Santa came early in 1972. My older brother had taken a civilian job on a military base in Greenland. Out of the blue, he gave me his 1963 Corvair. It was my very first set of wheels. Instead of bracing myself for the thousand mile-long hitchhike from Iowa to Baltimore in freezing weather, I was driving home for Christmas in comfort. But there was a catch: Santa had deputized me. I had a present to deliver, and deliver I would, come hell or high snow.
My brother was flying in from Baltimore for the Christmas holiday. To repay him for the gifted Corvair, I promised to give his long-suffering girlfriend a ride to our family home. I was really jazzed to see everyone; my sister was coming from Alaska. I envisioned a smooth journey and a joyous reunion.
Although I was already a walking automotive encyclopedia, my practical experience was limited to oil changes. My most ambitious wrenching to date: pulling the cylinder head off the lawn mower years earlier. And it never ran quite the same again. But like most first-time male car owners of my age, I was brimming with mechanical enthusiasm and imagining all kinds of improvements. But it was winter in Iowa and I had no garage. I was just thankful it ran.
Just a few days before the big trip, an ominous metallic clattering arose from the depths of the Corvair’s engine compartment. It would change its timbre when I depressed the clutch pedal. The problem clearly originated in the bell housing.
I weighed all the symptoms, scratched my [then] hirsute head and declared a diagnosis: a bad clutch throw-out bearing. I knew it wasn’t the sound they normally make when they die, but I was stumped for an alternative theory. And forget about getting a second opinion. Nineteen year olds are unassailable experts at everything– unless proven otherwise
I had heard about a co-op garage, where shade tree mechanics could rent semi-warm floor space by the day. I bought a new bearing and drove a couple of miles into the frozen countryside to discover a few hippies attending to their VW buses.
My tool inventory: a box of cheap wrenches and a scissors jack. Normally, the 250lb engine would be lowered on a cradle with the car on a lift. My improvised solution: unhook everything, take the rear wheels off, lower the body until the engine rested on a timber, wiggle and slide the engine back a bit, jack the body up, and then slide the engine out. The only help I got was from John Mayall; it blared on auto-repeat all day.
Miraculously, everything went back together, and it fired right up – with the clanging! I was totally devastated. I broke the bad news to “the present” and my family. I could still hitchhike out alone, but I wasn’t really up for it now. But they kept the faith.
I needed divine intervention. The next afternoon, I saw a Corvair outside a small machine shop; a sign. I entered its machine oil-scented environs and related my sad story to the white-haired owner. With a twinkle in his eye, he told me that the rivets in two-piece Corvair flywheels come loose and cause that sound. “I’ll fix it for $10 bucks.”
Back to John Mayall’s blues and the co-op garage. By the time I finally got the flywheel out, it was 1AM and ten degrees. I’ll never forget that three-mile walk back into town, under a starry sky, carrying that heavy flywheel. A wise(r) man bearing his heavy gift.
The next day was the twenty-second. I got the flywheel re-riveted and put it all together again-– a lot more quickly the second time ‘round. I fell exhausted into bed that night, anticipating the next day’s drive. But deep in my heavy, youthful slumber, I suddenly bolted awake (hooves on the roof?). It was 3AM. I looked out the window, and snow was coming down so thick, I could hardly see the street light. And there was already six inches on the ground.
Blizzards blew in from the west. I decided to go for it; I’d try and outrun the wintry blast. It was now or never. With its rear-engined traction, the newly-purring Corvair cut the only set of tracks through Iowa City that night.
I-80 was deserted; we were the only drivers foolhardy enough to be out there, or maybe they were covered by the swirling snow. Luckily, I’d practiced for this. I had the right car for the job. And I relished the challenge. I worked-up my speed to about forty, hoping the storm wasn’t moving faster than us. Once across the Mississippi, the snow started to thin. My brother’s present and I shared a relieved smile. We’d be home for Christmas.
Another great story, Paul! Once again, I wish Robert would give you a pass on his 800 word limit.
Merry Christmas!
thalter :
I am a slave to the brand.
Merry Christmas everyone. Thanks for being there.
Riveted flywheel? That’s another reason that GM is in so much trouble today, that “disposable mentality” that… that…
Oh.
Hey, wonderful story, Paul. Reminds me of the time my Dad and I used a rental bay (with a lift!) to replace the fuel tank pickup screen on a ’71 Cadillac Fleetwood — in the dead of winter also. Thanks for re-kindling that thought.
Happy Holidays!
Merry Christmas to all…
Should be an interesting New Year, don’t ya think?
The horror! You reminded me of replacing a clutch in a 1970 Challenger in the parking lot of my apartment with snow blowing like crazy and 20 degree temperatures.
The joys of being young, dumb and dead broke.
Merry Christmas!
PS: Thalter, I agree. Limiting Paul to 800 words, if that’s the case, is a travesty.
Another great story Paul! As a teenage Corvair owner, I can relate to this. My “dreaded clanking” one evening in that car did not have to with the clutch (alas, mine was a Powerglide beast), but the fact that the fan – more like an impeller on the top of the engine – decided to throw a couple of blades on a trip home. That took me a while to repair, as those cast fans were expensive and not easy to find in the bone yard! The car did get me home that night though, and I still have very fond memories of it.
Nice story Paul, and I too, wanted more then the 800 word limit. My father had a Corvair, bought used. I can hardly remember it on the road. Being the catastrophic GM-crap it was, it sat needing repair longer then we ever drove it.
I was going to write one called, “Christmas with Woody”. Woody being a 1992 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon which I just took with the family to South Carolina.
No need to do that now. You freed me up for the day and gave me a nice smile to boot. Thanks again for a wonderful story.
Beautiful!
Just yesterday I drove part of that same stretch (I live in Iowa City) for the same reasons. When I woke up in the morning I noticed a pile of fresh power more than six inches deep. On the few miles to the Mississippi River I counted a total of 72 cars in the ditches. This will be the first white Christmas in years.
Paul,
A great story and even better composition. Well done, sir!
Thanks. The little irony in that story is that my brother and the girl friend broke up on or just after that trip. He wasn’t all that happy with his “present”. Oh well.
A fantastic story – very appropriate.
Paul, a very fine short. like many others, i relish your sentimental tone and gentle wit. i’m begnining to think of these like Dickens’ installments in The Morning Chronicle. I can’t wait for the next one . . .
If you’re not careful you’ll have a serial novella / autobiography on your hands.
Great Story as always Paul. May you and all the folks at TTAC have a great Christmas. God Bless.
Loved the story as always Paul, Merry Christmas! Aren’t you in Oregon now? I just relocated to Portland myself … love the stories. If you can’t do more than 800 words, do a part 2!
ZCline: Yes, in Eugene. Portland is a great town. You’ll love Oregon, especially when the days get sunnier again. There’ll be more stories, RF willing. And the 800 words are a good discipline.
Great story.
It takes some serious balls to drive a rear-engined car on skinny tires through 6 inches of snow.
Paul,
What a great read on Christmas eve. What great memories it provided of being young and full of energy. Thanks so much. Keep these stories coming.
Wonderful writing, Paul. Are you published (web- or otherwise) anywhere else besides TTAC?
wludavid,
No, but I wouldn’t mind if I was. It’s been more of a side-line so far, as time permits. I am contemplating self-publishing an expanded version of the Auto-Biography.
Excellent story, Paul! It’s great to see your pen around these parts again. :)