Ahhh, cars...

A while ago, I talked about having new drivers in the house. It brought to mind all the memories I have of the vehicles I’ve owned over the years.  Everyone has that special one or two and they are a source of pride, amusement, gossip, envy, pain and heartbreak. For me, mine have been all of these things, sometimes at the same time.

The first car that I really have fond feelings for was a 1970 Toyota station wagon. Yeah, I didn’t know they made station wagons either.

I bought the car for three hundred dollars, complete with a fender held onto the car by a coat hanger that also acted as the radio antenna, enough rust spots on the white body that people thought is was an ad for the Leopard show at the circus and an exhaust system that actually sounded like a Porsche Boxster.

My friends named it ‘Tat’, after a line in a poem “…tattered and torn and all forlorn…”. Tattered yes, torn in a few places but hardly forlorn. The nerve!

The torn part was due to a wee little hole in the front passenger floorboard. Okay, it was a big hole. You could do a Fred Flintstone imitation through it if you had to. Having a very, very negative cash flow, I went to the local body shop and asked if they could help me fix it. The fellow looked at me with a strange look in his eye, trying to see if I was actually serious or just pulling his leg. I think he thought I was bringing it in for scrap. Using the same look I used on my Mom when I really wanted a cookie, I managed to convince the guy I really wanted the floor fixed. He told me to wait in the front driveway for minute. He returned with a beat up piece of metal and said that “this should probably do it”, handed it to me and walked away. A true prince, not wanting anyone to see his generosity. 

I promptly put the metal over the hole and with a judicious amount of foot pounding, I flattened it in place. A strategic placement of the floor mat and voila, the perfect fix.

Later that summer I was heading out to Canmore for a summer job. I had everything I owned in the car and it all fit beautifully. I could be packed up and gone in about an hour, lock, stock and skis. Just as I entered the first range of mountains, I began to smell something burning. It didn’t smell like any engine-like burning, so I opened the window and the smell went away. Chalk one up for natural air conditioning. It’s the backyard mechanic method of fixing things in old cars. If there is a squeak you can’t identify, turn up the radio. When you can’t hear the noise anymore, problem solved.

I got home and proceeded to unpack. As I kept removing items from the hatch, the burning smell was returning stronger than ever. Carefully removing the rest of my belongings by heaving them to the ground behind me, I finally reached the carpet on the floor. There was a nice scorch mark the size of a softball on the left side. I was more confused than I usually was, seeing that the car had been turned off for half an hour, yet the carpet was still smoking. I peeked under the carpet and saw – nothing. Floor still intact, no holes, nothing. In a remarkable moment of insight, I peered under the car. Sure enough, the hotspot was directly above the muffler. That cool Porsche sound was the result of a small hole on the top of the muffler that was jetting exhaust up to the floor of the hatch.

I considered leaving the hole and turning the muffler around so I wouldn’t ignite my back end, but considering the vintage and structural integrity of the car, that probably wasn’t a good idea. A quick wrap of muffler tape, a bit of wire and I was safe. Just didn’t sound cool anymore. Heavy sigh.