September 25, 2002

Le project car revive runs out of gas

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       Akin to worn out drum brakes, stopping a love-hate relationship is not easy. After five tumultuous years together, however, the Le Mans and I are finished.
      On the road to ruin since we first hooked up, my delusions of car restoration grandeur finally ran out of gas. Good intentions met bad body panel reality. Thus began the sad saga of selling off a once shiny new dream dirt cheap.
      Unfortunately, finding a buyer has been like waiting for Godot to answer your classified ad.
      Those unfamiliar to this tale of "whoa, dude, the carburetor is on fire," a bit of exposition is in order.
      It was the summer of 1997, stupidity and $2,000 had just bought the keys to a 1972 Pontiac Le Mans housing mice in the trunk and squirrel acorns in the air cleaner. Overall, the Le Mans had that "Christine" car-from-hell quality imperative to all well-meaning restoration endeavors. Ignoring the obvious - and my wife's bloody tongue - I purchased a car parallel parked between two oak trees.
      While improvements have been made and problems solved, the car remains a work in progress. However, my focus is on a new project; one that requires diaper, not oil changes. No throaty V-8 can compare to your six-month-old laughing at peak-a-boo.
      So this past June, the Le Mans was kicked to the curb; theoretically speaking since it still resided in the garage. A 'For Sale' sign was put on the windshield and an ad placed in the newspaper. One problem - selling it.
      Ever since my elementary school entrepreneurial efforts, I've stunk at sales. I was the Willy Loman of fund-raising. Candy bars, popcorn - you name it, I couldn't sell it. I even underachieved on the Junior Achievement class project by only selling products to myself.
      Despite this gloomy sales record, I optimistically answered the first dozen phone inquires. Fifty-five callers later, I can barely muster the words "yes, I still have the car" for would-be buyers. The operative word being would-be.
      As adages go, I've reached the crass point of money talks and bovine excrement walks. Unfortunately, when a potential sale is on the line you can't hang up or tell them to take a hike. You are at the mercy of a tire-kicking buyer's market.
      In the four months the Le Mans has been for sale, I've acquired a notepad of scratched out names and phone numbers. I've also developed a knack for reading between the lines - even over the phone. If someone mentions any of the following, I strike them off the list:
      - "I'll get back to you"
      - "I have to talk to my parents first"
      - "What is the least you would take for it?" (i.e. I have no money)
      - "Is it something I could drive in the winter?"
      Perhaps honesty is not the best policy when it comes to selling a project car. I don't sugarcoat my sales pitch, I disclose every bit of rust and needed repair. Yet people still show up, spend an hour looking over the car, then balk at the body work.
      That is if they show up at all.
      I've had at least a half-dozen "serious" buyers fall off the face of the earth on the way to my house. All I can assume is that a black hole or bad potholes devoured "very interested" Jim from Muskegon, "I coming to get that car" Jason from Grand Rapids and "I'll be there Saturday" Al from the metro Detroit area.
      Of course, selling a car under $1,500 pretty much ensures a few calls from never-never land. Highlights so far include talking to a short-order cook at Denny's during the breakfast rush and a inebriated individual calling at 10:45 p.m. to tell me about his dad's 71 Le Mans. The guy who admitted he had no money to buy the car is still my personal favorite - at least he didn't call collect.
      Once upon a time I used to fire up the engine when potential buyers came calling, now I barely get off the couch. I'm burned out on the selling game. My sales pitch is not underhanded or a curve ball, but right down the middle. Too bad no one bothers to step up to the plate.
      Despite all efforts to relocate the Le Mans before the snow flies, winter hibernation in the garage seems inevitable. So even though our relationship ended months ago, we're stuck living together. Unless I get a phone call from some guy named Godot wondering if the 1972 Pontiac is still for sale.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com