This past Saturday, I spent a pastoral spring morning sifting through the rotting carcasses of automotive dinosaurs eviscerated of engines and transmissions. The smell of ancient 40 weight oil made me downright giddy.
At that moment — standing in this boneyard of Detroit iron — I was in car-guy nirvana.
Call me a simpleton, or merely a man, but I'm easily distracted by shinny metal objects — or rusty ones. I've never outgrown a childhood fascination with cars; I still play with them. Bigger the boy, bigger the toy's insurance, registration and garage space.
The words maturity and Muncie M-22 Rock Crusher four-speed are far from synonymous.
So it was with trepidation that my wife recently asked for birthday gift ideas. She floated out a few practical notions: books, music, DVDs. I responded with a shrug of shoulders and the trite "Oh, I don't need anything" downplay. Which is true, no one in their right mind needs a Ford 200 inline six engine for a 1963 Ranchero. Instead, that falls under the depraved wants category.
Picking up on screaming non-verbals, my wife realized that this year's present wouldn't require gift wrap; more likely a tetanus shot. Talk about unconditional love.
So this is how I ended up on my knees last Saturday, guiding an engine being winched between a beaten down truck and a pair of old clipped-wing Thunderbirds. What sounds like Sisyphus rock rolling work, was pure motorhead mecca. All thanks to a man named Mark and his homage to automotive excess.
Mark makes no qualms about his mission in life: saving forlorn Fords. The man has never met a landau top or continental kit he didn't like — or drag back home. Some people collect Hummels or Elvis toenail clippings on eBay. Mark has a thing for Lincolns and Thunderbirds; as in his backyard is Lincolns and Thunderbirds. A patchwork quilt of vehicles, some stacked two high, rest in various states of project car promise and shattered windshield dreams.
Being a junkyard freak, I nearly choked on all the rusty eye candy.
Unfortunately, Mark knew the exact resting place of the engine I sought. So my fellow car-guy co-worker and I had limited time to poke around the clapped-out convertibles and carburetors stacked like cord wood. We were like the proverbial six year old let loose in a toy store — just mind the shards of glass and battery acid.
Like any kid, I tore right into my birthday gift after I got it home. Within 15 minutes, I managed to break two exhaust manifold bolts and discovered the crank is seized. Come to think of it, that's how long those mail order Sea-Monkeys survived my ninth birthday.
My wife rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders at the latest junk inhabiting the garage. I tell her I'll treasure it forever. Just the same, I don't think I'll pitch a limited slip differential as an anniversary gift this year.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com