I read that tattered manual cover to cover several times; it was the last thing I looked at before falling asleep, and the first thing I picked up when I would awake.
"Rita Hayworth used to say, 'They go to bed with Gilda; they wake up with me.'"
Julia Roberts in Notting Hill
The photos in the owner's manual were taken of a brand new car, and I mentally prepared to take on the varying maintenance tasks that the VW would require. But when I finally got home from our trip, disappointment ensued. I found that most of the Bug's undercarriage, hidden underneath 28 years of grease and grime, was unrecognizable from the manual's pictures. I was equally lost looking at the engine. Mechanically, I had to face the fact that I was out of my element.
So, instead of turning wrenches, I grabbed some cleaning supplies. Two applications of rubbing compound brought the paint back to life, and a buffer on the end of a drill made the Bug shine. I washed, scrubbed, and ArmorAll-ed every nook and cranny. Then I washed it again. I finalized the process by installing a used radio, a new mirror, and two new running boards. The cherry on the top was the required "Oakley Thermonuclear Protection" windshield decal that every cool car in 1990 wore with pride (admission: I couldn't afford a real pair of Oakley sunglasses, so I just bought the sticker). Here's Bob and I posing with the results of my efforts:
As for working on the car, that was all I could do. I was a cleaner, not a mechanic. During those boring, small-town summer nights when I was too tired to wash anything, I'd just sit outside on our cement steps and look at my car until it got to be too dark, or it was time to go in and watch TV http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrERtikdPus.
"The first car I bought was the most beautiful car I've ever seen. It was second hand, but I parked it outside my hotel the day I got it and stayed up all night just looking at it. The next day it caught fire and burned up on the road...'" Elvis Presley
I drove my little car to college for a year, but when I was hired to teach high school in Urbandale, the VW was left behind. My single bedroom apartment was only allotted one parking space, and I didn't need the headache or the bills that come with having two non-reliable cars. So, I packed up my late grandpa's 1984 Chevette, and headed off to the big city of Des Moines.
Some people may think it's strange to just sit and silently admire a car, but I'm not the only one guilty of the offense. Even Elvis Presley, deep down, was just a regular car guy.
"The first car I bought was the most beautiful car I've ever seen. It was second hand, but I parked it outside my hotel the day I got it and stayed up all night just looking at it. The next day it caught fire and burned up on the road...'" Elvis Presley
I drove my little car to college for a year, but when I was hired to teach high school in Urbandale, the VW was left behind. My single bedroom apartment was only allotted one parking space, and I didn't need the headache or the bills that come with having two non-reliable cars. So, I packed up my late grandpa's 1984 Chevette, and headed off to the big city of Des Moines.
(Sidebar: That Chevette was a horrible car. If I ran the air conditioner in the summer, a full gas tank would run dry in 40 minutes. In the winter months I had to go out in the snow at 6:30 every morning and prop the hood open with a block of wood, so I could spray starting fluid into the carburetor. Then I would go back inside and wait 10 minutes before I could even think of turning the ignition key.)
Dad drove the Bug to work for a few years, and after he retired the VW followed him from Iowa to South Dakota (Marion, and then Sioux Falls respectively).
In the summer 2006, Dad was ready to pass the torch back to me. The Bug hadn't been driven in a couple of years, and he commissioned a local mechanic in Marion to get the car running again. Daph and I drove up to Sioux Falls to retrieve my VW, and I was less than enthusiastic when I saw it. Dad had replaced the tires and the battery, but he had also backed into the car several times, shot out a side window, and cracked the windshield. The interior reeked of stale air and cigarettes, and when I tried to get rolling in first gear the transmission shook the car violently. Still, I was willing to take a chance to get my little buddy home. In retrospect, I should have rented a U-Haul truck, but fools rush in...
Driving a 44 year old car at interstate speeds can be pretty stressful. Driving one without seat belts and drum brakes that require a double pump is probably pretty dangerous. The only way to climb those steep interstate hills was to come down the previous hill at a minimum of 75 mph, and that really felt like I was pushing the little guy too hard, but I did it to keep the semi trucks on our tail from running us over.
When I stopped at a truck stop near Missouri Valley to fill the gas tank, I blew out a sigh of relief that we had driven two hours without getting killed. Then the Bug died, and that new battery refused to turn the starter. In 1962 Volkswagens still utilized a six volt system, and so I didn't know how to use Daphne's modern 12 volt battery to jump start the Bug. I didn't want to set the car on fire. Luckily, Dad left a large and dirty blanket in the trunk. We wrapped my rear bumper with the blanket, and Daphne used her Saturn to push start me. I just put the Bug in second gear, and popped the clutch when we got to 10 mph.
By the time I pulled the Bug into our driveway my nerves felt as if someone had pressed me through a kitchen colander, my back was shooting sparks, and I couldn't extend my fingers all the way open after vice-gripping the steering wheel for five hours.
The Bug wasn't doing very well, either. The front left wheel was smoking and leaking grease from underneath its hub cap, and the engine sounded like someone shaking a metal box full of marbles.
But at least we were home.
In the summer 2006, Dad was ready to pass the torch back to me. The Bug hadn't been driven in a couple of years, and he commissioned a local mechanic in Marion to get the car running again. Daph and I drove up to Sioux Falls to retrieve my VW, and I was less than enthusiastic when I saw it. Dad had replaced the tires and the battery, but he had also backed into the car several times, shot out a side window, and cracked the windshield. The interior reeked of stale air and cigarettes, and when I tried to get rolling in first gear the transmission shook the car violently. Still, I was willing to take a chance to get my little buddy home. In retrospect, I should have rented a U-Haul truck, but fools rush in...
Driving a 44 year old car at interstate speeds can be pretty stressful. Driving one without seat belts and drum brakes that require a double pump is probably pretty dangerous. The only way to climb those steep interstate hills was to come down the previous hill at a minimum of 75 mph, and that really felt like I was pushing the little guy too hard, but I did it to keep the semi trucks on our tail from running us over.
When I stopped at a truck stop near Missouri Valley to fill the gas tank, I blew out a sigh of relief that we had driven two hours without getting killed. Then the Bug died, and that new battery refused to turn the starter. In 1962 Volkswagens still utilized a six volt system, and so I didn't know how to use Daphne's modern 12 volt battery to jump start the Bug. I didn't want to set the car on fire. Luckily, Dad left a large and dirty blanket in the trunk. We wrapped my rear bumper with the blanket, and Daphne used her Saturn to push start me. I just put the Bug in second gear, and popped the clutch when we got to 10 mph.
By the time I pulled the Bug into our driveway my nerves felt as if someone had pressed me through a kitchen colander, my back was shooting sparks, and I couldn't extend my fingers all the way open after vice-gripping the steering wheel for five hours.
The Bug wasn't doing very well, either. The front left wheel was smoking and leaking grease from underneath its hub cap, and the engine sounded like someone shaking a metal box full of marbles.
But at least we were home.
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