. It’s bad enough that most cars now look alike. The least they could do is give them interesting names. When I was just a small kid I could name every car on the road, and drove my parents crazy constantly pointing them out. It wasn’t because I was a boy genius. It’s because (1) the names were easy to remember, (2) all the names were phonetically different, and (3) the cars all had their own unique designs.

OK, responses to the quiz are now coming in. All of you that had correct answers to all ten questions have been disqualified for cheating. I know (and you know) that you went straight to Google for your answers. You may have known most of the answers to the quiz, but NOT # 6.

To get the correct answer to #6, you would have had to:
(1.) Have been an auto mechanic in the Soviet Union during the cold war period. (unlikely)
(2.) Be someone with no life, so you actually study boring trivia like this. (get counseling)
(3.) OR you cheated; you lied, and went straight to a search engine. (cheater)

Even though I’m disgusted with your lack of integrity, I’m going to give you the answers.

(1.) Cadillac XLR
(2.) Acura MDX
(3.) Chevrolet Malibu
(4.) Mercedes S600
(5.) BMW M6

(6.) Volga GAZ 24-10

(7.) Infiniti G35

(8.) Ford Mustang

(9.) BMW Z4

(10.) AMC Pacer

I’m really disappointed that none of you won the contest. O well, I’ll be back in 11 days with a new entry to my blog. Aloha.

Falconry - The Art of The Deal

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”?

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.”