How a clock repairman introduced me to roadsters

When I was growing up, we shared a back alley with a gentleman named Tom. He and his wife lived in a lovely late-Victorian home with several purebred dogs, a yard full of wisteria, and a number of wonderful antique clocks. You see, Tom is one of the dying breeds of tradesmen who knows how to repair clocks. This attention to detail made him the perfect owner for the two vintage British roadsters he kept in the back yard.

On a particular Saturday every April, you'd hear a thunderously-tinny sound coming from his back yard. White smoke would envelop the neighborhood, birds would fly en masse to roost a block away, and the smell of crankcase oil and starter fluid would fill the air. Hearing the cars start up meant that Spring had arrived to the neighborhood!

Tom spent most of his summers driving a red 1963 Triumph TR4 around town, though his blue 1961 Austin Healey Bugeye Sprite made a rare appearance every few years. He loved the Triumph, as the patina on the car revealed, and when it wasn't being driven, it was secured only by a black tonneau cover.

I always liked that car, but never got the nerve to ask him for a ride. But one day when I was 14, I heard the phone ring, and my father was soon excited and laughing. When he hung up, he came into the room.

"Get your shoes on. Tom wants to show you something," he said with a big smile.

Shoes on, I waited outside on the porch. A moment later, I heard the small displacement Triumph turn the corner, and it stopped in front of our house. It was April, and the car hadn't been out much, so the top was still on. I watched as Tom's lanky 6'2" frame unfolded from inside the car. He looked over, and yelled, "Let's go for some ice cream."

I was ecstatic! I ran off the porch down to the little red car. I was a bit disappointed that the top was up, but I wasn't complaining. My true feelings must have shown on my young face, though. "Let's put the top down," he said. "It gets better gas mileage that way, anyhow."

Once we'd disassembled the top, and took a seat in the car, I started scanning the interior environment. Its horsehair-stuffed leather seats smelled lovely. And because it was a driver, some parts of the dash had some wear to them, but it was all great patina. I latched the 3" wide aircraft-style lap belt, and cinched it tight.

A turn of the key brought the 2138cc engine to a puttery start. It didn't have a lovely idle, but once in gear and moving, that wonderful British roadster noise (which can only come from a carbureted four cylinder) blasted from the tailpipe and into my psyche. Tom was great about winding out the gears, and the car responded with a melodious array of exhaust pops and vibrato. I'd look out over the hood, and stare down the lovely teardrop of a hood bulge that covered the carburetors, imagining that I could see the throttle plates open up wide. And I'd occasionally glance down at the array of gauges in the dash to make sure all was well. It felt and sounded like I was riding co-pilot in a biplane, and we were ready for some barnstorming!

Through the backroads we ran - 10, maybe 20 miles. Just two car lovers enjoying a fun, little roadster.

Years later, I would buy my own roadster, a 1991 Mazda Miata, also red with black interior. It was a great car, but it lacked the raw personality and purity of the Triumph. When I drove that Miata, a part of me always felt like it was Tom's TR4.

I never got another ride in the Triumph, and when I ran into Tom a few years ago, he mentioned he hadn't run the car in several more. Admittedly, I was crushed. But I gave him my contact information, with the promise to let me know if he ever wanted to sell the red Triumph. It would mean not only a cool car in my garage, but a chance to relive those memories from my childhood.

I'm still anxiously waiting for his call.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

When Cadillac was king

I met my friend Bob about five years ago while working at the motorcycle shop. He's a wonderfully unassuming, yet classy gentleman who's been around cars and motorcycles (and boats and planes) his whole life. But one of his endearing (and admirable) qualities is his great attention to detail. When making repairs, he's very particular, and everything is done carefully in proper sequence.

This, of course, makes him the perfect one to own and care for some fine machinery.

One of the vehicles he owns is a 1931 Cadillac All-Season sedan. Now, this isn't just any old Cadillac. It's fully restored. It's a Pebble Beach class winner. And it's one of only 4,067 chassis that came with Cadillac's V16 engine.

From 1930-1940, at the height of The Great Depression, Cadillac introduced it's most powerful, most expensive car ever: the Cadillac Series 452. At the time, Cadillacs were available in V8, V12, and now a V16 configuration. Rumor has it that Cadillac heard Packard was developing a new V12 in the late 1920s, and waited until after Packard released the V12 to launch their own V16, and steal Packard's marketing thunder.

GM's design chief, Harley Earl (arguably the father of "tail fins" which appeared on cars in the 1950s),wanted GM to build a car in the same fashion as European cars of the time. When you purchased a new Cadillac, you purchased the chassis and engine. Then, you were given a choice of 10 body styles, and dealers had an additional 30 design sketches that buyers could choose. Colors were to the buyer's tastes. Today, the Cadillac/LaSalle club estimates there were over 70 different body configurations that buyers could choose!

The first two years saw a production of nearly 3,000 cars, then production dropped off sharply. In 1935 and 1936, only 50 cars each year were built. From 1930-1937, the V16 was an overhead valve, 452ci behemoth, and looks much like two straight-eights side by side. By 1938, Cadillac went to a smaller 431 engine, which had a wider V to the cylinders, along with a flathead-style cylinder head design (and dual everything). All of which made for a smoother engine that still put out the same power as the previous one.

Bob's 1931 is an All-Weather sedan, which means it is a four-door convertible. There is even a glass divider window between the front and rear seats. It is a late Fleetwood body, which is easily recognizable by it's v-shaped split windshield (Fisher-bodied cars have a flat, one-piece window). It weighs nearly three tons, and is larger than most Ryder trucks. But it is loaded up with chrome, and is a polarizingly beautiful automobile. I say "automobile", because calling it a "car" would be an insult to such a fine machine!

So several weeks ago, I got a call from Bob. He'd been invited to bring the Cadillac to a private car show, and asked if I wanted to ride along. I said "yes" instantaneously, figuring whatever else might be on the calendar could be blown off.

Early on a Saturday morning, his Corvette rumbled up my driveway in the darkness, and we sped off into the dawn sunrise towards the car's storage facility.

Upon arrival, we parked the 'Vette, and stood there in the chilly pre-dawn light staring at a white garage door. The door rolled open, and there sat the Cadillac. In the darkness of the garage, I could only make out the chrome details which sparkled like the jewelry it was intended to be. Bob got behind the wheel, and the slowest starter I'd ever heard turned over the massive crankshaft. The engine came to life, and 16 cylinders of power forced their exhaust gasses into the morning with authority.

As the car backed out of the garage, I stood there staring at it nearly breathless. The car was stunning in it's dark blue and silver paint, wide white wall tires and perfect chrome details. By today's standards, it's an antique. I can only imagine how it looked to a young car enthusiast when it was new in 1931. Eighty years later, it'll still melts the heart of nearly anyone who lays an eye upon it.

I opened the suicide-style front door and climbed in over the chrome and polished wood running boards. Once inside, you sit on a springy bench seat covered in silvery leather. The dash board is a gorgeous piece of machine-turned metal, which houses eight gauges done in art-deco font. You'd be happy to hang it on your wall as art. A little to the left is a massive ivory steering wheel with levers to adjust fuel, idle and choke. And if you can pry your eyes away from the beauty of the interior, you can look down the long hood and see the hood ornament on the radiator cap - a graceful, chromed swan standing nearly 10" from feet to upraised wing tips.

The transmission is a three-speed manual. The first two gears are straight-cut, so the gear whine is tremendously loud, and your initial comparison is that this fine machine sounds much like a mundane school bus. But it's not until you change to third gear that the gear noise vanishes, the engine's song comes through the firewall, and the car moves down the road in all its majesty. Out on the highway, it's been said these cars will cruise at 80+ miles per hour.

For 1930s technology, the leaf spring suspension (along with the tall tire sidewalls) rides quite nice for a 6,000lb vehicle. You wouldn't want to test the handling capabilities, however, as the steering and brakes are both manual (power for both came along much later in the production run). This makes for interesting travel, as the co-pilot tends to be the one who's monitoring the road at much further distances than the driver. All maneuvers are planned far in advance, and you realize quickly that modern traffic patterns don't work for this car. The massive steering wheel mentioned earlier isn't just there for looks - it's there for leverage, too.

But treat it right, and the car brings it in spades. People wave and honk. Pedestrians stop in their tracks. Kids point with huge smiles on their faces. And that's what this car was made for. It's in its element on the road, making a lasting impression on all that see it.

It's why I'm thrilled that a car like this is owned by someone like Bob. His appreciation for such a fine automobile, and his willingness to share it with others makes him a relative rarity among car collectors. To him, it's not an investment - it's something he owns because he enjoys it.

And I feel honored that, on this day, he chose to enjoy it with me.