October 23, 2002

Project car sold - what are the chances

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor

      Here on earth, life has its chance opportunities: every 76 years Halley's comet fills the night sky, average rainfall in Arica, Chile is .76 millimeters, and hitting the lottery means beating million to one odds.
      What happened this weekend, however, defies any quantified mathematical equation. The waiting is over, Godot answered my classified ad. He even paid cash for a once shiny dream sold dirt cheap.
      After five tumultuous years together, the Le Mans is history. All that remains of the project car from hell is busted-knuckle memories and 10-40 oil stains on the garage floor.
      Last Sunday evening, a man named James showed up with cash in hand and car restoration grandeur stars in his eyes. Ignoring body work that would make Mr. Goodwrench utter bad words, James bought the title to a car once parallel parked between two oak trees. After giving him a final warning about the sticky shifter (or a way out), he fired up the nitro-burning-funny-car idling engine and drove off - his wife and kids following close behind in the family car.
      Admittedly, I did not expect the epic project car tale to end this way. Perhaps a concluding chapter involving dissection for parts, demolition derby fodder, or new life as license plate number 9DH 622. Instead, Le Junk backed out the driveway and drove off into the moonlit night - backfiring once as a final retort.
      Strange as it sounds, especially after all my words to the contrary, I woke up Monday with a tinge of regret. There was my daily driver Jeep parked where the Monarch Gold albatross normally roosted. I felt like Superman contemplating the idea of sending a hacksaw cake to an incarcerated Lex Luther. After all, a good nemesis is hard to find.
      Truth be told, I've always had a difficult time walking away from lost causes.
      As a kid, my room resembled the island of misfit toys complete with Sea Monkies floating belly up in a Mason jar. I found myself cheering for Wile E. Coyote and the Detroit Lions, even though I knew the preordained outcome. It was hard to fight the fact that I grew up in an era of 8-track tapes, butterfly collars and Billy Beer.
      Perhaps that is why I paid the asking price for a car with a pop bottle propping up its brake pedal. I'm that guy P.T. Barnum said is born every minute; at least when it comes to clapped-out, ham-fisted project cars.
      Evidently, I am not alone in my eternal optimism, or ignorant bliss. I just hope Godot didn't have to drive all the way to Cadillac stuck in second gear.
      Monday morning I deposited the Le Mans money in the bank - so it wouldn't burn a hole in my Levi's. With slow winter driving fast approaching, my thoughts have cooled on finding a four-speed fastback to power shift a la Frank Bullitt. After another winter of discontent, however, this man's fancy might again turn to carburetors and camshafts.
      Before the snow starts flying, perhaps I'll sneak a peek at this 1963 Falcon Sprint I've been eyeing. The owner says it is a great project car - what are the chances.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com