400 Miles in a 1981 Corvette, Part 1
By most accounts, I’m a good citizen. I work, I pay taxes, I keep my crimes to myself and I call my mother at least once a week. But I have a wild side. Like a vintage race, this part of my personality just begs to be taken out and let loose from time to time. I’m not going to tell you what I spent my first Bush tax rebate on. But I will tell you that when the $600 arrives in June, I will be at a $10/$20 No Limit table. So, when I was contacted by a guy in Prague to transport a 1981 Corvette from Oakland to a container ship in Los Angeles, I jumped at the chance. How could I lose?
It gets worse: The purchaser– whom we’ll call “Bob”– was actually a middle man for another Czech guy. The plan: wire transfer me the money for the merchandise, a one-way plane ticket and a small fee. You haven’t lived until you’re emailed your bank account info to a former communist country. I telephoned the seller to ask if he wanted a money order or a cashier’s check for the ‘Vette. “Cash,” was his not entirely unpredictable answer.
As I was unsure of the feasibility of a big cash withdrawal on a Saturday, I boarded a flight in Burbank with fifty-five $100 bills burning a worry-hole in my pocket.
Aside from a horrific speckled blue paint job, the Vette’s exterior looked ship shape. The interior was in remarkably good condition, too, with just the usual litany of malaise era Detroit bugaboos — shot HVAC, busted electric seats and a sun cracked dash. After handing over the bankroll, the seller fired her up.
As I headed out on the 880 towards the 101, a Led Zeppelin rock block started. Talk about apropos. “Hey hey mama said the way you move, going make you sweat, gonna make you groove!” Man, I was loving this. And felt just like a Jersey pot dealer. Hey, for all I knew, the gas tank was half-filled with smack.
By the time the last few chords of California ended, I was miserable. The turn signal lever had come off in my hand. There was no way to stop the hot air coming out of the vents, which meant I had to keep the windows down. On the freeway. The clutch literally has 14 inches of travel, and someone in the Czech Republic will be rebuilding a Chevy tranny sooner than later. Did I mention that the shocks are completely blown, and that the T-Tops sound as if they’re about to crack over every single road imperfection? Anyway…
My plan was to do the deed during daylight hours on a Saturday. I opted to take the slower, longer and more congested 101 because I’d be better off if the Corvette broke down. I also wanted to stop along the way and take some pretty pictures of the car along the coast, in a vineyard and maybe even parked in a mustard field.
Besides, the wind was a lot less annoying at 65 mph than at 80 mph. Also, why push it? The poor thing’s nearly as old as I am. All of that changed when I got to the Madonna Inn.
Figuring the garishness of the Corvette could only be matched by the surreal boorishness of the Inn, I stopped to snap some photos. And since C3s look so cool with their headlights up, I figured I’d pop ‘em. Only they wouldn’t pop. It was 3:00 pm, the day before daylight savings kicks in. I had 200 miles to go, and the last 30 of those were through Saturday night LA Traffic. I was now racing the sun.
Murliee Martin had been nice enough to check the Corvette out a few weeks before I showed up, so I called him. “There’s no headlights!” I shouted. “OK,” he replied. “You need to build up vacuum pressure. Take it up to 95 mph, shift into second, and let the engine haul you down to 40 mph.”
I’ve heard a lot of bad noises come out of cars in my day, but nothing quite like this. Imagine whacking a dozen circular saw blades with a crowbar. You get the idea, kinda.
I called Murilee back. “Nothing!” I screamed. “It’s probably a fuse,” he said. “You don’t have taillights either.”
So let’s recap: At this point I’m flying through wine country traffic without turn signals, headlights or taillights in a nearly 30-year-old example of the UAW’s finest work that’s titled to some guy in central Europe. And the gas tank’s (probably) stuffed with heroin. Yeah, this was big and dumb.
Latest Car Reviews
Read moreLatest Product Reviews
Read moreRecent Comments
- Groza George The South is one of the few places in the U.S. where we still build cars. Unionizing Southern factories will speed up the move to Mexico.
- FreedMike I'd say that question is up to the southern auto workers. If I were in their shoes, I probably wouldn't if the wages/benefits were at at some kind of parity with unionized shops. But let's be clear here: the only thing keeping those wages/benefits at par IS the threat of unionization.
- 1995 SC So if they vote it down, the UAW gets to keep trying. Is there a means for a UAW factory to decide they no longer wish to be represented and vote the union out?
- Lorenzo The Longshoreman/philosopher Eri Hoffer postulated "Every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and ends up as a racket." That pretty much describes the progression of the United Auto Workers since World War II, so if THEY are the union, the answer is 'no'.
- Redapple2 I think I ve been in 100 plants. ~ 20 in Mexico. ~10 Europe. Balance usa. About 1/2 nonunion. I supervised UAW skilled trades guys at GM Powertrain for 6 years. I know the answer.PS- you do know GM products - sales weighted - average about 40% USA-Canada Content.
Comments
Join the conversation
I've never cared for "malaise-era" Corvettes, but this is a lovely piece of writing. Glad you enjoyed the adventure, and thank you for telling the rest of us the story.
[...] Project Car Hell, and JFG-meister Loverman himself gets the blame credit [...]