The car I judge all others I drive by? Ferrari 458? Lamborghini Gallardo? Seventh-gen Corvette? Mercedes-Benz SL550 AMG or BMW M6? You would think. Nope. It was a yellow, 1976 Chevrolet Monza 2+2 similar to this one I stumbled across on Barnfinds.com recently.
Well, honestly, it's not so much I compare that oddly styled little car to everything I drive; it's how close anything I drive for the first time comes to giving me my first exhilarating dose of "holy-sh!t-this-car-is-amazing" endorphin rush a Monza gave me decades ago. A rush of natural "feel-goods" I've been chasing ever since when I get behind the wheel of something I haven't driven before.
I mean, seriously, the hell did I know at the time anyway? Up until then, the bulk of my wheel time had been with my father's woe-be-gone, 1972 Cadillac, then his 1980 Buick Century that replaced it. I've blogged ad nauseum over how bad my first car, a 1974 Mercury Comet was. Although substantially better than my Comet, I wasn't overly impressed with any of my friend's rides either. Although, again, I had no idea at the time what a car to be impressed with would or should be like. My automotive perspective changed forever one summer afternoon in 1983 when I took a quick spin in a "305" V-8 powered, 1976 Chevrolet Monza 2+2.
T'was the summer of 1983, and I was so sick of my dumpy, ratty, squeaky Comet that I sold it without anything lined up to replace it. That meant I was back to using the Ross 10-speed I got when I was in the 8th grade to get around. Headed back to Nassau Community College on Long Island that fall for my "sophomore" year, while, in theory at least, I could take the MTA Long Island Bus, that would turn what was by car a twenty- to thirty-minute, ten-mile slog, into being caned for ninety-minutes. I needed a car. Like now.
Problem was, it was getting late in the summer, and I was having zero-luck finding anything suitable in the $1,000 price range I was pigeon holed in.
I was skimming through the Chevrolet section of the classified section of "Newsday", the big Long Island newspaper, for a Monte Carlo or a Malibu I couldn't afford when an ad for a Chevrolet Monza popped out at me in the broken, word-economy speak of a cost-per-word classified ad:
"1976 Chevy Monza 2+2. Needs exhaust. Not perfect, runs good. V-8. $1,800 OBO."
Despite it being a good eight hundred to a thousand more than I wanted to pay for anything, and I thought the Monza 2+2 homely, the formal roofed "Town Coupe" somewhat less so, I reached for the phone on the kitchen wall to call the number listed. I don't know. Must have been, "V-8" that intrigued me. I called, they answered and it was available. Bonus, it was close enough to my parent's house I could hoof it over there on my bike.
When they said it wasn't perfect, they weren't kidding. Although just seven-years old at the time, it seemed much older. There were rust spots, dents and scratches littered the dirty, shine free yellow paint and the twin black "racing stripes", that our "Barnfind Monza" doesn't have, were peeling. The interior was filthy and reeked of cigarettes. Although living in a house full of smokers and myself imbibing from time to time, I've always hated the stench they leave. Welp, that car was definitely not for me but car guy I am, I took it for a spin anyway. I mean, the owner of what was ostensibly a factory V-8 powered Vega giving me the keys to it? This could be interesting.
I turned the ignition key and the Chevrolet 305-cu in. V-8 fired up and settled down into a deep and satisfying glug-glug-glug; each blip of the gas pedal made it sound richer and even more satisfying. The manly sounding engine had me thinking a little differently about the homely and dorky little car. I tried to act cool. All of 19 at the time but having the face of an altar boy, the seller trusted me to fly solo. Bless his heart. I felt like a bull with his balls strapped up in his stall at a rodeo before his stall opened. Let's go!
Granted, small cars with any modicum of oomph feel more powerful and faster than they actually are, but the combination of the loud exhaust, actual punch of the engine and the car's "darty", go-cart like handling made for one hell of an experience. Especially for someone who had never driven anything remotely like it before.
Windows down and a traffic free entrance ramp onto the Meadowbrook Parkway between Merrick Road and Sunrise Highway, I pegged the gas, a rear tire chirped, the car squatted back, the engine screamed and off I went. This, I thought to myself, was what "driving" was all about.
I must have seemed like nothing more than a joyrider when I dropped the car off gushing with praise over it. Of course, I didn't buy it. I gave the keys back to the seller who seemed willing to negotiate on the price. I held my breath as I low-balled him as a way to get out of the conversation. He didn't bite, thankfully. I jumped back on my bike and headed home to plow through the classified section of the paper again "gee-whizzing" about that Monza all the way home.
To this day I still am.
No comments:
Post a Comment