Wheeled vehicles have held a fascination for me for as long as I can remember, undiminished by the passage of time. Even as a small child on family road trips I was able identify every car that passed by − even after dark − having memorized all of their taillight configurations.
Each year my brother and I would make our subway pilgrimage to midtown Manhattan for the annual New York Auto show and the General Motors’ Motorama, trips that we continued throughout life.
I recall how my brother would fixate on a single vehicle, often spending so much time exploring every detail of it that there wasn’t enough time left to look at everything else, and we’d have to zip around like mad to see the rest of the exhibits before closing time. Despite his automotive infatuations, I don’t recall that he ever bought any of the vehicles that captivated him at the auto show.
My brother’s other time-wasting habit was intently examining models of a car that he already owned, like his Porsche 911, which does not change very much from year to year, but still earned his incredible attention. I soon learned to leave him to his own obsessions while I wandered off to see what was new at the show.
My first new car was a 1967 Mercury Cougar model called the “Dan Gurney Special,” which was a euphemism for “stripper,” a car with an attractively low price, but no options, not even an AM radio! I ordered it in white so that it would be cooler in summer, with a red vinyl interior, a three-speed transmission with a floor shift, and no air conditioning and no power disc brakes, but it did have a 289 V8 engine that frequently overheated on road trips. Fortunately, shortly after placing the order, I was able to come up with the cash to add an AM radio with a rear speaker, as well as a tinted windshield. Total cost: $2695.
I drove that Cougar all over the country for 10 years, performing my own oil changes and tune-ups in the back yard. Since I had taken all of my driving lessons in wintertime snowstorms with the driving school’s rear-wheel drive, manual transmission Plymouth sedan, I never got stuck in the snow. One winter I even chopped down my own Christmas tree while visiting friends in Houlton, Maine, and brought that tree back to Boston sticking far out of the Cougar’s trunk.
After 10 hard years on the road, including several fender-benders, I finally sold the Cougar to a neighborhood kid and bought a new two-door Volvo with anemic air conditioning that was no match for its heat-absorbing dark blue paint.
A few days after picking up the Volvo, I noticed a rather strong aroma of gasoline and found that I was carrying a three-inch deep puddle of fuel in the trunk, which the dealer removed without explanation. No matter how I applied the brakes, the Volvo’s noisy disc brakes always squealed loud enough to get lots of unwanted attention. The power steering was not much help, either, and to top it off, every single light on that ridiculous Volvo burned out at least once — and sometimes several times — during the few months that I owned it. Even the dial light in the radio burned out, along with the dome light, backup lights, tail lights and dash lights. Replacing the headlights was especially annoying, as one first had to remove the car’s battery. While driving on a toll road one day, I recall a toll operator informing me that my car seemed to be moving crabwise, and I found that one of my wheels was bent.
The Volvo was such a disappointment that I listed it for sale at a hefty discount to get rid of it, and although there were no takers, fate took an interest in my plight. While attending a house party on Brattle Street in Cambridge, I heard the sound of multiple impacts from the street three floors below.
A speeding Chevrolet Impala convertible had seriously damaged seven parked cars, even knocking some of them right up onto the sidewalk. None, however, were as damaged as my new Volvo, with both ends crushed up to the passenger compartment, turning the three-box Volvo into a one-box wreck!
When I opened the door of the offending Impala, the drunk driver rolled out onto the street, apparently uninjured.
My always reliable Dad picked me up in Cambridge, and when we went to the wrecker yard the next day to see the Volvo’s remains, he was incredulous at the total wreck, and glad that I hadn’t been in it. “I’ve never seen anyone so happy to see their car wrecked,” said Dad, when I told him the insurance company was reimbursing the entire cost of the car.
Many forgettable new and used cars followed the Volvo, as well as an International Harvester Scout that I drove for many years and many miles in all kinds of weather.
Warren P. Russo is a veteran journalist and retired U.S. Navy Officer who enjoyed his New York City childhood, traveled around the world and now lives on Plum Island. He welcomes your comments at warrenrusso7@gmail.com.