Though it has been a ‘happening? for three years now, I just found out about Ypsilanti’s Nightmare Cruise. The Nightmare Cruise is to the Woodward Dream Cruise as Woody Allen would be to some hunky old actor (Sean Connery?).
And, while I like cool, buffed up old cars as much as the other guy, I can say with all sincerity, I have not, nor do I ever intend to attend a Woodward Dream Cruise. Too many pretentious people, too many cars, for miles and miles and miles. On the other hand, Ypsi’s Nightmare Cruise sounds like something that’s right up my alley: a couple dozen, rust buckets, junkers, clunkers and ghetto cruisers with regular folk looking on with merriment.
I guess I can relate to rides that are a little more down-to-earth, than say a candy-apple red 1955 Corvette convertible, with a 265 V-8 engine and Wonderbar radio. Actually, I can relate to jalopies where you can see down to the earth through the floorboard.
Rust has been my friend for many a year. My first ‘classic? was 1972 Vega Kammback station wagon that Dad gave me. The Vega was a beaut! Everybody knew when Dandy Don Rush was approaching. I am not sure they knew I was arriving because of the smoke from the tailpipe or from the sound which emanated from the Campbell’s soup-can/coat hanger reinforced exhaust system.
Pumpkin orange in color, it was visually a peach, too. The Vega came complete with, what some called, a torpedo hole in the driver’s side fender, which was actually a volleyball-sized void where metal once existed.
The Vega had a powerful, aluminum 4-cylinder engine, that probably would have lasted another 100 years, had not good friend Mark Reene and the Auto Mechanics Class at Clarkston High School been under her hood. The auto mechanics (and I use that term loosely) gave the Vega a checkup. Checked the fluids, brakes, belts — you know, the once-over. If memory serves me correctly, they didn’t tighten a radiator hose and, well, by time Mark and I pushed the car across Sashabaw Road to the parking lot of Pierre’s Orchard, the Vega died.
Suffice to say Mark is a better county prosecutor than he is a mechanic. I know this ‘cuz he’s been reelected up in Tuscola County — and he doesn’t work on his own cars.
My next heap of bolts on wheels, was found on the side of Bentler Street, in Detroit’s Brightmore neighborhood. My Uncle Jerry found the faded-blue, 1974 Chevy two-wheel-drive pickup. It had a straight-six engine, a steering wheel, gas, brake and clutch pedals. It needed a shifter, throw-out bearing, two-leaf springs, four tires, radio, radio antenna, plywood to reconstruct the bed, sheet metal to cover up the holes in the floorboard and a seat.
Jerry found a shifter (from a 1972 Camaro), replaced the throw-out bearing, plugged and inflated the tires, found a milk crate for me to sit on and gave it to me (for the cost of the throw-out bearing and shifter. Something like $37).
I had never driven a manual transmission vehicle before, so on delivery day I hitched a ride from Clarkston to Detroit. Jerry took me to a parking lot for a quick education and at about midnight that night gave me the keys. I hopped on the milk crate and drove back up to Clarkston, via Telegraph Road and Dixie Highway.
I can report with a great deal of certainty that I ‘broke in? that new throw-out bearing but good.
I actually drove that truck through most of college and wound up selling it for $400.
Since the truck I owned a series of used vehicles. A 1967 Cutlass Supreme Convertible with a 330 cubic-inch Jetfire engine (later replaced with a 442 Rocket engine). It was a sweet college ride, with power everything, but it, too died, too soon. Too much fun, I reckon.
After, I bought a yellowish, tannish, goldish 1977 Chrysler Cordoba. Then a black, 1984 Dodge 600 convertible, a couple of red Pontiac Sunbirds, a black 1995 Jeep Wrangler and an aqua-green-blue 1997 Saturn station wagon (relived the old Vega days).
I am now driving a 1999 GMC Sonoma pickup truck, which is still in relatively good condition. With 108,000 miles on her, I think I can safely coax another 60 or 70,000 miles before my next used vehicle. And, by then it should be ready for the Nightmare Cruise.
Who knows, maybe if I stop washing, cleaning or maintaining the pickup, I’ll win Best of Show and take home a blue ribbon and the $500 cash prize.
Hey, a man has to have goals, don’t he?
Share your jalopy memories with Don via e-mail: dontrushmedon@charter.net.