Expecting to see a sobering asking price, something in the range of $3,000 to $4,500, my eyes popped when I saw $1,750. The modest figure gave me that deliciously sick feeling in the pit of my stomach where I know rational thought is about to give way to a heady brew of optimism and foolishness. I thought to myself: “Don’t believe that square resonator. I bet it’s got the wrong motor, a wasted Torqueflite and a bunch of hidden rust in the floors”. But still I wrote down the phone number.
The complication here is I’m starting my cross country drive from L.A. to Massachusetts on September 3. The plan was to do it in my Tord Fempo, a boring but so-far totally reliable econo-box. I’ve driven the thing over 13,000 miles since I bought it back in January of this year. It’d surely go another 3,200 miles to Massachusetts, right? But with thoughts of the ’65 hi-po Dart GT dancing in my skull, I figured maybe I could drive it instead and sell off the Fempo here in L.A. before I split.
Long story short, I made an appointment to see the Dart the next day. When the seller popped the hood, I was met by the sight of a filthy but complete 273 Four Barrel mill. I mean it still had the original black crinkle valve covers with those add-on fins, the correct Carter 3854-S sat atop the original cast iron single-plane intake manifold and the unique round chrome air cleaner was right where the Los Angeles assembly plant put it way back when. Though thoroughly faded, the original gold paint endures and the fairly straight body is virtually rust free. It’s a nearly unmolested car in every way and the only missing ingredient is the original cast iron dual-point distributor. A later aluminum body single-point now fires the plugs. It even has the original BF Goodrich Silvertown spare tire in the trunk.
I couldn’t resist and bought it for $1,600. The seller – a road manager for seminal eighties new wave band The Fixx (Red Skies at Dawn, Safe By Zero) – had recently refurbished the 10-inch drum brakes, sorted some electrical gremlins and said is was a good around town car. When I said my plan was to drive it 3,200 miles across these great United States, he said simply: “It’s really tired”. The loose solid lifters and uneven combustion (caused by at least one burnt valve) make the idling engine go: “ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-tanic”. Ice berg? What ice berg?
He’s right. The engine has a significant miss, the power brake booster leaks manifold vacuum and causes engine rpm to rise when the brake pedal is pushed – real fun when making a three-point turn – and the headliner is sagging so badly it rests on my head. So yes, it’s tired. But as I like to say, there’s a difference between a wounded car and a dying car.
A wounded car might have some issues with minor overheating, oil consumption or poor front end alignment that causes an off-center pull. But if you meet it half way with gentle driving, a close eye on fluid levels and some counter steering, a wounded car will go cross country. You can rebuild it later.
A dying car has fatal flaws like a rod knock, low oil pressure, a slipping transmission that keeps getting worse, stuff like that. You’d have to be nuts to attempt any kind of long distance driving in such a beast.
These are the things I keep telling myself as my departure date looms ever closer. So far I’ve driven it happily for 300 miles in a combination of city and freeway travel here in 90-degree California heat. I call this the Sea Trials period. If it starts to take on water or sinks, at least I’m still here in L.A. where I’m close to shore. If it continues to inspire confidence and doesn’t spring any leaks for the next several days, I’ll go ahead and roll the dice. Mass-a-chu-setts, Here I Come, Right Back Where I Started From.
On the other hand, if you see me pushing it along Interstate 10, slow down long enough to throw me a beer. I’ll need it.
