It was about 1987. Earlier that year my need for cheap
wheels and the vacuum in my cousin’s wallet had collided to form my marriage
with a 1977 Mk1 VW Scirocco. The car was a Frankenstein built of a
hodge-podge of salvage parts, and even though my cousin had been a part of
building the engine he didn't remember what all went into it. I didn't care. It
ran hard for no more than it was and really enjoyed life above 3000 RPM. I often
gave it that opportunity.
On this particular November evening I was enroute back to
St. Louis from visiting family in Kansas City. These trips were fairly
frequent, and as I had the attention span of a six year old in a toy-shop, I
would often take two-lane to break up interstate monotony. The road was
winding, the car responsive, and I was making good time.
The air was crisp at about 35 degrees and somewhere around a
megapolis called Rosebud I hit fog. It got thicker as I drove so it wasn't long
before my 65 MPH curve-carving spree gave up the ghost. If visibility hadn't
killed it the car would have. Soon I found myself downshifting and straining to
hold 25 MPH on hills. Up ahead I saw lights and pulled in. A 2-bay self-service
car wash with flickering fluorescent lights, It looked abandoned except for the
presence of all the wash hardware. Lifting the hood of my $800 wonder, I noted
that the aftermarket Weber carburetor was encased in ice. The carburetor heat-riser
had been discarded with the OEM induction, so there was nothing to do but sit
around until it thawed and limp it along until I hit dryer air.
This would never occur today. The ‘80s brought computer controls
and fuel injection, the ‘90s advanced the artform, and today it is rare to have
anomalous automotive behavior. Somehow the software engineers have infused
their coding with Ritalin and Xanax. Mass-produced cars are no longer flighty,
prone to moodiness or angry outbursts. You turn the key and they go.
But sometimes as I stand in a parking lot and push the panic
button on the remote FOB to locate my mundane wheels among its Stepford Wife sisters,
I find myself missing the fire.
© 2014 D.W. Williams. All rights reserved
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