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J.C. Milliman
Old cars: On the simple pleasures of driving

 

    "If you want it, come get it!"

    Fateful words, spoken by an old friend, that launched me on a fateful journey – a journey of Homeresque proportions and fraught with many of the same perils.

    Sirens, storms, wars, rumors of wars, tolls and possible death at the hands of my wife when I finally gathered the courage to tell her what was going down were all laying in wait for me, although I didn’t know it at the time.

    Heck, I had just been offered a free BMW! Not just any BMW, mind you, but the German Super Car of my youth, a 1969 2002!

    How could I possibly say no?

    Several moons later (and a sentence or two served in the dog house), I returned from Connecticut with the car, in all its rattle can paint job glory (It really is John Deere Yellow), strapped to the trailer like a trophy buck. I was rather proud of myself – even if I had to give the toll-taker on the George Washington Bridge my children’s inheritance.

    What I gave the Port Authority of New York represents half of my total investment in this car to date.

    Despite my traffic and financial heroics, the fam’s reception wasn’t quite what I had hoped for, however.

    "You’re not going to leave that where people can see it, are you?" asked daughter-who-shall-remain-nameless. Choking back my shame at having raised such a philistine, I mumbled something obscure and got it off the trailer … under it’s own power!

    Victory, pyrrhic or not, is still victory.

    And I have the final laugh every morning on my way to work (The days I actually make it all the way, that is). Sure, I could schlep to work in a Yuppie cruiser, swaddled in leather, assisted by power steering, protected by airbags and conducted by a computer that adjusts everything, including the suspension, brakes fuel mixture, injector rates, anti-lock brakes and the cabin temperature.

    But where’s the fun in that? For me, most new cars today make driving about as fun as watching golf on TV.

    I find little joy in knowing that some myopic programmer in a Yokohama lab, through the dark magic of zeros and ones, is actually driving for me. I wonder about those poor slaves to technology next to me in traffic – do they know what they’re missing anymore? Shoot, with zone climate control, they don’t even roll the windows down to catch a sweet summer breeze, or thrill to the shock of 70 MPH, 10-degree winter blast – it might drown out the conversations they’re having on their cell phones.

    With the 30-year old weather stripping on my car, I don’t even have to roll down my windows for that, either…

    In my geriatric Bimmer, the only "luxury" I enjoy is a radio, and it’s stuck on WKIK. What I get in return, though, is an honest ride where the car and I are in total concert with the road, limited only by my driving skills (mediocre at best). I know what the car is doing because I don’t have some HAL-like artificial intelligence deciding for me what bumps are too hard for my derriere.

    Without a lot of natural resource-depleting chemicals deadening the sound coming from the engine compartment, I am in perfect communication with the mill -- it sings to me when to shift up, and burbles when to down shift. Music to my ears!

    And the brakes.

    Ah yes, as honest as they come. That’s the neat thing about those crazy Krauts of yesteryear – They must have thought that if you didn’t know how to drive in slick conditions, you didn’t need to remain in the gene pool. The brakes kinda come and go as they please.

    And with all this attention I’m forced to give to my driving, I find that I’m more attuned to the road and traffic.

    Honest communication is the keep to a successful marriage, right?

    The bottom line, though, is driving this car, with all its honesty, is a blast. It’s peppy, turns like it’s on rails and putts along with the rest of them. It’s hard to drive, rides like a skateboard and screams at me if I miss a shift. And I never quite know when I’ll be walking home next.

    And if I do get home, I’ll be stiff from the non-ergonomically designed seats.

    It’s driving in it’s purest form, though – a steering wheel directly connected to two front wheels; a naturally aspirated engine connected via direct mechanical links to the two rear wheels; my foot connected directly to the twin Solex carbs; and my other foot directly attached to the brake calipers via a hydraulic tube. (Did I mention my other foot connected to the crash box via a pedal?).

    Lately, I've been forced to limit my macadam forays to dry days, as either the wiper switch or the wiper motor itself has recently departed for the big junk yard in the sky. No matter, I still drive the car every chance I get, weather permitting

    Why?

    Aus freude am fahren.

    I’m no better than anyone because I drive a battered old German sport sedan. The rest of the day may be an iffy proposition, but the commute to and from work is a total blast. And well-worth enduring the prospect of an occasional walk home.

    Merry Christmas and drive safe over the Holidays.