Sometimes, driving a funny-looking old car leads to some funny looks from bystanders. Case in point:
Today, I was on my way home after a doctor’s appointment and a brief stop at a grocery store for dinner ingredients for the next several days. It’s hot as blazes in South Florida this time of year, and I was dressed for a doctor’s appointment, not for an hours’ tanning session inside a Finnish sauna equipped with a pizza oven thermostat.
My car, a 1967 +4, was tootling along a six-lane, unlimited-access divided highway at about 100 klicks when I experienced what is euphemistically called a “sudden loss of power.” In other words, I went from driving a car to taxiing a glider in the span of one or two engine revolutions. Rather than engage in any theatrics, I calmly put on my turn signal, moved into the nearest deceleration lane, executed a turn into a parking lot, and came to a comfortable stop in a spot near the entrance to a pharmacist’s.
There was a woman coming out of the store where my inertia finally petered out. She was obviously curious about the car, and was setting herself up to ask me about it when I walked past her to enter the store. She was nonplused when I unbuckled the strap and lifted the lid. Seeing exactly what I anticipated, I calmly retrieved the bitter end of the positive feed wire to the coil, leaned over, bit the connector, and replaced it onto the “+” terminal of the coil. I buttoned up the engine and hopped back into the seat. I smiled and waved at her as my now raucously loud car and I backed out of the parking spot and went on our merry way.
The look on her face was worth the VERY mild breakdown.
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