In 1972, I REALLY wanted a P1800ES. Being freshly discharged from the Navy and unemployed my young wife was of the opinion that the car was too expensive and too impractical.
In March of 1973, being gainfully employed by the Westinghouse Electric Corporation as
an engineer, I did buy a new Volvo 142.
Now, fast forward 25 or so years. I am getting within shooting distance of retirement. I
have dutifully purchased cars that met our needs, as opposed to my fantasies. I am a hot
rodder at heart. But, I have subdued my urges for the sake of domestic bliss. My wife
drives a minivan that can hold all of our dogs. I have a reliable all-weather vehicle that will
get me to my client's office when needed. I have also been thinking about a "project"
vehicle to work on and play with when I retire.
About three years ago I started going to car shows and swap meets, buying magazines and
sending for catalogs. I vacillated about what kind of vehicle I wanted to work on, i.e. kit
car, street rod, one-off, etc. Then, a couple of months ago I saw an ad for an old car in
town that fit into the universe of cars I would be interested in making a street rod out of, so
I went to look at it.
The owner wanted a grand for his 47 Oldsmobile Series 60 fastback. The trunk was rusted
out, along with parts of the floor. I decided right there that wasn't the way I wanted to go.
It dawned on me that what I should do is get the car that I ALWAYS wanted: an ES! So I
started scouring Hemmings and the internet to get an idea what the market was like, so
when the day did come, I would be educated and knowledgeable. My perfect candidate
would be something that was esthetically unpleasing but with a straight, no rust body.
High mileage would be a plus, as it would scare off the meek wannabes and also be a firm
rationale for rebuilding the engine. Any other minor defects would just be help keep the
price low: I plan on rebuilding EVERYTHING to new specs anyway.
In early September, I saw an ugly brown '73 for sale on e-bay. There wasn't much interest
in it. It was in Sacramento and from the pictures I could see it had never been hurt too
badly and the seller claimed NO RUST, except a small bit at the bottom of the lift window.
The interior was sun damaged. The odometer said 161 thousand. Perfect candidate for a
project car!
Well, I don't have a place to park this beast and I really didn't want to get involved this
early, BUT....
My wife came home from the grocery store. "We now own three cars." I calmly
announced as she came into the computer room where the e-bay screen was still displayed.
Saturday, October 13, 2001. I flew to Sacramento to pick up the car I had paid for a
month earlier. The plan was to drive the car back to Omaha by midnight Sunday, so I
wouldn't miss any work. Remember the ads for Volvos back in the early 70's? "100,000
miles at 100 mph" Hey, any B20 that is turning over ought to have enough life for 1200
miles of interstate driving.
The car had a bad muffler. The windshield wipers didn't work, nor the heater fan. The
speedometer was disconnected and the tach flailed around wildly at idle and was
questionable at higher RPMs. The seat was not far enough back to allow my six foot, two
inch body to get in and out easily. The rear shocks were doing little more than occupying
space. The sun had rotted out everything rubber and vinyl.
The seller had supposedly done a tuneup. He installed some plugs I had never heard of.
He had de-greased the car the day before and now it was running rough. I pulled all of the
plugs and cleaned them enough to get the car running. I didn't like the looks of the wires
and one of the insulators broke as I was connecting the wire to the plug.
Hey, I was worried about BIG things like engine and transmission. As long as it moved I
figured I would be OK.
Included with the car was a service manual and the original owners manual. As a small
bonus, the seller gave me a mint March 1972 Road and Track that had a road test of the
ES. Lord, how I wish I would have taken the time to read the magazine right then! (It will
become obvious as the story unfolds)
After getting the paperwork kind of in order (seller couldn't find the title) I said I needed to
get on the road. The gas gauge read empty. I asked the seller how much the tank held and
he said 15 gallons. I followed him to the nearest station where I put 9.8 gallons in. I was
expecting closer to 14, but didn't think much of it.
My trip over Donner's Pass was uneventful, albeit noisy. I passed an occasional truck and
all of the yuppies flew past me in their assorted M's and Z's. One newish Volvo passed by
and the passenger waved and gave an enthusiastic grin.
I stopped at Reno for fuel and to call my wife. I figured if I could make it to Reno the rest
of the trip was in the bag. I was a couple of hours later than I wanted to be, but maybe I
could make up for it. Across the desert I headed, full of confidence.
I didn't know how fast I was going and the engine didn't seem to have any excess power
and it was popping now and then. I settled in behind an 18 wheeler who said she was
doing about 72 on the flats. I could live with that.
I made a plan to stop for fuel every 200 miles. That put me at Battle Mountain, NV. It was
getting late and I called my wife and said that I was going on to either Elko or Wendover,
depending on how I felt. I had been up since 5 in the morning and it was around 9 at
night. (Central time)
The wind picked up as I headed for Elko and the lack of rubber around the windows
resulted in a cross draft across the top of my bald head. I did not pack a cap. A paper
napkin from McDonald's was just the right size to cover my head and be anchored by the
ear pieces of my eyeglasses.
I stopped in Elko for the night. It was only 9 PM, local time, but I bypassed the casino and
went straight to bed. I slept a good solid 8 hours and left the next morning about six.
As I approached Wendover I calculated that I didn't need to stop for gas, based on 15
gallons of fuel. It was just 75 miles to the next fuel stop, which should have been in my
range.
51.2 miles into Utah I ran out of gas. A newish Volvo passed by, without waving or
stopping. Might as well have been a BMW driver. An hour later a kind motorist stopped
and took me to a rest area. I called AAA. An hour later I was back on the road.
The car was running rough, still. It didn't want to take the throttle. I filled with gas in
Salt Lake. I am wondering why it doesn't take any more fuel! Regardless, I thought, I will
not go one mile more than 200 miles, even if the gauge is reading full!
I considered getting professional help for the tuning of the engine. Mechanically
everything seemed to be humming along, but there was obviously something not right with
the ignition or fuel system.
Where do you find assistance for an old, foreign car in Salt Lake City on Sunday morning?
I asked the young man at the C-Store, who had an older BMW parked out front. He said
there wasn't any place he knew of.
I trundled on.
Heading east on I-80 out of Salt Lake City puts you immediately into the mountains. The
car was not happy this time. It was sputtering and coughing and barely able to continue
forward progress in second gear. A Vanagon passed me.
I made it over the first peak and thought I might be able to continue, but in a few miles the
road started climbing again and this time the sputtering and popping was severe and
whatever remained of the front muffler got blown away.
The car died at the Park City off ramp and I coasted as far as I could, but didn't quite
make it to the end.
I was 99% sure the problem was ignition. In any event, that would be the only thing I could
possibly fix. If the problem was in the D-Jet I would have to get professional help on
Monday.
Luck was with me. After finding out there IS a parts store nearby, I spotted a passing taxi!
The parts store was surprisingly helpful and I left with plugs, wires, points and condenser.
I also bought a couple of tools I needed, but did not buy a locking style screwdriver which
is always handy for starting the screw that holds the points in place.
The old plugs looked OK, but I changed them and the wires anyway. I popped the
distributor cap and, while the taxi driver operated the key, I watched the points. AHA!!
They were not opening!
I got the engine to the top of the first available distributor cam lobe and made a gap in the points.
The points did not look all that great, but I left them in anyway, just to see if that solved
the problem.
It fired right up. It raced like the dickens, but it was running. Of course, I had no idea
what the timing was, or the gap or the dwell. Eh??!! Details.
OK, here is the plan. I paid off the cab driver who had stayed with me for an hour, ferried
me a few miles around Park City and turned the key in the ignition when I needed it. He
would follow me to the next exit and if I was happy I would keep going and he would head
home. If I was not happy I would exit with him and would plan what to do after that.
The car took the throttle nicely and actually acted like it had a few ponies left in it. As I
sped past the exit I waved at the taxi driver and headed toward Wyoming. I wanted to get
out of Utah real bad.
The engine was still popping a bit so I decided I would bite the bullet and stop one more
time and put in the new points. It could only make things better. I stopped at a off ramp
for Coalville, and pulled into a CLOSED garage parking lot.
I got the cam lobe near the top and pulled out the old points. Getting the screw started with
my "all-in-one" tool was a little bit of a challenge, but eventually I got it started. I made a
small gap on the points, tightened the crew and connected the wire.
After reassembling the cap I gave it a try and it fired right up. Once again I headed
toward Wyoming.
There was less popping and sputtering, but it did backfire a little during deceleration. I
navigated more ups and downs and only had to downshift out of overdrive on the worst
grades.
Around 4:12 PM, local time, I crossed the state line into Wyoming. Over 8 hours to go 187
miles. I was not going to make it to Omaha that day!
In Wyoming the car seemed to run stronger every mile. The noise was so bad I tried some
homemade ear plugs. They helped a small amount.
Over the CB radio a truck driver commented on my car when I was just west of Rock
Springs, my next fuel stop. After I fueled I moved my car from the pump area to the
parking area and there was this young man I had been chatting with. It turns out he has
an 85 turbo brick that he is spiffing up. He looked over my car very closely and we chatted
for nearly a half hour.
Back on the road, heading for Cheyenne. I still have no idea how fast I am traveling, but I
kept the speed at 4000 rpm, which seemed to be reasonable. Occasionally someone would
pass me and I kept passing the truck traffic. Night fell and I was humming right along. I
am glad it was night so few people would see my napkin head cover and weird ear plugs.
I called the wife from Laramie, my next fuel stop, to let her know I was OK and I would be
stopping at Cheyenne. There had been a few snow flakes in the air west of Laramie, but as
I cruised over to Cheyenne I saw stars.
I took the service manual and the owner's manual into my motel room. I suspected the
throttle return spring was broken/missing/stretched. The manual showed me where to
look. The owner's manual showed the gas tank only holds ELEVEN gallons of gas. No
wonder I was short!
I formulated a plan. The first thing in the morning I would check the spring situation and
maybe do something about the noise. I didn't really want to invest much in a muffler since
the entire exhaust system will be replaced during the rebuild project. It was 10, local time
and I set the alarm for 6.
I woke up at 5, for reasons only a bald person would appreciate. I decided to just make the
best of the situation and hit the road.
As I opened the door to leave the motel I saw this beautiful, wintry scene. All of the cars in
the parking lot were covered with 4 inches of snow. The wind must have been swirling
because every side was covered with snow.
I did not have a snow brush, a scraper, gloves or mittens. The desk clerk gave me a
complimentary scraper that had the tiniest handle imaginable.
The snow was covering a layer of frozen rain. Getting the snow kind of swept away left my
hand very cold. I retreated to the warmth of the lobby. The second round of scraping gave
me enough ice free surfaces to safely navigate.
I left the parking lot only to discover the streets were 100% ice covered. Let's see here: you
are in a sports car, it has no throttle return spring, it is the middle of the night and the
roads are all ice. Head for the nearest restaurant!
I ordered a breakfast big enough to keep me occupied for an hour. I bought the local paper
and read all of it while emptying the coffee decanter. I listened to the conversations of the
other patrons and determined that the snow ended just 25 miles east of Cheyenne. By this
time dawn was only a few minutes away.
I eased onto I-80, just a mile behind a salt spreader. My beautiful, never- been -salted car
was not going to escape! I slowly (??) drove on. An 18 wheeler came blowing past me, and
I just figured he was nuttier than me.
The ice stopped as advertised, but reappeared for a few miles before disappearing
altogether at Pine Bluff. The car was running great, so I pushed the revs up to an indicated
4300, or so.
I stopped for gas in Sidney, NE. I opened the hood and sure enough, there was no throttle
spring. I asked about an auto parts store and headed there. I was no longer in any hurry.
I would be home that afternoon, sometime, regardless of how long I dinked around.
I found a spring that worked and a box of ear plugs. I also asked whether or not there
might be someplace that could help me with my exhaust problem. The guys called around
to a couple of places and found someone who would take a look.
I had to wait a few minutes for a tire replacement to be executed, but soon I was on the lift.
They didn't have a replacement muffler, so they just cut out the old muffler and put in a
piece of pipe. $32 to get out of town with a raspy old sports car, but all of the noise was
going out the back.
On the road, everything was nice and quiet, although there was a 40 mph cross wind.
After making up my head gear I cranked up the revs to about 4500 indicated. Everything
was smooth and seemingly happy.
I had no real idea how fast I was going. The speed limit is 75 and the patrol usually will
give you ten if you aren't being a maniac. The trucks can generally only crank out 75
anyway. I travel I-80 a lot and usually I pass a few cars and occasionally some bozo will
blow past me.
After a half hour, nobody had passed me. I didn't think much about it, one way or the
other. The car was humming, I was in my home state, and I was driving my very own ES!!
I saw the patrolman getting on I-80 about a half mile ahead of me. I didn't slow any and I
passed him, 'cause I figured he was still accelerating. He stayed behind me for a few miles
and then turned on his lights.
He was laughing as I rolled down the window. I am wearing a napkin on my head. The
CB radio is on the seat next to me, along with two days worth of munchy wrappers, fast
food beverage cups and maps.
He gave me a warning. I explained that the speedo wasn't working and I had only the tach
to go by and it was erratic. I tried timing the mile markers and thought I was OK.
The policy is to not reveal the speed when they give you a warning. Thanks a lot!! I will
gladly comply if I have some idea of how much to slow down!! I asked if ten per cent would
do it and he said, "Maybe a little more." Of course, I didn't know if that reduction would
get me back to 75 or maybe even less.
So I backed off to 4000 for the rest of the trip. Occasionally a cannon-balling truck would
slide past me. I passed a car or a truck now and then and stayed with what I figured to be
the speeding-but-not-enough-to-get - a ticket crowd.
As I approached Lincoln, a pretty gal in a black Porsche slowed as she passed and gave me
a smile. Or maybe she was laughing at my headdress. That was the last event of any
significance of my odyssey.
I got home around three thirty, October 15.
Lessons learned: 1.OK, the trip was 400 miles further than I thought. 2. I should have
never left the house without a cap. 3. I don't recommend anyone doing the same thing.
There are auto transporters who will pick up and deliver the car for about the same money
as it costs to drive it yourself. 4. If you absolutely can't live with #3, get the car into as good
condition as possible BEFORE leaving the purchasers town, even if you have to spend an
extra day doing it.
I got to spend three days in my ES. I don't know if I am going to be able to leave it parked
for the next year. I just might have to drive it next summer.
Should I put a timing light on it and see what the timing is set at, or just leave it alone?
Post Script: I read the March 72 issue of Road and Track and their specs say 21 mph per
1000 rpm in overdrive. 4500 translates to 93 mph. Maybe I was and maybe I wasn't. I
will never know.