Windows-rolled-down-elbow-resting-on-the-doorsill-dual-exhaust-rumble summer is here. 'Tis the season of cruise nights and greasy cheeseburgers. A cruel time of year for a gearhead without a fair weather ride.
Last fall, for reasons a tad too serious for a humorist, the 1963 Ford Ranchero backed out the garage and went down the road without me. It wasn't the work of thieves — which made me feel even worse. After all, there is a reason why it's called cold, hard cash.
As typical, I went through the four stages of car guy selling grief: denial, denial, denial and a bit of self-absorbed brooding.
The cold numb of winter came at a perfect time as I tinkered and occasionally rode my vintage snowmobile. The disco era Ski-Doo pacified my need to take things apart that only a certified mechanic should touch. It also allowed me to match wills with rusted bolts — not always a winning proposition. However, the pleasure derived from fixing a blown head gasket in a sub-zero garage is a sickness that afflicts a select few.
Admittedly, I enjoyed the luxury of not having to clean off a car while the Ranchero hibernated in the garage. Although at least once a week I would leave the Jeep outside as a form of self-flagellation with a windshield scraper.
By the first spring thaw, however, the reality set in that oil stains were all that remained of a classic car. So like a parent dealing with a belly-up goldfish, I found a marginal stand-in. In this case, the surrogate is an old Sears 3-speed ladies bike bought at a police auction. A pathetic, if not disturbing gearhead substitute. None the less I've already added pin stripe stickers, 8-ball valve stem covers and a matching ching-ching bell. It's Pee-wee Herman meets American Graffiti.
As far as spinning wrenches, the bike has offered a few opportunities for breakage. Already I've "fixed” the rear brake cable, which has added a Fred Flintstone foot stopping element of excitement. Hardly the full-throttle thrill ride of pinning back the butterflies of a four barrel carburetor.
So as we pass the summer solstice, I take solace in the fact that days are getting shorter. Unfortunately, the siren call of car shows still beckon and I can't quit eBay Motors cold turkey. I keep telling myself only a few more months of cruising alongside Mach I Mustangs and split window Corvettes in my multiple cup holder minivan. Although a tire-smoking burnout in a vehicle that seats eight would be impressive.
Of course feeding a big block V-8 high octane comes at a premium price, but I'd gladly endure that kind of pain at the pump.
So another summer day without a cloud in the sky. Selfishly I wish for rain to keep the hot rods off the streets — and perhaps water our newly planted shrubs. Only 279 days until a winter of less gearhead discontent.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com