Over my decades of motoring along mostly forgotten blue highways, catching sight of an abandoned vehicle long retired to an open field ranked as the visual prize in the back road Cracker Jack box.

Whether huddled next to a weathered outbuilding or a lifeless shell serving as its own gravestone in a windswept field, it fascinated me.

The forsaken and forlorn car or truck rests in a virgin bed of weeds. Witnessing it defending its integrity in an inevitable losing battle against oxidation and time, I would wonder what stories it could tell?

While often no more than a pile of patina with a shape sustained by little beyond a memory, that vehicle, for me, always held out the hope of a fresh and satisfying story waiting to be savored like a new apple from an old tree.

However, while I often stopped, I rarely pursued the story.

Now, as life has afforded me more opportunities to travel blue highways in a more leisurely fashion, I am committed to harvesting the rewards of asking “what’s your story?”

So it was with this 1946 Dodge.

What’s a “Vineyard truck?”

It came into view as the gravel road crested behind the sheep farm on a stony hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Martha’s Vineyard.

Bulbous pontoon front fenders projected a decidedly 1940s look. Though denuded of trim and trappings and literally put out to pasture, the strong and stylish truck cab projected a defiant attitude.

Its Tonka Toy-like early post-war architecture displayed a kaleidoscopic patina with patches of color that indicated a life with many chapters.

Away from the truck a path led to a rustic barn and sounds of a man at work.

“That your truck on the hill,” I asked. “Yes sir,” came the reply. A tall friendly man in his 30s with a red neckerchief exited the barn. He introduced himself as Steve Broderick. I asked “What’s your story?”

Martha’s Vineyard has dual personality disorder. Both coincide on the same spot of verdant land off the coast of Massachusetts. During the summer months the mega-rich, simply wealthy, ex-presidents and self important celebrity types summer in rustic splendor. George Soros thinks it’s swell.

For the rest of the year with summer and glamour gone elsewhere, when snow falls and bitter winds sweep down barren beaches one finds the people who call Martha’s Vineyard home and who seal deals with a handshake. Many of those people survive by renting out their homes that have been passed down from generation to generation for the short but highly prized summer season. Steve calls it the Vineyard scramble.

Steve, a talented mechanic, is not one of the mega-rich. Born and raised on the island, Steve rents out his house and performs repairs for a local farm.

It’s a 1946 Dodge one ton. “I’ve always liked these Dodges. They are not as popular as Fords or Chevies, but they’re so stylish.” Says Steve.

With the Dodge’s long standing history in front of a friend’s shop across the island, the truck had acquired the status of “permanent fixture.” In 2009 Steve bought it. According to Steve it was pretty complete.

Steve had a plan.

Steve envisioned the Dodge becoming a “Vineyard truck” daily driver. “Vineyard truck?” Clearly, like a “Brooklyn bagel,” a “Vineyard truck” had to exhibit certain taste-based standards to qualify.

“Its nuanced’” said Steve. He continued, “A ‘Vineyard truck’ is not too shiny. It should look like it has a story behind it. By the mere fact that it still runs, it should inspire a general observer fascination. It is not a rat rod, but its patina affords it a certain rough hewn style. It’s a bit freaky, a bit funky. It’s got to be usable. You know, tow a trailer. Go to the dump. Rumbling past you a “Vineyard truck” is big on cool. When it passes you should almost feel the history. Yeh, history is good.”

No simple solution would do for Steve. His plan involved fitting the Dodge body on the chassis of a low mileage 1988 Ford F350 cut van ambulance that he also owned. Steve wanted his Vineyard truck” to look like 1946 but drive like 1988.

Once back at his shop, the Dodge was completely disassembled. The first three years produced great progress. All sorts of body work, floors and according to Steve a horrifying amount of fabrication.

However, at the top of the challenge list loomed integrating the F350 chassis and the Dodge body. Steve retained the column shift, power steering, everything.

The very sound F350 chassis featured a 7.3-liter International diesel engine with the C6 3-speed automatic transmission. “The 7.3 is a good engine though not an exceptionally high performance engine, but It does sound cool,” says Steve with a smile.

An enormous amount of re-engineering brought the dissimilar hero and donor vehicles into a smoothly operating, if rough looking, truck. In reflecting Steve’s professionalism, he said, “Doing it right demanded an enormous amount of engineering.” But I‘m a mechanic, you know, it’s got to work right.”

So how did the Dodge end up in the field? “Life,” says Steve. In 2012 life dealt him a hand that would result in his facing single parenthood with three boys, a five–year old and one-year old twins.

At that point the Dodge ran great. It just was missing the trimmings. It needed an interior, glass and a bed.

We would go out for a few burn-out sessions and donuts in the field. “But,” says Steve, “I had to shut the project down. I had to focus on the kids. I no longer had the budget or the time.”

With his ‘46 Dodge stoically sitting there, Steve estimates that completing the truck would take a year and about $7,000. Neither of which he presently has to spare.

“However, with most of the re-engineering done,” a smiling Steve says. “In a few years it could make a great dad and kids project.

Elaine Larsson leaves no doubt as to the priceless and joyful life lessons learned in the 1970’s cross country teenage adventures she shared with her parents in their 1970 Volkswagen Westfalia.

Decades later, a serendipitous sequence of events, allowed the woman Elaine has become to again enjoy the driving experience that enriched the life of the young girl she was.

The woman picks up where the girl left off

“1972 Volkswagen Westfalia, pastel white, 58,000 original miles” read the 2014 ad found while I surfed The Samba.com website. “What country is it in?” Elaine asked with conversational interest. While not a “car guy,” Elaine always waxes fondly when recalling teenage cross country family road trips in her family’s 1970 Westfalia.

Over the years Elaine would from time to time try to track down the old van. It had been sold in the late 1970s. Her efforts gave strong indication that it had long ago moved on to the old van burial ground. However, while gone, the memories it inspired remained undiminished.

Memories of her father, a retired Jersey City motorcycle cop, her adventurous mother and BFF brother generate nothing but smiles when Elaine recalls 6-week escapes in the early 1970s where the family visited mountains, prairies, and, yes, oceans white with foam.

I showed her the images accompanying the ad for the van. Same model, same color and solid original condition. Her interest perked like coffee ready to pour.

The Samba.com website provides an extraordinary global marketplace offering vans aplenty from Africa, Europe, Canada and the western US. East coast, not so much. “Where is it?” she asked with a bit more edge to her voice. “New Jersey” came my reply.

Packing a large wad of hundreds, Elaine walked the mile between her home and the van owner’s house.

“Do you want me to show you how to drive it?” the owner asked. Elaine’s knowing laugh betrayed a “you never forget how to ride a bike” level of confidence as she slid behind the same controls on which she learned to drive. Originally purchased in 1971 by an Air Force officer stationed in Germany, this van had a diary with  comments from every past owner. It had spent 20 years in the desert of the southwest.

The last nine years found it sequestered in a New Jersey garage waiting for a once newlywed bride to finally change her mind about the joys of camping.  Finally acknowledging defeat, the camping enthusiast husband had the van headed for a buyer in the UK. Then, with the joyous precision of serendipity, Elaine showed up at the door shortly after the British buyer reneged. Elaine drove the Westfalia home.

A week later while attending her first car show as an owner, she found an endless stream of visitors eager to sit inside the van. Little kids, parents, police officers all shared a common fascination. As the roll call of awards rang out over the sound system, the final award went to the “People’s Choice.” The people had chosen Elaine’s van.

Shortly thereafter, Elaine encountered an automotive journalist, Jim Koscs, who believed Elaine and her van had a story to tell. Coca-Cola agreed. Months later Elaine and her Westfalia took center stage replacing Lebron James on Coca-Cola’s Journey Global website.

As time has passed, the blonde in her van has become a locally recognized fixture as, together, they traverse the county in search of interesting garage sales and more importantly to manifest quality yoga experiences. Training as a yoga teacher, Elaine will incorporate her Westfalia in offering an open air yoga experience she has developed called “Roadhouse Yoga.”

Imbued with her father’s wisdom, her mother’s kindness, her brother’s friendship and my love, Elaine’s Westfalia with each new mile carries treasured memories of a joyous past and hopeful dreams of a beautiful future.

Firing up a classic car with over a half century of history always brings with it a high probability of adventure and the unexpected.

When time and other things stand still

Dappled sunlight leaking through the forest canopy dances on the Corvette’s hood. It is a glorious morning on a twisting two lane that snakes through a state park. Elaine, my co-pilot for life, notices that the odometer on my recently restored 1961 Corvette stands poised to roll over to 59000.0 Actually it will be 259000.0, but in 1961 odometers only had 5 places preceding the decimal point.

A coordinated dance of digits that soon will resolve into a chorus line of zeros spin like a slow motion slot machine. Elaine, poised to nail the 59,000.0 money shot never gets the chance. At mid “.9” the odometer, as John Cleese might say, ceases to proceed.

Back home at the garage. The odometer might as well be a decal.

In planning my Corvette’s restoration, I never wanted an overlooked detail to haunt my post-restoration driving experience. With over a quarter of a million miles on my totally disassembled Corvette, I knew this was no time to cheap-out on rebuilding the instruments. The last thing I wanted was a fresh and eager car with tired instruments just waiting to crap out.

After contacting a Corvette instrument specialist on a recommendation from a respected source, I bundled up the speedometer, tachometer and clock for shipment confident that when my resurrected Corvette returned to the road it would do so with a freshly renewed set of instruments.

With a burst of Pollyanna-like optimism, I thought maybe the frozen odometer was just an anomaly, waiting for a second chance to cure itself.

Security guards at the local industrial park must have watched with incredulous awe as this Honduras Maroon and Ermine White jewel circled the empty service road in reverse. Yes, the odometer would go backwards. Having rolled in reverse a good mile, I, like a knight in a joust, briefly paused then kicked the stirrups on the hearty small block and burst forward with speed and conviction. This time I would conquer the barrier and enter the realm of 59,000.

Barrier 2, Corvette 0.

Clutching at my final straw, I drove to Park Ridge 66, the shop owned by my friend and vintage car expert, Bob Tasman. Up on the lift went the Corvette. Under Bob’s doubtful but supportive eye my plan of peeling off 10 miles to “free” the odometer commenced. I surmised that rewinding two of the rotating number barrels would do the trick. Ten backward miles later, I left Bob’s shop to get a high speed highway head start at pushing that odometer through the 59,000 mile barrier. Bob in a friendly kind of way expressed his complete doubt at any chance of success. “One of the tangs in the head unit got broken or was improperly installed,” Bob said as I rumbled off with a shaken faith not unlike that of a small child seeing Santa drawing on a Marlboro behind the Macy’s Christmas display.

Barrier 3 Corvette 0

Time for a phone call.

Truth be told, I had overlooked the earlier failure of the Corvette’s freshly rebuilt clock. In retrospect, it clearly  foreshadowed dark clouds on the instrument horizon. However, I was so thrilled to finally have the Corvette back that I chose not to notice it.

Realizing that taking the speedometer out of the freshly but not easily reassembled dashboard was out of the question, my hopes hung on getting useful information from the instrument restorer himself.

“They never break,” said the man with whom I had entrusted my instruments and my mental health. The essence of my response included the information rich nugget, “well mine broke!”

Had he replaced the 60-year old odometer mechanism that was on its third time around as I had assumed he would? “No,” he responded, “We simply inspect and clean odometers.” He then added the kicker, saying, “replacing the unit would have added $50 to the job.” An additional $50 for a part that could now easily require thousands of dollars to replace and countless weeks of downtime. Did he not think that decision should have been left up to me? His response, “Well, they never break.”

As a chaser for that bitter pill, I asked about the clock he reconditioned that, now lifeless, only gives correct time twice a day. Oh they always break,” he says, “You get a year at most out of one.”

While I think I would have had a good case for justifiable homicide especially with a jury of vintage car owners, I instead have opted to simply enjoy my beautiful rumbling living recollection of mid-century American sports car history. Maybe the odometer will heal itself. If not, I am going on record for posterity that as of June 28^th 2020 my 1961 Corvette had an honest 258,999.9 miles. I do not foresee ever selling it.

One of the joys of my bias ply shod, drum braked, dual carbureted, tube radio equipped Corvette resides in its ability to transport me back in time. Sometimes it even seems to make time stand still and, now, apparently the same will be said for its mileage.

If only cars possessing historic significance could talk. What stories they would tell. However, though beautiful, they remain sadly mute leaving it up to us to find their voice.

For the owner of a Sebring-raced XK120 it took 48 years for history to speak up.

Dagavar’s Jaguar, The truth at last

Since buying the 1954 XK120MC in 1971, Dr. Dick Santucci appreciated that by its very nature this Jaguar was special. It would take a phone call 48-years later for him to find out just how special.

Throughout Dick Santucci’s childhood, Fred Dagavar’s 1954 XK120 roadster filled the young boy’s dreams thanks to Papa Santucci’s prolific storytelling abilities and great friendship with Dagavar. Rich with grit, bravado, exotic cars and famous drivers, stories about Dagavar racing his Jaguar filled the Santucci’s Bronx kitchen and gave substance to a child’s dreams of adventure.

Years later, Dagavar, now in his ‘70s, considered selling his long retired and battered Jaguar. Santucci jumped at the chance to own the British sports car that had starred in his childhood reveries. However, with little spare time available or money remaining, Santucci knew that the severely distressed sports car would have to wait years for resurrection. College and chiropractic school would come first.

By 1978 Santucci had established his chiropractic practice. By 1981 the Jaguar returned to the road, reborn.

Having dueled against a pantheon of driving legends such as Briggs Cunningham, Stirling Moss, Luigi Chinetti, Phil Hill, Carroll Shelby and Mike Hawthorne; it was only fitting that Dagavar’s Jaguar, in an age of trailer queens, would benefit from Santucci’s passionate desire for the Jaguar to run strong and free.

Decades of driving pleasure and a total restoration, thanks to a deer that did not look both ways, culminated in 2019 with Santucci’s Jaguar being invited to the Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance. Santucci took great pleasure in witnessing what he believed would be the Dagavar Jaguar’s pinnacle achievement and confirmation of its special qualities. He had no way of knowing the secrets Dagavar’s Jaguar had yet to divulge until, back home, his phone rang.

“Do you know what you have,” asked the caller. “I am pretty sure I do,” Santucci replied. The voice of vintage Jaguar owner John Strader of Colorado spoke with confidence and conviction about the few XK120 Jaguars that went back to the factory for special attention. Strader explained that he had seen Santucci’s car on the Amelia Island website and that very few of these cars were ever produced. Actually Strader said he owned what he believed was the only other one of its kind in existence.

In the course of multiple exchanges, Strader, put Santucci in touch with Roger Payne of Perth, Australia. Payne a retired engineer and Jaguar historian was a fountain of Jaguar information.

Learning of the Dagavar Jaguar’s existence, Payne displayed a ravenous appetite for serial numbers and photographs. Like an Egyptologist in a newly discovered pyramid chamber, Payne immersed himself in researching his discovery.

Coming up for air, Payne awarded Santucci with the knowledge that only a handful of 1954 Xk120s returned to the factory to be custom equipped and factory-tuned with one of the spare second generation C-Type heads meant for the LeMans racing team.

It appeared Dagavar, who was a founding member of NASCAR and good friend of Bill France, met Jaguar’s legendary LeMans racing team manager Lofty England through Bill France at Sebring. At that time England promised to arrange a factory upgrade that included a spare C-Type head from the racing team. Santucci, Payne announced, owned one of two matching number examples in existence. Special indeed.

Associating this extraordinary provenance to the already stunningly restored vehicle proved to be the special sauce that enticed the Greenwich Concours d’Elegance to invite the Dagavar Jaguar to display on Sunday June 2^nd 2019.

That Sunday at Greenwich, the Dagavar Jaguar, received the Chief Judge’s Award – International. In accepting the award from historians Ken Gross and David Schultz, Santucci smiled acknowledging that Dagavar had planted the XK into a sand bank at Sebring in 1955. Thus, this was the first win for the Jaguar since Dagavar bought the car in 1954.

Dick Santucci has entered his XK120 in the American Collectors Insurance virtual car how. It is in the “Foreign” category. If you would like to vote for Dagavar’s Jaguar the link is:

https://americancollectors.com/virtual-car-Show/?app_data=entry_id%253D247575938&category=foreign

It’s spring and young men’s and women’s fancy turns to thoughts of… driving their classic cars. Granted our fancy turns to thoughts of other things too, but right now I am talking classic cars.

Unlike all previous springs the joyous social nature associated with our classic car passion has been knee-capped by the Covid-19 pandemic. Conflicted by our unshakable determination to do the “right thing” and our passion for the open road, we yearn for a responsible solution. How about this?

Carnucopia

 Carnucopia offers a classic car driving event that combines helping people in need with food and necessary supplies while affording a gathering of friends an opportunity to enjoy a great drive on country roads. All while practicing proper social distancing.

Carnucopia is both a driving event and a fund raiser. Participation in the driving event requires a minimum donation of $25. Larger donations are welcomed. All moneys will go to the Triboro Food Pantry, a Park Ridge, NJ 501C3 non-profit organization. Click on the link to visit their website. They support families across Bergen County. Donations are tax deductible. Please make out all checks to Triboro Food Pantry.

In essence the plan calls for all participants to gather at 8:00 am on the morning of Sunday, May 24^th at the Kohl’s parking lot on Route 17 North in Ramsey NJ.

The Drivin’ News 1953 Ford F100 pick-up truck will be positioned where all participants can stop to make their donation and get route directions. Volunteers will direct participants to alternating parking spots to allow for proper spacing. PEOPLE MUST STAY IN THEIR CARS.

The drive leader will depart at 8:30 sharp.

Key Facts

• Starting location: Kohl’s, 1300 Route 17 North, Ramsey, NJ 07446
• A donation of a minimum of $25 is required
• Arrive time: 8:00 am
• Depart Kohls: 8:30 sharp
• Distance: Approx 45 miles
• Duration: Approx. 1.5 hours
• Drive leader: Peter Desbets, 1986 Red Porsche 911
• Directions are provided so that even if you get separated you will know where you are.
• The drive will conclude at the light at the intersection of Seven Lakes Drive and Route 17 in Sloatsburg.
• Triboro Food Pantry 501C3 tax ID# 81-1480802

Covid-19 Rules of the road

• ALL PARTICIPANT MUST HAVE GLOVES AND MASKS WITH THEM
• SOCIAL DISTANCING RULES MUST BE OBEYED.
• EVERYONE MUST STAY IN THEIR CARS
• CARS WILL BE POSITIONED EVERY OTHER PARKING SPOT
• WE WILL ATTRACT ATTENTION, IT JUST SHOULD NOT BE FOR THE WRONG REASONS

IMPORTANT

A head count of intended participants is needed. If you plan on attending, please respond with your name and intention in the comments section. Without sufficient support the drive event will be cancelled.  I need to hear from you by Friday afternoon. By supper time Friday I will send out an email that will state if the drive is on.

The weather looks good.

Leaving the cold sun of winter behind, May brings the first hot kiss of provocatively lengthening daylight. Memorial Day approaches. Garage doors open to proclaim wrenching’s transition to a summer sport.

Even as the Coronavirus shroud lingers, the summer sun brings hope. Cars we love, like hibernating bears, prepare to leave their caves. We do all we can to help them. This is one man’s story.

Austin Healey? Nope! It’s Austin’s Crosley

Wayne Carini badly wanted Irv Gordon’s 3-million mile P1800, the world’s most famous Volvo. Bob Austin, who had joined Carini at the Long Island garage that housed Gordon’s collection since Gordon’s passing in 2018, possessed an equally passionate desire. However, though a longtime Volvo executive and Irv Gordon’s good friend, Austin’s yearning focused on another car in Gordon’s collection, a little green golf cart sized Crosley sports car.

Carini’s effort would bear no fruit. Gordon’s 3.2 million mile P1800 would assume its rightful place of honor in Sweden as a star at the Volvo Museum. Austin on the other hand smiled all the way home as the owner of a 1949 Crosley Hotshot with 4,700 miles.

Austin’s taste in automobiles might best be described as eclectic. Austin’s litany of past drives include a Ferrari, Avanti, Willy’s Jeepster, Cobra, Sunbeam Tiger, MG TD, Volvo 740 Turbo station wagon, a Royale Formula Vee race car (which presently resides in Austin’s living room…no really, his living room), but his heart belongs to Crosley. Austin’s youthful dalliance with an NSU Sport Prinz is best considered a telling behavioral marker foreshadowing his lifelong blind love for anything Crosley.

Peering behind Austin’s unapologetic passion for vehicles born of Powell Crosley’s post-WWII foray into the automobile business reveals, as is often the case with curious behavior displayed in adulthood, a childhood experience.

As a 10-year old, Austin loved his father’s 1957 Chrysler. With giant fins, sleek visual dynamics, hemi power and a massive road presence, that Chrysler bristled with character cues that George Barris would later employ in creating Adam West’s iconic Batmobile. However, young Austin could not conceive of piloting that finned chrome behemoth. Boy and beast just did not connect. But then one day…

Young Austin laid eyes on a Crosley. In recollecting that first glimpse, Austin says, “As a kid I thought hot damn! This is a car I can relate to.” For young Austin here was a car built for him. It had little tiny wheels and tires on a kid scale chassis. He could imagine driving a car like this and working on a car like this.

Sporting a smile with roots in a child’s dream, Austin says, “Every time I see one, it takes me back to that joy experienced as a 10-year old.”

Restored in the early 1980s, Irv Gordon’s Hotshot was last driven in 1988. Austin finds the 4,700 mile odometer reading quite believable. Acknowledging the Crosley’s limited comfort, Austin says, “I doubt anyone could drive a Crosley much more than that.” Austin notes that when dealing with hills, the Hotshot’s 46 cu. in. 25.4 HP engine is incapable of breaking any posted speed limit.

Austin’s initial intention simply called for new tires and a fresh battery. However, the Covid-19 lockdown restricted his driving opportunities, severely limited his ability to register the car and expanded his free time. Thus, the Covid-19 pandemic while sparing Austin’s health infected Austin’s Hotshot project with the dreaded “Scope Creep.”

The famous slippery slope witnessed “new tires and a battery” drift into “maybe those kingpins seem a little sloppy’ to presently where the disassembled suspension and brake components litter the floor below the four jack stands that suspend the shoeless Hotshot like Luke Skywalker’s Landspeeder in dry dock.

“It will be finished by June,” says Austin. As he lowers the garage door he looks back at the Crosley and flashes a smile that remains forever young.

As the lockdown grinds on, Elaine and I have begun enjoying dinner with friends by ZOOM light. With our laptop propped on the opposite side of the table, we share dinner and conversation with good friends. Not only does seeing friends lift one’s spirits but it has provided needed motivation for me to abandon the Unabomber look.

In “Like children we love” I share an unexpected classic car experience.

How have you continued to enjoy you Classic Vehicle passion during the New Normal?

Like children we love

Having launched Drivin’ News, I decided to take a brief staycation at a favorite destination, my garage. Birthing the blog consumed a significant amount of time. Occurring as it did during the Covid-19 lockdown it served as a time gobbling blessing. However, being time consuming it had kept me away from my garage. No longer.

Decked out in suitably scruffy garage attire, I entered my detached 2-bay to the fanfare of my garage door clacking up its track. Flicking on the lights, a comforting familiarity embraced me. Battery tenders glowed green, the ‘61 Corvette, purchased in 1967, sat in peaceful repose in the left bay. The ’53 Jaguar XK120 to its right radiated a timeless beauty. Between the two lay a ragged shard of broken plywood amidst a sprinkling of wood fragments.

Broken plywood? After a frozen moment absorbing the incongruity of its presence on the garage floor, my eyes flashed everywhere in pursuit of clues.

My gaze quickly fixed on a massive branch and the gaping hole it had created in the ceiling of my garage. Wood dust and splinters lay all about as a reminder of the violence done to my roof. Retreating to the exterior of my garage, I climbed a stone wall to assess the damage from above. Around eight to 10 inches in diameter and an easy seven feet to eight feet long, this maple missile had snapped and plunged a good thirty feet before breaching my garage roof. Like a giant uncarved totem it stood straight and proud as if providing a mast for my garage.

Amazingly, despite its considerable destructive potential, other than my roof, damage was minimal. Actually the lack of damage astounded me.

Plunging with the force of Thor’s hammer, Mother Nature’s bullet nosed missile, after splintering the roof, wedged against a husky 2” x 6” cross member. Wearing a crown of tarpaper and wood spikes it came to rest inches from a treasured “HOT RODS TO HELL” movie poster and a few feet above my Corvette’s original hardtop.

Job one demanded relocating both cars to safer shelter. However, like children we love, classic cars do not always cooperate as we would prefer.

First out of the garage came the Corvette which had a healthy deep throated rumble when put away for the winter. It fired up without hesitation. However, apparently, the engine gremlins had visited my freshly rebuilt small block during winter hibernation. Any engine speed around 2700 rpms or above produced an ugly chorus of intense backfiring. I chose to grandma the mile or so to my alternate shelter. Engine issues would be addressed but the garage would come first.

With car cover removed and battery tender detached, a turn of the Jaguar’s key rewarded me with the crisp ticking of a healthy electric fuel pump. With ticking stopped, a quick push of the starter would set the sleek black cat in motion. Pushing the starter button was followed by…silence. The only sound breaking the silence were little birds chirping in the yard.  It felt like sitting in a Connolly leather and Wilton carpet trimmed boat anchor.

With the two 6-volt batteries well charged and the solenoid functional, it appeared the engine gremlins had visited the Jaguar starter. With all electrical systems functional, I sought to rock the car in first gear to free the starter. Not enough time. The Jaguar would stay put as the tree service would be arriving shortly. Cushioning blankets would be draped to protect the 120’s voluptuous curves.

As I walked out in anticipation of the tree service’s arrival, it dawned on me that the cars we love are not unlike the children we love. Only so much can be expected. In their honest failures they remain the subject of our affection never deserving of our anger.

In these uncertain times society as a whole faces life altering demands imposed by social distancing and imposed isolation.

That said, look on the bright side, as car people we have been well prepared for this solitary experience by the endless hours we have spent in our garage alone or with the same loyal friend or family member by our side.

Mustang Madness Revisited

Rich Varjan has accepted this unfortunate situation as an opportunity to sequester himself and his son Christopher in their garage with the 1969 Mustang that Varjan bought and raced in 1973. Last driven in the late 1970s, Varjan’s Mustang has suffered decades of neglect followed by spotty efforts over the last 15 years to bring it back to life. Now with few competing distractions, it appears the Mustang’s time has come.

Varjan a gregarious and genial bull of a man has been a “car guy” since his teen years growing up in Oradell, NJ. Today he operates European Exchange, a highly respected transmission repair and rebuilding business in Hackensack, NJ.

By the early 2000s Varjan’s Mustang sat literally as a sad shell of its once high performance self. Little remained of critical support structures. For “Collectible automobiles” class members it was the epitome of the “Buy It Or Bury It” question. In Varjan’s mind the choice was clear, scrap it or start from scratch with a tube chassis. As Varjan says, “Anyone in his right mind would have scrapped it. Still that Mustang meant so much to me, I decided to rebuild it.”

Varjan envisioned the resurrected Mustang returning to life in full out Pro-Street trim. While street legal, a Pro-Street car’s signature high performance engine and NHRA roll cage clearly screams track racing. His Mustang would not disappoint.

Stroked to 393 cu. in. with 13.5 to 1 compression, the Mustang’s original 351 cu in Windsor has been totally rebuilt. Dyno tested at over 600 horsepower, the stroked Windsor quietly sulked in a corner of the garage as it impatiently waited to be mated to the custom race tuned tube chassis Varjan had fabricated in the mid-2000s.

Having the awesome power delivered though a 6-speed Richmond transmission and 4.56 gears consummates a marriage made for quarter mile heaven. To get that power to the pavement, eighteen inch Budnik forged wheels wear Mickey Thompson Sportsman tires with the rears delivering plenty of bite courtesy of 18-inch tread width.

Much work still remains as Varjan attends to every detail with a jeweler’s eye and an artist’s hand. Surfaces that the public will never see benefit from focused attention. The bell housing enjoys a proper prepping prior to powder coating. The engine bay benefits from a routing plan with precision worthy of a Presidential motorcade.

While sparse, the interior shows well with premium seating and custom carpeted surfaces.

Sometimes luck does play a role. Earlier this year settling on the proper blue for the Mustang’s exterior consumed countless hours, numerous chips and frustrating tests. Then on a parts run to an Audi dealer, Varjan, upon entering the showroom, came face to face with a new Audi TT RS resplendent in the exact blue he wanted. Getting the Audi’s PPG paint code from the dealer concluded the color search.

In practicing the necessary precautions demanded of us all, Rich Varjan used the Covid-19 lockdown to bring his long stalled Mustang project up to speed.

Have you self quarantined with your collectible vehicle? Now that you have the time you always wished for to work on your car, what have you done?