The goofy cars we used to want to buy

Dad thought the AMC Pacer was the Car of the Future.

 My Dad and I never talked much about cars. We weren't on the same automotive wavelength — until we were. 

A family man and a sales representative who racked up 50,000 miles a year, he wanted a fast Interstate cruiser that rode smoothly. He needed plenty of room for the family, and a big trunk for sales brochures. 

I wanted an MG. Two seats would be plenty for me, and I longed for responsive steering and a manual gearbox. And, oh-my-gosh, real wire wheels! 

I got my MG, and quickly learned how to double-clutch, and how to judge my speed without having any working instruments on the dashboard. 

In retirement, my Dad did consider down-sizing. In a rare moment of communication he told me that an American Motors Pacer really appealed to him. He considered it "the Car of the Future." 

He was wrong about that.

As the Pacer became a universal joking matter he gave up on it and purchased a different car: a Chevrolet Citation. This was one of the so-called "X cars," whose many faults would lay waste to General Motors' reputation.

The Vega: Its motor melted down, its body dissolved into rust.

But by then I had beaten him to the punch in purchasing a maligned GM product. Married, and in need of cars that ran without being push started, I had given up on MGs and purchased Chevrolet Vegas. Not one, but two in a row.

The Vega was a peculiar car, with its self-destructing aluminum block motor racing against its quick-rusting steel bodywork to see which would send it to the junkyard first.

Dad and I didn't learn our lesson right away. Dad fell for the hype that the real Car of the Future would be GM's Saturn.

His loaded Saturn didn't need to be driven to wear out; it fell apart in the driveway. You'll recall that the Saturn's bodywork was plastic. The outside of the car didn't rust. Instead, the interior of the car dried up and cracked into powder from exposure to the sun.

The 1991 Chevrolet Impala/Caprice looked good to me.

Meanwhile, I lusted for one of the ugliest GM cars ever: the 1991 Chevrolet Impala. Its bulbous dirigible body looked to me like the Car of the Future.

I couldn't afford one new, and none were available used yet, so I got a GM Credit Card, which earned points toward the purchase of the General's cars.

Of course I realized that, while my purchases were racking up GM points toward my dreamed-of Impala, GM was raising the price of the Impala to wipe out my incremental gains. There was just something about having the GM card, and the goal it represented, that appealed to me.

Then, one month, we were charged a late fee on the GM card, and my wife angrily cancelled it — wiping out my points in the process. By then I was — almost — grateful, as the blimp-like Impala had turned out to have no future appeal to anyone.

Eventually both my Dad and I would give up buying cars we actually wanted and just buy Japanese cars. This was a sort of spiritual surrender, akin to finally admitting that baldness is real.

No man ever said "Oh Boy! I'm going bald."

Few men have ever said "Finally, I own a Camry!"

Dad is gone now and, in my old age I no longer worry about what might be the Car of the Future. No need.

For entertainment, though, I enjoy looking back at the Cars of the Past. My friend Doug almost daily shares with me Craigslist ads he finds for emotionally appealing cars he knows neither of us will ever buy.

He came up with two today.

The first was a Ford Thunderbird, a "retro-bird" of the early 2000s, designed to appeal to guys our age. The price was low and the photographs showed it in the seller's man-cave garage.

Only two-seats and a tiny trunk, but it takes me back.

Doug wrote:

"The Pabst sign and Viet vet (license) plate are clues in this case. A younger and more intrepid buyer could take advantage (of the low price) but younger people apparently have no interest in these cars. That's the problem with nostalgia: you have to remember what it was about in the first place."

The second find was a heartbreakingly beautiful Jaguar S-Type, at an unbelievably low price. Another retro car, the Jaguar S-Type was evocative of the time-honored Jaguar Mark II.

Doug wrote:

"You could buy this Jag with change from lunch at McDonald's and throw it away along with the wrapper from your burger. Really, there'd be no need to worry about fixing anything. The only question is: Would you even get a week's amusement out of it?"

There was an extra note of nostalgia to that Jaguar: the dashboard odometer was broken, the seller admitted.

Of course it was. A younger me would have smiled in recognition.

Tired of sitting still on repair job

Some things just can't wait.

 I struggle to write about Royal Enfield motorcycles but, face it, every so often (too often) the toilet needs fixing. 

And there goes a day of either riding, or maintaining my Royal Enfield Bullet. 

The one nice thing about fixing plumbing is that, if something goes wrong (it always does), it's just water pooling around your shoes, not gasoline. 

Parts are easy to find, too, because every home supply store has a selection of "Universal" one-size-fits-all toilet parts. Several different brands of them, in fact. 

Why?

If each of the choices is "Universal," why does the store need to stock more than one variety? Suspicion grows that, while my choice (always the cheapest) may fit every other toilet, it will not fit mine.

I remember, from previous episodes, that toilets feature a left-hand thread somewhere in their mechanisms. I just can't remember where. And, so, the first realization I have, as I struggle to loosen the old, worn out parts, is that I am going to have to read the instructions.

Memory alone is likely to betray me but, of course, I take that chance anyway and get to work.

Eventually, after struggling, and twisting and cursing for awhile, I do resort to the instructions. They're a bit vague on what I want to know (the people who write them are apparently under orders never to elaborate). But, after trying everything twice, both ways, and wiping up water from the floor a time or two, the old bits are out.

At this point, just out of curiosity, I typically fall victim to trying to figure out why the old parts failed. The autopsy nearly always discovers that, had I just read the instructions (saved from the last time I replaced these parts), I would have noticed the "Troubleshooting" section.

Indeed, here I find, now deep into the project, that it could have been fixed if I had simply grasped the right point of the mechanism with my left hand and twisted with the right.

I could have accessed the part causing the mechanism to jam. I could then have cleared the jam and reassembled the part.

But, never mind. Old or new, the bits have to go back together, so I naturally decide to use the brand new ones.

And it's here that I realize that, although, yes, I did go to the store and buy the "Universal" kit, I did not also buy the other parts required.

For instance, the tiny ring of metal to attach the flapper valve chain to the handle arm is not included in the "Universal" operating arm kit I bought. The little ring would have come with a new flapper valve, had I thought to purchase that.

And, so, I would have to use the tiny ring from the old parts I removed. No problem!

It's here that I discover that the old ring has dropped off the old arm somewhere between the toilet and throwing the old parts out into the garage. Neither I nor my wife, pressed into duty, can locate it by crawling around the floor.

And it's at this point that I realize that, although the toilet will be flushed with all new parts from here on in, the missing link in the mechanism -- that small ring -- will be replaced by the one truly universal part in life: a paper clip.

Paper clips hold much of my house together. Should it someday be knocked down by a hurricane, rescuers will comment that the paper clips must have failed.

And they will fail, for this terrible reason: paper clips used inside a toilet tank, or anywhere else except to clip paper, rust.

Using one in this instance will guarantee toilet failure someday, certainly right after someone has used the toilet in anger and really, really needs to flush.

I confess this left me a bit gleeful, as there is less than a 50-50 chance that that person will be me. (And only I will know what went wrong and where to put a new paperclip.)

So, now, finally, the toilet flushes, although perhaps not with the vigor and precise action that is preferred in the best homes.

Probably it could be adjusted? But not by me.

Because, during the protracted experience (hours long) I have sort of lost the plot. What was I trying to accomplish? Is it fixed? Or am I now just willing to live with whatever was the problem, just to get this over with?

I don't care.

Surprise! Motorcycling isn't dying

U.S. motorcycle sales are in sharp decline.
(Graphic from CanyonChasers)

 Today we're told that motorcycling in the U.S. is dying. Riders are aging out, young people are on their phones, motorcycle prices are high, and insurance costs crushing. The police are always watching, and everyone says motorcycles are dangerous killers. 

The joy is gone. 

Except, it's not. 

Surprise! Motorcycling is booming. 

And why not? Motorcycling is fun. You remember your first ride, don't you?

I still remember my first time. A high school friend took me for a ride, as the passenger, on the new Honda step-through his parents had bought him. The little white motorcycle wasn't fast, but I was thrilled. 

I had dreamed of owning a sports car some day but, in high school in the 1960s, a sports car was way out of reach for me. But here was a vehicle maneuverable enough to be exciting, easy to ride as my bicycle, and not impossibly expensive. 

I loved that it had a horn, lights, and even a tiny luggage compartment. It carried two, just as my imaginary sports car would, and, best of all, it could take me anywhere right now. 

We innocently rode without helmets or protective gear.

Of course, we didn't actually go anywhere; just around his neighborhood and briefly out on Sepulveda Boulevard with real traffic! The thrill was in imagining where it could take us.

It would be years before I would ride a motorcycle on my own, when my brother handed me the keys to his medium-sized Honda and told me to "ride around."

That was all the training I got. (I didn't even understand how a positive-stop gearbox worked. I had to figure it out).

Motorcycling is a blast. So why does everyone seem to think it's going away?

In a surprisingly upbeat and even comic YouTube video, "Dave" at CanyonChasers suggests that U.S. bikers treat motorcycling as "a nostalgic hobby."

Worse, old-time bikers treat newcomers on anything less than a liter bike as "cowards." Their little bikes won't do double the Interstate speed limit and, besides, they're too quiet.

Even worse? Newcomers are being gruffly clued in that they are unworthy: they haven't "paid their dues," with scars on their knees and grit under their fingernails.

We forget that, back in our day, someone (my brother to name one) handed us the keys for free and told us to "go ride around." No one demanded "dues."

So who is killing motorcycling in the U.S.? WE ARE, Dave says.

Our behavior is stupid. Luckily, it isn't working.

Because two-wheel ridership is exploding! Young people are riding and having a whale of a lot of fun. Their mounts are inexpensive to buy, incredibly cheap to run, require no registration, no insurance, no training and are astoundingly reliable even compared to a Honda. They park for free.

And, yes, they're quiet.

They're electric mopeds and scooters.

Oh God: those zippy little vehicles that so annoy me when I am a pedestrian. They may have pedals but everyone knows that's a gag. These are motorcycles.

They're everywhere, and I mean everywhere. On the streets. On the sidewalks. On the handicap ramps. In the bike lanes. Shoving foot traffic aside on running paths. Lane splitting and even riding the wrong way in traffic.

Red light? No problem: they run right through. Few bother with helmets, none bother with gear. These are the "outlaw bikers" of this era.

And the police don't care!  Enforcement is nonexistent because it's impossible and, yeah, it's all just "kid stuff" anyway.

The riders are mostly young and many are even girls. This is the new-birth future of motorcycling, Dave suggests.

Peering back through the mists of old age I recognize myself, riding back seat on that Honda step-through. That experience of freedom, possibility and joy. It's still happening for people.

We should celebrate this.

And if it goes against the grain a little bit, old-timer, I know how you feel.

Because going back to motorcycling at 50 was my attempt to re-capture a little bit of my youth. My interest in Royal Enfield motorcycles, particularly the retro-models, is that attempt to get back to those happy days.

Yes, it's my "nostalgic hobby." It works for me.

But look around, look around. Watch the video: