Two ‘Vairs, a Keg, and a Blizzard: Part One
Published August 2014
|
Kirk Parro |
It looks like it is my turn to write
a Director’s article again. Those of you who have been reading my “Seattle or
Bust” series might think that I would just finish that story off as my August
contribution to the Airhorn, but au contraire, I decided to
relate another one of my Corvair stories. The “Seattle or Bust” series will
continue elsewhere in these pages (and I promise it will come to an
end—eventually).
I think I’ll call this story, “Two
‘Vairs, a Keg, and a Blizzard”…
It was the winter of ’76–’77. My job
at B.F. Goodrich Chemical Co. (we’re the guys without a blimp!) had just gone
away, when, due to totally foreseen circumstances, Corporate in Akron decided
to shut down our plant in Chicago Heights, IL in an attempt to keep our sister
plant in Gloucester, MA open.
It didn’t work, they shut down three
years later.
But, back to my story. My good friend
(and longtime CCE member) Greg LaCosse was home for the holidays from his
studies at ASU in Tempe, AZ. As I had nothing going on for a while, I agreed to
join him on his trip back to school—maybe the job situation was better in the
desert (at this point the country was transitioning from “there used to be a
Ford in your future” to “Full Peanut”).
Our friend Roger Harris (another
long-time CCE member) provided a sweetener: He would pay for gas and lodging
for my return trip if I brought back a couple of rust-free Arizona Corvairs.
Done!
Roger had arranged for me to acquire
a late model Corsa from a fellow (who I shall refer to as “Arizona Swifty” for
reasons that will soon become apparent). This car was a turn-key runner, and I
was to have use of said car during my stay in the Phoenix area while Greg was
returning to classes. The second was to be a “pushmobile” that was towable but
still rust-free. Roger’s plan was to build one of the cars for himself, and the
other for some lucky Corvair aficionado, whose purchase price would cover the
cost of the one Roger wanted to rebuild for himself.
Bringing my own late model trailer
hitch and towbar. I was ready for anything—or so I thought.
The first thing I discovered upon my
arrival in the Valley of the Sun, was that Arizona Swifty had sold the running
Corsa while Greg and I were traveling down I-40. I really had little cause for
complaint, as Roger had not sent Swifty any earnest money—Roger was unaware
that there were others interested in the car, but it would have been nice to
know. Furthermore, he had no more running Corvairs—his rather large collection
was a pile of cars without engines and a few repairable engines without cars.
We went over to another guy in the local club who had (and still has) a number
of cars and a huge pile of parts. The two of them tried to sell me a New York
car that had plenty of rust in all the usual places—I demurred.
Back at Swifty’s place, I finally
agreed to a late coupe with no interior, no engine, a four speed, marginal
tires, and a 95HP engine with a broken carburetor mount on the intake manifold.
Of course, this meant that I would be spending some time getting the vehicle
assembled rather than looking for jobs or seeing the sights. A second car that
was at least towable was selected—still, no interior, but there was little that
needed to be done.
A few days later, I had a car that
would run, but it was no beauty. With only a driver’s seat inside, I figured
that I did not need much else. The heater worked (good thing, as this was the
end of January) but the battery needed to be replaced. Swifty complained
mightily at this, but I was adamant—this guy was getting a fair amount of money
for a lot of MY work, and I had no desire to be taken any more.
It turned out that I should have
replaced the starter as well.
To be continued
Two ‘Vairs, a Keg, and a Blizzard: Part Two
Published September 2014
|
Kirk Parro |
In last month’s Airhorn, I
began a new Corvair story concerning a trip to Arizona I made back in the
winter of ‘76-77, bringing back two Corvairs for my friend Roger Harris (a long
ago CCE member). We’ll pick up right where I left off, starting the trip home…
When it came time for me to return to
the “Land o’ Frost,” I piled my gear into the trunk of the driver car, and a
keg of Coor’s Banquet beer into the trunk of the towed car—after all the temps
were in the mid 70’s, and I would be driving with few stops—or so I thought.
I should mention that, back in those
days, Coor’s was ONLY sold west of Nebraska—many folks would pay for their
western trips by bringing back “bootlegged” cases of Coor’s and selling them at
inflated prices. I was going them one better—I was going to have a party with a
whole keg! To this day, Coor’s Original banquet beer is one of my favorites,
but don’t try to give me one of those “Silver Bullets”, I cannot stand
them—and, oddly enough, that is the ONLY Coors available in most Chicago area
bars—go figure.
Shortly after leaving Arizona, I
discovered that the reason the battery was having trouble starting the car was
that the starter was pretty well shot—it worked OK when the engine was cold,
but it was very “iffy” when warm. Still, I figured that I would be able to deal
with that—all I would have to do was wait it out.
Or so I thought.
I stopped at a roadside parking area
for tractor-trailers in the New Mexico mountains for a quick nap. Prudence
dictated that I park the car so that I could let the car roll forward downhill
to start it—just in case. After a refreshing break, I discovered that the
engine was now TOO COLD for the starter to work, so I merely released the
parking brake and dumped the clutch. Off I went.
Traveling through Oklahoma, I was
pulled over by an OK State trooper who demanded to know (in a thick Southwest
accent), “Where’s your tags?”
Tags? What do you mean by tags?, I
asked.
“TAGS FOR YOUR CAR, YOU IDIOT!”
“Oh, you mean plates?” I had never
heard the term “tags” used for license plates before.
Indeed, I had removed the plates that
came with the car, but still had them in my possession. I figured that I did
not want to be caught with invalid plates from another owner—that was big
trouble in Illinois, but I did not realize that in Arizona, the plates went
with the car, not with the owner, so they were still considered valid. After
convincing the trooper that I was merely stupid, and not a miscreant, he
allowed me to continue without a ticket, but he warned me, “I don’t think
you’re going to get the rest of the way home without a violation.”
I continued on. As I was traveling
into Missouri, I tried to get some weather reports for the Chicago area. The
reason for this was that, as the sun went down and the outside temperature
started to drop, the heater blower of the car I was driving suddenly went,
“Gaaack!” and ceased to function. I pulled into a gas station around midnight
and the helpful attendants pulled my shivering frozen body out of the car and
into the station, where they poured hot coffee into me, giving me a much needed
revival. The only weather information they had for me wasn’t good—a big
blizzard was heading down out of Canadia (where the Canadans live).
I drove into increasingly bitter
cold, and the only weather report I was able to hear referenced -100F wind
chills. That did not sound good, but I had no alternative, and I pressed on.
I crossed the Mississippi in St.
Louis and headed north on I-55. Cold as all getout, but no snow—yet. At least
the sun was up.
I got to our proud state capitol,
Springfield, and now it started to snow—frankly, it was pretty bad and getting
worse, but I had never failed to arrive anywhere I was going just due to
weather, so I kept going. Suddenly, traffic stopped, and an Illinois State
Trooper took note of the lack of “tags” on the cars I was transporting. I
explained to him my situation and he relented, remarking “I’d be surprised if
you make it all the way home without a ticket.”
He then advised me that I-55 was
closed Northbound.
Hmm.
The rest of the story next month.
Two ‘Vairs, a Keg, and a Blizzard: Part Three
Published October 2014
|
Kirk Parro |
The last two months, I have been
relating my story of transporting two restorable Corvairs from Arizona to long
ago CCE member Roger Harris, who then lived in Janesville, WI. After assembling
a driveable car from parts in Phoenix, I proceeded to tow a second ‘Vair, and
placed a keg of Coor’s Original Banquet Beer (at that time still not sold east
of Wyoming) in the trunk, for a great “welcome home” party.
Unfortunately, Mother Nature
conspired with the Corvair Gods (a notoriously fickle bunch at the best of
times!) and sent me a blizzard, right about the time that the heater blower
went GAAACCKK!
At the end of last month’s part, I
had made it into Illinois before the heavy snow began, and was moving smoothly
along Interstate 55, when traffic came to a halt. An Illinois State trooper
took note of the lack of plates on the cars in my possession, but was
apparently too busy to issue me any citations (perhaps he was also feeling
charitable for this half frozen, starving dimbulb who begged to sit in his warm
patrol car for a few minutes.) He warned me that it was unlikely that I would
reach my destination without any tickets. He also informed me that I-55 was
closed north of where I was.
The story continues…
Considering that the Interstate was
closed, I decided that the only thing to do was to take the surface roads—the
trooper hadn’t said anything about those. As I continued to wend my way northward,
I began to encounter snowdrifts across the roads. I hit the first ones at a low
speed and was able to ram through pretty easily, but, as the drifts got larger,
I found that I had to hit them at increasing speeds, until I realized I was
skating over the larger ones at almost 60MPH! I got out and checked the towbar
and vehicles—all still OK.
After a while, I decided to head
east, towards I-55—maybe I had gotten past the closed section. I was still
hitting snowdrifts but the next one was too much—I ALMOST made it through!
Fortunately, a farmer came by with
his tractor—he had been pulling stuck motorists out all day. We hooked up his
chain and the cars came out easily. He told me that I-55 was a short distance
ahead, so I drove on.
I got back on the Interstate and
drove north until traffic stopped again. A well bundled State Trooper walked up
to my car(s) and said, “What the Hell are you doing here? I told you the
interstate was closed!”
I was preparing to explain (at least
I was sitting in a nice warm squad car!) when the call came over the police
radio that everyone on I-55 was to proceed to the Dixon truck stop (site of a
pretty good Route 66 Museum) and to spend the night at the nearby National
Guard Armory.
I sheepishly drove the still running
Corvair to the truck stop and shut it off. I went inside the truck stop, got a
cup of coffee and waited for the next bus to the armory (I had just missed
one). While I was waiting, there was a general announcement, “I-55 is now
open to Interstate 80!”
I rushed back to the Corvair—was the
engine too hot to start? Was it too cold? Luckily, I was in the middle of the
approximately five minute window when the bad starter would work. Off I went.
The trip north on I-55 was, frankly,
sobering. Cars and trucks were buried in the 8–12 foot high drifts on both
sides of the single lane. If anybody broke down, there was no place to pull
over. Thank God no one (especially me!) had any problems—I got to I-80 and made
it home around dark.
The next day, I put a booster on the
battery, started the car, and proceeded to head up to Janesville, WI, to
deliver the cars to Roger (I had stepped on the scale in my bathroom—I had
lost 15 pounds in 48 hours!). I was less than ten miles from the Wisconsin
state line, when I suddenly saw red lights in my rear view mirror—an Illinois
State Trooper was pulling me over!
You might guess he was pulling me
over for lack of “tags”. You would be correct. This time I did get the ticket,
but at least Roger got his cars, Ed Wargo got a very nice rust free Arizona
Corsa (haven’t seen it in a while, Ed!), and I learned a few lessons about
transporting cars cross-country in the winter.
Oh, that keg of Coors? Apparently the
thermal mass of the beer was insufficient to keep it liquid—it froze solid, and
blew out the bunghole. Roger found a lot of foam in the trunk, and when he
thawed out some of the remaining beer, it was flat.
Oh, well…
|