Memory ?

On 7/5/2022, Dale Van Aken wrote:
I recall quite clearly Steinbeck's passage where a piston is repaired with a bit of copper wire. I can't judge if it was realistic, but it certainly set my young teenage mind to thinking about being able to fix my car on the road, as needed. Here is one such story, when I was young enough and brave enough to drive my 20-year old MGA from Philly to Boston while in grad school.

After a particularly grueling final exam one evening in late winter, several of us went to the campus pub for a pitcher or two of beer. After merriment and commiseration, at some point I called it a night, found my MGA and pointed it back to my apartment 20 minutes away.

It's important for me to mention the condition of this car. It was worth most every penny of the $400 I paid for it the summer before when sunny skies beckoned. I was a penniless student and even if I had had the funds, I wouldn't have known how to address all the rust that northeastern U.S. winters had bestowed upon my little roadster. A leaking and thereby circumvented heater core combined with generally busted side curtains guaranteed frosty transportation on cold Boston nights.

I had junked the dual batteries and crammed in the used 12-volt battery my Dad's car yielded after a replacement. Of course, it was the wrong size and was wedged in place with a few pieces of cedar and a sling made from a scrap of Romex wire. It had actually stayed in place remarkably well considering, at least until the night of this story.

Any winter story involving a rusted-out MG in snowy climes will likely involve potholes. Boston was renowned for its deep and wide selection, sometimes rising up as if from nowhere, threatening to swallow an LBC, passengers and all. Sometimes so big, they "needed an off-ramp"�, as my colleague used to say. Despite its sleepy suburban charm, the main drag of Newton, MA was not immune to such booby-traps.

I honestly don't remember the size of the pothole (perhaps since alcohol may have been a factor in this incident), but I remember clearly a bang, clunk, followed by a buzz of sparks as the final shreds of rust and patchwork gave out and the battery, suspended only by its two battery cables, dropped out of the bottom of the car, intermittently shorting and ultimately killing the engine. I tried to drag the car to the curb but I was forced to stop in the lane of travel and consider my options.

With all the foresight of youth, I had not a single tool in the car, and had to jiggle one battery cover screw loose with my house key. Peering down into the dark abyss, I saw the battery sitting on the road, held in place by the cables. I reasoned that if the cables were holding it, I could rely on them to continue to do so, if I could find a way to raise the whole mess up a few inches.

Off to rummage through the trunk where I found what seemed to be a large rag. As I examined it more closely, I saw that it was actually the remnants of a discarded robe, made from material thin enough to fashion a sort-of rope, and about 4 feet long. It would have to do. I tied one end around the positive cable and hoisted up the 40 lbs of lead to be even with the rusted frame. But the MGA's spartan interior offered me no place for my numb fingers to tie off the end of my makeshift rope! Did I mention it was cold? Then remembering a college dorm prank, I stretched the rope out the driver's door and slammed it closed, trapping the yellow polyester firmly in its grip. The battery hung precariously, but it was up off the road, and I was once again cleared for takeoff.

This could be the end of a successful road repair, but that's not how this played out. Off I went, satisfied with my hack. As I turned left off Route 30, suddenly I heard a "winding up" sound rapidly increasing in pitch. Before I could even assess its origin, it was punctuated by a loud "bang"� as the driver's door violently flew open, my robe/rope was torn in half, and the battery once again slammed onto the cold road! I crawled out of the car only to find that the loose end of my repair material had caught in the wire wheel knockoff and was wrapped up like a line on a fishing pole. That is, half of it, anyway. The other half, now much shorter, was still fastened to the battery, but I was seriously without a place to tie it off.

The only possible choice was that nice chrome shifter, mere inches away. But without enough rope to reach 1st and 3rd gears, I would have to slog home using only 2nd and 4th. Thanks to the 4.3:1 rear and cold New England air helping to squeeze every available horsepower from the aging 1500, my half-shifting plan was successful, and I finally pulled up at home. I squeezed the car along-side the shared driveway and longways up the bank that bordered the drive. Having had enough excitement for one night, I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment and collapsed into bed.

Once again, this could be the end of the story, but not without one footnote. Sometime around 3AM, my phone rang, and rang, until I dragged my partially hungover ass out of bed to answer it. "Dale, Dale"�, my downstairs neighbor and Boston native almost yelled into the phone, "some igit is trying to steal your cah"!� I struggled to grasp the meaning of his words. "What? How do you know, Mike"? "Well, look"!, Mike yelled. I looked out the 2nd floor window and down at the driveway where Mike had turned on the lights.

There was my MGA, perched atop the bank, leaning to the left, trunk partly open, driver's door open from a broken latch, and with a big gob of yellow fabric wrapped around the back left wheel. "Some tool got inside, and you can see where he was trying to steal your wheel", Mike persisted. As I fought to clear the fog from behind my eyes, the events of the last few hours flickered in my head like a newsreel short. "Thanks Mike, but I think that's how I left it last night. I'm going back to bed".