Possumblog

Buckle up.

We're taking a trip to Moronland!

It is an odd land where anything can be rationalized entirely without the use of logic or reason.

Those of you who fear to go to such places may safely bypass this entry. The rest of you are welcome to hop in!

SO--some backstory. As you all recall, when it came time in the course of Reba's former employ to start traveling to two different outer office locations--one in the wilds of Oneonta in Blount County 60 miles to the north, and the other to the wilds of Columbiana in Shelby County 60 miles to the south--it became apparent that such a huge amount of miles was going to eat us out of house and home in gasoline if she kept using the Honda. At the time, we had the Odyssey; Moby, the '94 Plymouth minivan; and Franklin.

As longtime readers will remember, Franklin was a 1980 Ford F-100 that was my beloved pet. Purchased from a construction worker in my hometown, Franklin had over 250,000 miles on his wheezing straight-6, never having had a rebuild, and only having had one clutch replacement.

An anvil, he was.

As green as he was slow, the children and I nicknamed him Franklin in honor of Franklin the turtle (also green and slow) as well as the fact that Ben Franklin is on the 100 dollar bill. F-100--get it!?

Well, they didn't either.

Anyway, Franklin was something of a handful--he was thirsty, and horribly smelly, and slow, and had a bad habit of backfiring like a cannon at every upshift. BBbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrRRRRR---BOOM! bbbbBBBBrrrrrRRRRRR---BOOM! But, he was always willing to work, and hauled many loads of rocks and wood and gravel and dirt and barbecue grilles and junk and boxes all over creation.

BUT--we needed something more fuelish for transporting Reba to and fro. We found her a happy little navy blue '01 Ford Focus in our hometown, and it still lives on our driveway till now. Franklin, however, was one vehicle too many. And so, onto the block with him. Finally sold him to a Yankee Bostoner who lives around the block from me. Goodbye, Franklin. Goodbye, last vestige of uncouth manliness I had (aside from my underwear and guns, that is.)

So, Odyssey, Focus (both still unnamed), and Moby, who has now rotated into the backup vehicle/beast of burden slot.

NOW THEN--yet ANOTHER change coming down the road. The arrival of a teenager, who seems to think she's too good to drive a big white minivan, and has her sights set on becoming the owner of a happy navy blue '01 Ford Focus. Which is okay--it's good and reliable and safe and predictable and not a bad looking little car (and Mom has already surreptitiously allowed her to pilot it through a parking lot--::shriek!::).

But then, what for Mom and Dad to drive? Mom likes the smaller car, but she likes the Honda as well. We need one large six passenger car for the whole family to fit in, but two is a bit on the much side, especially when gas is so 'spensive. I had publickly cogitated upon several different scenarios with Reba, some of which just had us keeping Moby, and some that would have allowed him to be sold in lieu of another, smaller car. If it would be for Reba, maybe another nice little Focus. Or, maybe something old and smelly that I could enjoy, and she could drive the Honda.

And thus we speed off into Moronland.

Irrationalization number one--since Reba isn't THAT hung up on cars, and can't tell one from another unless I'm there to tell her, and has already said she likes driving the Honda Odyssey (which is wonderfully reliable and safe and sturdy and safe and pretty, by the way), what would be wrong with allowing her the great good joy of driving it, and consigning myself to something odd and weird and marginally reliable--but, which I could claim as my very own, without fear that anyone else in the family would try to take away from me? (Again, much like my guns and my underwear.)

Irrationalization number two--since I am reasonably handy with the wrench set, and have a much higher regard for my mechanical skills than is warranted by actuality, an older car in reasonably good shape is not the worst thing I could be trapped into owning. I mean, all cars have little odd things to be fixed, right?

Irrationalization number three--what to get? Well, it can't be TOO weird--I do want it to work most of the time, and then when it quits be able to actually find parts for it. And it can't be TOO small--I still need to be able to get at least four other people in there besides me. But it can't be too large, either.

And there's this terrible unrequited fondness I have for small boxiness--I have a peculiar affection for small boxy sedans like late-'60s Falcons and Novas and Ramblers, and Datsun 510s, and 1600 Bimmers, and Volvo 240s. Plain, yet with some sort of odd charm in the architecture, and with no real need to show off with all that flashy squealing of tires.

Now, don't get me wrong--I love speed with a lusty earthy love that is rather unseemly. I think looking at pictures of the Jag E-type is pretty close to sinful, at least the way I do it. I like the slight pitter of dread you get in the pit of your stomach when you barely manage to keep from winding up upside down in a creek. I have a catalog of stories of a misspent youth in the company of crazed boys and cobbled-together machinery that will never be told for fear of the repercussions that could still arise. So, it's not that such things hold no charms for me--they do. But you can't do that ALL the time. Just like the joke about Groucho Marx, "I love my cigar, too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while."

And, doggone it, I'm an adult now. Such showoffery--while undeniably fun--is a bit out of place in public. (And yes, maybe one day I'll feel thus constrained about public flatulence. But that is another discussion for another day.)

ANYway--a screwball admiration for small boxy cars.

A plan begins to take shape, and I start looking through the local AutoTrader publications for likely candidates, and plotting the means by which this can be convincingly (or connivingly) presented to a sure-to-be-skeptical wife.

Hmm, dumdeedum. ::flip::flip::

Amazingly enough, it seems that the current collector car fascination for late-60s, pre-1972 Detroit muscle cars had made even lowly Novas skyrocket in value to the same price they originally sold for. Or more. Who would pay that much for a Maverick, for goodness sakes? WHA? How much for a plain old Malibu!? What are people thinking!? Surely no one pays that much for junk like this.

And then--there, dangling before me, an interesting morsel of moron bait.

Boxy? In spades. Slow? Matched only by glaciers. Reliable? Undeniably so. A certain je ne sais quoi? Possibly, if I only knew what that meant. Smelly? Oh, just like a bus, brother. Cheap? Bingo.

The object of my current ineptitude?

Oh, something like this--

That, my friends, is a 1981 Mercedes 240D.

It, and various others of its Swabian ilk, trade for around 22 to 25 hundred bucks. (The 240/300 Mercedes originally sold for over 20 large back in the early '80s, back when that was a lot of cash.) I saw stupid '81 LTDs in the same AutoTrader selling for the same 2500 grickles as the Merc. In fact, there wasn't much of anything any cheaper. Certainly nothing as old that was as good of a car.

The chassis type--the W123--is one of the best screwed together things on the planet, built at a time when the idea of any Japanese car ever being any good would have evoked gales of Teutonic chortling. It was a car engineered and assembled with a different mindset, and was seen as a testament to the idea of precision craftsmanship and solidity. I recall reading a snippet from an article about the way the door handles on this vintage of Merc were made. The author couldn't understand why they were so heavy and thick and build like a steel ball. The engineer calmly explained that sometimes tow truck drivers had to use the handles to wrap a cable around in order to snatch errant Benzes out of canals. The diesel Mercedes engine is simple and tough and will last hundreds of thousands of miles without a rebuild as long as it's taken care of.

Okay, that's the good stuff.

The bad stuff? Well, they're twenty-plus year old cars. ANYthing mechanical can break down, and especially if it hasn't been properly cared for.

The 123 chassis also had a niggly vacuum-actuated system for the door locks and trunk lock and fuel filler door that relies on the good fortune of tiny bits of rubber sealing nipples to hold in the suction. If one gets a leak, doors either won't unlock, or lock, or both. Not really a hard fix, but a fussy one to get right. Having worked with GM vacuum lines before, it is not something I relish.

Seats--Mercedes-Benzes have wonderfully overbuilt seats, the only weakness of which is a horsehair padding that breaks down over time and with wear and can leave you sitting on uncomfortable springs.

Oh, and slowness. Did I mention slowness? The engine in a 240D has 62 (or so) horsepower. It hauls around a ton and a half of fine German steel.

Deliberately.

There are tales that crippled old men--on foot--can match it in a head's up drag race. But, once up to speed, you can go forever. And look awfully jaunty doing so. I saw a burgundy 240 the other morning as I came to work. Such a fine-looking thing--just the right amount of chrome, back when it was okay to have chrome. Staid, stolid. And miserably slow. Might have to see if I can find a 300D--they have a stunning 15 horsepower more.

Anyway, once the tax refund comes in, and a new mattress is safely installed in the bedroom, and some minor fix-up is done to get Moby ready to sell, there will again be an object of illogical interest in the driveway. At least I hope so.

Posted by Terry Oglesby at April 19, 2005 03:52 PM