![]() ![]() I put the transmission into low, and when I had reduced my speed to around 10 miles an hour, I managed to stop by rubbing the front tire against the curb. The emergency brake was no help, as the cable snapped with a dull twang when I stepped on the pedal. I was driving to his location when the brakes failed. Eventually I got a referral to a guy out on Long Island. Mechanics in the New York area tend to be not just crooked, but incompetent. Stopping and pulling it back into the trunk became part of my ownership experience.įinding a mechanic to work on the Gran Sport was a challenge. Sometimes one of them would rattle around and poke through the rust holes, and I would hear it scraping along the road. Several pieces of trim were already in there, having fallen off previously. The rear bumper fell off, so I stowed it in the trunk. When we took it out cruising, if the right-hand headlamp flickered, she would get out and kick it for me. Fortunately the glass on the Gran Sport had been tougher than the bottle.īack in Manhattan, my girlfriend wrinkled her nose at the condition of the car, but as the days passed, she developed a sneaking affection for it. The window was spattered with beer where the driver had thrown a bottle at my car. The other car disappeared into the night while I pulled over to see what had happened. For a third time he came up alongside me–and there was a sudden crack, like a rifle shot, from the passenger window. This seemed to be some boy-racer ritual that I didn’t quite understand. The other vehicle overtook me again, and slowed in front of me again. I resumed chugging along at a cautious 65, mindful of the replaced brake line that was not exactly a GM-authorized part. On the New York State Thruway that night, one car overtook me, then slowed in front of me–slower, and slower–till I had to overtake him. My main problem was with teenage drivers who felt a need to prove that the Gran Sport was not so hot. I was like a teenager infatuated with a biker chick who is wasted on drugs, has bad tattoos, and doesn’t bathe regularly–but she’s sooo sexy, it’s hard to care.Īs the sun set, I found that the right-hand low-beam headlight didn’t work, but when I got out and kicked the fender, it came to life. See the rust above the windshield, there? I think it’s gone through in places. “No offense,” he said, “but this is beyond help. I laughed uncertainly, but he did not crack a smile. ![]() “It’s been stored for a while,” I told him. Don’t go anywhere.”Īn hour later, the body-work expert was surveying my prize. “There’s a guy near here who specializes in body work. The Gran Sport handled like a truck, but with the pedal to the metal, it went charging forward like a drunken bull. This was not cheap, but the expense didn’t dim my excitement over my acquisition. I had to buy some little yellow plastic bottles of ether additive from an auto parts store, to raise unleaded premium up to 100 octane. Quite a deal for $49.īob said he was going to stay locally with his family, so I headed back to New York. They replaced all the pipes by welding stock tubing together in sections. The next day, I gave him his $900 (he refused to settle for less), did the title transfer, and headed for Meineke, with the remains of the original exhaust system dragging on the road behind me. I replaced it, but that isn’t, like, quite the right part. But there is one other thing.” He jacked up the car, and we crawled under it. But Meineke has a special right now, here in town. “See, to get a car like this in good condition, you really have to buy it in Arizona and drive it back,” Bob’s friend told me. It gave the car a backwoods, badass look, like something that a juvenile delinquent would use as the getaway vehicle on a 7-11 stickup. “It can all be fixed,” the guy assured me.Īctually I enjoyed the paint/primer/rust mix on the Gran Sport. Its exterior was about 50 percent original paint, 30 percent primer, and 20 percent rust. Bob’s friend had pimped the SS, but the Gran Sport was still waiting for beauty treatment. Soon I found myself in a suburban garage where the Gran Sport was parked alongside a gleaming, immaculate 1970 Chevelle SS. We rented a vehicle and drove into the northern segment of the state, where Bob had spent his childhood. Polaroid photograph by the author: West 10th Street in Manhattan, 1981. ![]()
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