New/2011 5.0 Mustang Details

Frank ess wrote:

>
> MPG and those /still/ aren't all the important things in a car
> selection. One of the cars I like best of the thirty-five or so I've
> owned was a 1960 Morris Minor 1000 Traveller. 988 cc Sprite-like
> motor, long gearshift wand, high center of gravity ... But it was a
> treat to drive, got more thumbs-ups in a car-culture-bored
> community, than just about any other. A little lowering, a Judson
> supercharger, spar varnish on the wood, it was a delight to be in
> and to see.
> I'm trying to remember what it was this thread was going to prove.
> Oh well, it's just a Usenet group; couldn't have been very
> important.

This has been tickling my consciousness for a while: Why /do/ we like
ratty or fugly, or nondescript cars? Like the disregarded step-child,
they seem to find a niche in our hearts.

One of the relatively modern vehicles I had (sedan-based pickup seemed
"modern" at the time it was made - 1962 - not when I owned it - 1983
to 1989) was a Falcon Ranchero. Bought out of a local newspaper
classified ad, for $400.00, it was kind of a stripper, but not from
the factory: there was no upholstery other than the non-native bucket
seats, no headliner, no hubcaps. Six cylinder, two-speed automatic, a
differential that chewed up its gears within the first hundred miles
(I replaced the center section with 1970-something Maverick
components), and it worked perfectly for my purposes: twenty-five-mile
round-trip commute, occasional trips to the City dump.

One day my wife and I were going to the Zoo, when about a mile into
the journey the engine staggered a bit and made a light metallic
sound. I stopped it, we walked home and got another car to finish the
Zoo trip, towed the Ranchero home the next day. I started it up and
still heard the rattle, seemed to be coming from the top end. Pulled
the cylinder head and found a ball of metal, pea-size, looked like a
rolled-up cotter key. I reckoned someone (wasn't me! I never had the
air cleaner off before then) had dropped one in the carburetor and it
finally worked its way through a valve, but couldn't find the path
out.

While I was in the process of cleaning up the combustion chambers a
neighbor looked in, and noted the engine was a Ford truck unit about
25% larger in displacement than those offered in the factory lineup
for 1962 Falcons. I then understood why it scooted so good when you
booted it.

Just a few weeks later we were going to a membership store a few miles
away. There was a big puff of smoke came out from under the dash, and
the engine died on an interchange ramp. We managed to coast across
several lanes of traffic and onto a safe bit of freeway verge. I could
see there was nothing I could do to make it run, so we started walking
along the freeway to the next exit. A concrete-mixing truck stopped to
give us a ride. He let us off at the next exit plus one, which
happened to be in the heart of a Crips neigborhood, and there I was in
my bright red polo shirt. My daughter was out in the yard washing
another notoriously unreliable car (TR7 convertible) and didn't hear
the phone ringing. We finally got a ride from one of my wife's
friends. Wife never got in the car again during the remaining five
years of its tenancy with us.

Once the Ranchero had been 2-Bit-Towed home, I replaced all the burned
wiring under the dash, but it still wouldn't start. Replaced the
condenser, and it ran fine - for a week. New condenser: ran fine, for
a week. Wired two condensers in parallel, never another problem.

The transmission was all right, but wouldn't stay in Park. I got a
nice piece of clothesline and a poly cap for a half-inch water line,
and when I'd park, put the lever in Park and the line would stretch
enough to slip the cap over the end and hold it there.

I put a gun rack in the back window (hey, it was my first pickup) and
hung half-a-dozen peacock tail feathers in it.

The car was finished in an almost-Petty-blue color that was popular in
the $99 paint-job crowd a few years earlier, completely oxidized. I
spent half a day with the polishing compound and it shined pretty
good, even the part where a doofus backed into the passenger door and
pushed it concave (he said his friend had a body shop and would fix
it, but one or the other of us always had a reason not to get it
done).

I put a nice set of chromy wheels and new tires on the thing, early in
its time with us, and was quite happy with it for all its faults. Even
kept it for a few months after we got another pickup (1989 Toyota Xtra
Cab SR5) that we still have, and now use for a hundred miles a year.

I really hated to see it go, that Falcon Ranchero, but it may have a
better life, now: the fellow who bought it was going to put a V8 in
it. If I could find a brand-new 1963 Falcon Ranchero - I like the
rounded ones more than the Mustang-like 64-plus edged ones - I could
be happy living with it.


Question remains: why tolerate such a bunch of problems? Masochism?

--
Frank ess