Junk yards are no place for a car guy

Growing up in south Jersey, I remember going by the local junk yards and trying to catch a glimpse of what cars might be there as my parents sped past in our Datsun. A small one nearby always had a rusty late-'60s Olds Toronado living out front among the weeds, and an even bigger yard had a pieced-together '68 Camaro perched on the roof, complete with a yellow rattle-can paint job.

To my young mind, there was all kinds of automotive gold behind those fences. Why, I'll bet there are old Corvettes, Porsches, and probably a Ferrari or two languishing in a back corner, just ready to be plucked out and restored!

When I turned 18, I set out one day in search of parts for our trusty Datsun, and was allowed to wander through my first junk yard. It was nothing like I'd imagined. I'd peruse rows and rows of milquetoast family sedans stacked on top of each other, and when I would stumble across the occasional cool car, it had been smashed nearly beyond recognition, and stripped bare by automotive vultures who had been feeding on it for years. It was really quite sad. 

But joy returned to me when I spotted a blue 1982 Datsun 310, just like mine. It even seemed to be in great shape, and I was hoping it had the parts I needed. Unfortunately, it was 12 feet above me, stacked on top of three other cars. A well-meaning employee with a forklift kindly asked if I'd like a better look and, upon seeing my smile, proceeded to punch two holes in the side of the pretty Datsun with the forks, pluck it from the top of the pile and drop it to the ground at my feet, bending the unibody frame in the process. The poor little blue car lay broken and battered in front of me. I lifted the hatchback, didn't find what I was looking for, but thanked the forklift operator for his efforts. He smiled and waved as he picked up the car, and put it in the crusher. Twenty seconds later, it was an unrecognizable blue slab of metal.

It felt like I'd left my heart in that car.

I've always had a personal attachment to cars, and while I've never been one to assign names to them, I often find myself thinking back on what the car and I have been through together. I'd look at the back corner of my old Datsun and remember it being dragged along an embankment when my father fell asleep on a family road trip to North Carolina. I'd look at my friend's Cadillac, and remember driving with the windows down and grinning while we'd blast it down a back road. I'd sit in my old Mazda3, and remember the day I brought it home from the dealership - the only brand-new car I've ever purchased. 

As I walk through junkyards, I can't help but look at the mangled, destroyed cars, and wonder what memories still lie in their chassis. Maybe that green car had an epic road trip. Or maybe someone got their first kiss in the back seat of the red one. One day, someone was overjoyed to have purchased that silver one brand-new, and drove it home full of pride. It makes me sad to think that, like most scrapped cars, they will eventually be destroyed, and forever erasing those automotive memories.

I recently had to make a trip to a local junk yard, a massive facility out by the railroad tracks. It's much better organized than the ones I grew up with, but the cars seem to be more mangled now than I remember them being in my younger days. I find myself slightly relieved when I stumble upon a Triumph Spitfire and an Alfa Romeo Spider of the same vintage keeping company in a back corner. But alas, they're both stripped bare, the Alfa's windshield frame has been cut off and thrown aside, and the rest of it has been there so long, it is nearly unrecognizable.

I try to remind myself that many of these cars will be recycled into new ones, ready to start new memories for their owners. But the romantic in me still weeps over the carcasses, and can't help but feel sorry for the now-faceless spirits languishing among the rows. 

As for my Datsun, it blew an engine and eventually found its way to the same scrapyard as that blue Datsun on the pile. I was glad I wasn't home when they came to pick it up. It turns out all those memories were only worth a total of $75.

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On a side note, my favorite junkyard relic was an old Pontiac Fiero GT that was in a yard in New Jersey. The car had obviously burned to the ground from an engine fire. However, the yard decided to keep the entire car because the driver's door was absolutely perfect.

Holladay's Used Auto Parts, where Christian found the little, blue Datsun.

Photo courtesy of Google Maps

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