Leap Day: A Look Around

The cars I've owned go like this: 1984, 1979, 1976, 1988, 1989, 1996, 2005.  Around the 1996 mark, I lost the ability to do much of my own work, even with the Torx bit set I'd purchased for the purpose.  I still doggedly changed my own oil, and could locate the distributor and spark plugs, but the engine rested under some very fancy-looking cowling, making it in essence a black box.  Unable to perform much maintenance myself, nor afford to have it done by a shop, I drove a car that I really liked into the ground.  A 2005 model replaced it, and when I had to reference the 250-page owner's manual in order to jump start the battery, I knew I'd be doing the same within a condensed time frame.

In other words, I realized it's been a while.

A decade and a half ago, I had perma-grease under my nails, and most of my fellow high school students likely associated me with the unmistakable smell of gear lube.  As I got behind the wheel of my 1979 Ford Fairmont for the first time, surrounded by the heady aroma of old car, I wondered if I still had it in me.  A nail-biting moment ensued as I turned the key and listened to the engine crank--then a shudder, and the inline six caught.  She stumbled regularly, but ran.  The fuel gauge read empty.  Selecting a gear took some forearm strength, and putting her into "drive" produced a loud bang.  The single-finger steering, sloppy as I remembered, proved the antithesis to steering a minivan. I limped her to the nearest gas station and opened the fuel door, finding she lacked a gas cap as well.  Undaunted, I filled her up with fresh midgrade.  The fuel gauge still read empty.  No bother, she already ran better with some fresh gasoline.  (Later calculations estimate she'd have had six gallons in her; it was likely very old gas).

The first of what I knew would become many trips to O'Reilly garnered the Fairmont a new gas cap ($7.50) and a bottle of Chevron/Techron fuel system cleaner, on sale ($4).  The parts store is mercifully located just around the corner of our block, and I cheerfully informed the employees that we'd soon be on a first-name basis.  We added the fuel cleaner and gas cap right there.  When I brought her around the corner into our apartment parking lot and backed her up to park on the rather steep incline, I discovered that the parking brake mechanism was completely seized up.  Thankfully, the parking spots have concrete berms, and I chocked her rear tires right up against one of these.  The Fairmont's long legs made this operation a breeze.

Having worked late that night, I used a flashlight to check the oil, finding it full but dark, and the coolant, which was full and green (at least on top).  I noted the washer fluid was empty and the wiper blades were shot, adding these items to a mental shopping list.  My friend Adam, an appreciator of old cars, stopped by and we sat in the front seat, savoring the feel and smell of my new old car.  We popped the hood, listened to the engine run, and revved it by manipulating the throttle lever inside the engine compartment.  We tweaked spark plug wires, examined engine mounts, and speculated on the idle speed.  And I remembered something:

This is a hell of a lot of fun, and I've missed it.

Adventures half-remembered (Preface)

I can't truthfully say that a Ford Fairmont was my first car.  Actually, I've never technically owned one before.  (My first car was a 1984 Chrysler LeBaron convertible, possibly the only car that gets a bigger laugh in Auto Tech class.)   But my high school sweetheart bought one, and we worked out an agreement--he'd pay the taxes and insurance and I'd keep the tank full and do all the maintenance.

Imagine this, 20 years later, after a few wrecks.
from www.oldcarbrochures.com

The Fairmont wasn't much to look at--in fact, it was hideous.  A '79 model purchased thirdhand from somebody's grandmother, its pukey green paint faded to an evenly matte finish, dingy orange Naugahyde interior, and the poop-brown fenders it eventually sported after an unfriendly encounter with a stone wall made it a laughingstock among my gear-head friends.

Cut to 15 years later, I'm driving a 2005 Honda minivan.  It is a luxurious, yet utterly baffling conveyance.  The car knows when I have failed to tighten the gas cap the correct number of clicks, and gently reminds me when I have done so.  Operating the car's many comfort and convenience systems requires patience, dexterity, and multitasking skills that likely exceed what my tiny lizard brain can safely handle while operating a motor vehicle.  Adding transmission fluid requires a 36" flexible ratchet extension, an inspection mirror, and a flashlight.

I've never been one much for sentimentality, but over the last year or so I've been reminiscing on that old, pukey '79 Fairmont.  I had a real bond with that car, an understanding I took for granted back then.  I remember the kind of carefree joyrides that only high schoolers are capable of, gunning the sluggish 85-horsepower engine at every occupied stop light, and the one time we got beat--by a Mazda MX5.  I remember the great ice storm of '02 that left parts of Kansas City without power for weeks.  It struck when my high-school sweetheart and I were downtown, and he had to get me back home to the suburbs.  We hadn't even put a sandbag in the trunk yet, but I remember us trucking surefootedly up an ice-covered hill past beached SUVs, making it safely home in a car that had no business getting us there.  I remember the Fairmont's mysterious, insatiable appetite for starter solenoids--but at $3 a pop and two screws to replace, we just kept a few extras in the glove box.  It was a simple, unpretentious car, easy to work on, good on gas, and forgiving.

You know how you torture yourself on the Internet?  Maybe it's looking at all the puppies and kittens you can't take home on Petfinder, or the charming houses you can't afford on Zillow.  Well, I started doing that to myself with Ford Fairmonts.  My masochism directed me to a wonderful blog I'd love to give a shout-out to.  Paul Niedermeyer authors a piece on the Ford Fairmont that is thoughtful, humorous, and to me, touching.  You can find it here.  That blog sealed the deal for me; the Ford Fairmont became my dream car.  I've been a fan of station wagons since owning a Volvo, and I watched a gorgeous 1979 woody that listed for several years on eBay.  California car, V-6, no rust, cherry.  The fact that such a well-preserved vehicle listed for only $3500 and took so long to sell still did not put it within my grasp.  I couldn't afford the next major service interval for my Honda, comparably priced.

The one that got away

My lusting after a vintage grocery-go-getter was boosted from idle fancy and into the real world when I got rear-ended last fall.  I saw the driver coming, prepared sufficiently, took the cash option, and found I had a decision to make.  After some soul-searching and a lot of rationalization, I found I didn't much feel like spending $4000 on a new liftgate.  It's the principle of the thing--a liftgate costing as much as a whole station wagon.  Thus, feeling a little insane, I called after the California woody--the car was gone.  So I looked elsewhere--but kept on coming up with the same scenario.  All the Ford Fairmont station wagons on the market had close to 200,000 miles on the clock, which spells overhaul.  I know how to rebuild an engine, but as an apartment dweller, I don't have a place to do it.

Then I saw it.

The asking price was close to what I had, and the car was in Portland, Oregon.  Hat in hand, I asked the salesman if he would consider taking a down payment and holding the car for a few months while I came up with the money for shipping and taxes.  For this man possessed a time capsule.

Stone stock with 56K miles on the clock, I realized that this was quite possibly the only Ford Fairmont station wagon left in the world that wasn't in need of major repairs.  When the seller said he'd be willing to work with me, I had it checked by an independent garage in the area.  The folks there reported brakes, shocks and belts nearing the end of their usefulness, slight play in the wheel bearings, and a few minor oil leaks.  I found these faults to be acceptable and put a deposit on my dream car.

Several months later, on Leap Day 2016, after a flurry of phone calls, emails, trips to banks and notaries, and faxes, my 1979 Ford Fairmont Country Squire station wagon, "Medium Light Blue" with fake wood paneling, bench seats, a 3.3L inline six and three on the tree, arrived on the back of a semi truck.

So ends this preface and begins the adventure.