My FirstCar

I heard about a feature that was run in The New York Times about readers’ first cars. I’ve always looked back on mine with lotsa love so I thought I’d ask some POC members about their first cars. Here’s some of what they told me…

Me: My first car was a seriously used white 1963 Rambler American Classic 440 I bought from my brother for $100. He bought it two years earlier from our Uncle Harry who bought it new in ’63. MSRP was $2,090. It was Motor Trend’s Car of the Year.

Getting it to start in the morning took super-human knowledge and engineering trickery. I tucked it in at night by opening the front hood and covering the motor with a blanket for warmth. I’d spread a shower curtain on top of the closed hood, held down with bricks I ‘borrowed’ from the construction site around the corner, to help prevent moisture from collecting on the wiring harness and under the distributor cap. If I didn’t perform my nightly ritual, the car would sit there and mock me.

I painted its bounty of body rust with a spray can of Red Devil enamel. The car looked like it had a contagious skin disease hydrocortisone couldn’t cure. The FlashO-Matic 3-speed transmission had given up its reverse gear so parallel parking was always challenging. I had to open the driver’s door, stick my leg out, and push my left foot forward to go backward. The window cranks constantly fell off, but the back of the front bench seat folded flat to the rear bench seat forming a very comfy queen size bed. Details about how I was able to make use of it are available upon request.

I loved that car.

Sandy Isaac: I bought my first car, a 1970 Toyota Corona in faded Mucous Green, for $200. It consistently transported me and 3 friends from the Palisades up Pacific Coast Highway to Ventura County Line with 4 surfboards strapped to the roof even with its cracked block, running on 3 cylinders. One night as a prank, friends filled my hubcaps with rocks which made driving to school the next morning sound like I was piloting a popcorn popper. On a date once, the shift knob broke off in my hand. I replaced it with a ball of masking tape. It never stranded me once. It jump-started my father’s Maserati Ghibli Spyder numerous times. I sold it 4 years later for $200 and hated to see it drive away.

Herb Cunitz: My fist car was a 1969 black VW Beetle that I repainted black and gold and added “Herbie” graphics. The exhaust and heater fused together somehow, and I often had to deal with asphyxiated passengers. I bought it for $600 and sold it for $2,000. I took that money and bought an MGB.

John Momeyer: If my memory serves me correctly, I was fourteen and-a-half and spent $500 of my own money to buy a 1972 Plymouth Duster with a slant six engine. I worked on that car in my backyard for the next year and-ahalf before I had my license and could drive it. I replaced the carpet and seat covers and spent hours beautifying the engine compartment. I remember sitting on the wheel well with my feet hanging down next to the side of the engine. There was so much space under the hood. I don’t think I drove it for six months when the transmission gave out. It was a $1,500 repair job that my dad was not too happy to pay for after spending only $500 on the car. There were always different makes and models around the house that we drove or sold, since my dad would buy cars at auto auctions. My last car in high school that stuck with me for years was a Datsun 280Z. I owned a few different 280Zs until the late ‘90s. That’s when I bought my first Porsche, a blue 1988 944, which I still own and drive today.

Tom Stone: I bought a used 1976 Datsun 620 pickup in 1999 for $900. I drove it on trips through California, Arizona, Nevada and Oregon with my friends. The truck had no mods and boasted a 93hp motor. I traded Dad my Datsun for his pickup. Dad kept the Datsun for years, handed it down to a nephew and it stayed in the family for a long, long time.

Chris MacDuff: I had saved over $3,000 during the summer of ’85, leading up to my 17th birthday. I desperately wanted the ‘68 Camaro (maroon with black rocker panels) that was for sale a few blocks from my parents’ house. Delusions of grandeur filled my head in anticipation of owning it. I dreamt of rolling on to the high school grounds and into the parking lot. I imagined that, in the fall, everyone would be hanging out front. Some kids smoking, others kicking a hackie sack around. I’d drive up and be the coolest kid at school. When I went to look at the Camaro with my dad, he simply said, “No way.” My first car ended up being an ‘84 Rabbit Diesel. How dare he tell me, at 17, how to spend my money! For the record, both the Camaro and the VW were priced at $3,000.

Jim McLaughlin: My first car was a 1968 Oldsmobile 442 with Hooker, Holley and Hurst mods. The car only went in a straight line. It wouldn’t turn and the brakes were, well, not brakes. It was impossible to stop. I owned it during a gas crisis and on a good day I got 4 miles to the gallon, but it looked cool! I did lots of stupid stuff with that car.

Joe Wiederholt: My first was a 1973 Super Beetle. I saved for several years and finally got my parents’ permission to buy a car. I had never driven a manual but drove it home from the used car dealer. That was a bit of an adventure. Living in the Midwest, I quickly learned that a rear engine car had good traction in the snow but understeered like crazy. The car was underpowered and probably unsafe but was inexpensive to purchase and operate. You could fix anything with a wrench, pliers, wire and tape. I rebuilt the motor and put in a big bore kit, a hot cam, “Blue” coil and a Holley carburetor. Finally, I could go up hills without downshifting. I eventually sold the car for more than I paid for it when I got my first “real” job in San Diego. The photo of me with my car was taken after I won my first bicycle race. We had a lot of great adventures traveling together.

John Armstrong: Growing up in San Marino in the 60s, I was deeply envious of several high school classmates who had Volkswagen buses with custom beds in the back and curtains on all the windows for privacy on Friday and Saturday nights with their girlfriends. The curtains also were good for deceiving law enforcement when my friends parked illegally overnight at Newport Beach with their surfboards. The savvy cops would rock their buses violently to flush them out, but my friends would remain motionless until the cops went away frustrated. Those young guys had so much fun. But me? I was not allowed to have a car in high school. My parents told me a car would affect my grades, and I was meant to study.

I didn’t get my first car until I was a sophomore in college in Boston. It was circa 1972 when I acquired one of those tiny 60s-era Datsun pickups for $600. It was a weak, four-cylinder job with a teensy cab, and it had a bench seat. No back seats.

In those days, my roommate and I were intrepid skiers (actually still try to be) and one spring break we took off from Boston and drove straight to Alta, Utah. One of us drove while the other slept and going at top speed of about 65 mph, we covered the 2,364.2 miles in 37 hours. Then we skied for a week and drove back in the same manner to resume our studies. The little Datsun never complained.

As we crossed the plains of Nebraska on I-80 on a bitterly cold night listening to bootleg cassette tapes of the Grateful Dead, my roommate and I pulled over for a half-frozen hitchhiker carrying only a briefcase. With limited space in the cab, we told him he would have to ride in the pickup bed. He agreed, and we passed him a sleeping bag. After about an hour, we heard a loud bang on the rear window. The hitchhiker was gesturing urgently for us to pull over.

We did so. He announced that he would freeze to death in the back and for the love of god, let him sit in the front. So we all crammed into the front, and while I drove, he opened up his briefcase and we saw what was inside. It was full to the brim with hashish. It turns out he was a dealer trying to get to Cheyenne to make some sales. That changed the complexion of that long night.

We never did fully understand why he was hitchhiking at all in that merciless, windswept blackness. After a while, it didn’t seem to matter.

Steve Town: bought my first car in 1979. It was a ‘66 VW bug that cost me $300. It had the standard 1285cc 50 hp engine. I drove it from California to Oklahoma. Attempting to make it up inclines in Arizona and California, with my foot to the floor, I managed to hit all of 35-40 mph. What I didn’t realize was, that car was my first ‘Porsche.’ I wish I still had it!

Steve Eisler: In 1965, I bought my first car, a 1963 MG Midget. It came equipped with a 1098 cc engine that produced 56 hp and a top speed of 91 mph. It had a canvas top that attached to the windshield and stretched over a metal frame that was ‘erected’ and fitted into brackets behind the seats. The back of the top attached to snaps on the rear deck. It had plexiglass side curtains that had to be opened to open the doors, since there were no exterior door handles. Driving the car taught me how to double-clutch, heel and toe down shift, and due to a weak starter, how to pop the clutch to get it started. It also gave me a life-long appreciation for the thrill of driving a sports car.

My parents’ best friends were an older couple, Dick and Bernice, who visited almost every week to talk and play bridge. One evening Bernice asked if she could have a ride in my MG. I was thrilled to show her the difference between a sports car and her husband’s Chrysler 300! Bernice was about 60 and looked just like what you would imagine a person named Bernice would look like. She was short, impeccably dressed, had a chain attached to her glasses, and had her hair done every week in a grey color with a slight purple tint.

The top was down, so my mother loaned her a scarf, even though I doubt the wind could have had any effect on that hairdo. We were having a nice drive until we came to a left turn. There was no traffic, so I approached the corner without braking, flicked the toggle switch on the dashboard to activate the turn signal, rolled on the brake, depressed the clutch to shift to neutral, blipped the throttle, shifted into second, turned in, applied the gas, and flicked the toggle switch off. As I turned-in

I heard a gasp from the passenger seat. I doubt that Bernice had ever experienced lateral G-forces in a car before! When we got home, I helped her out of the car, and she graciously thanked me for the ride. She never asked for another one.

Don Matz: On Christmas morning, 1962, my grandmother asked me to change the light bulb in the angel on top of our tree. I stood on a stool and found car keys hanging from the back of the angel. I looked out the window and down the street sat this robin’s egg blue 1953 Ford with a gigantic red cellophane ribbon on the door. My dad paid 150 bucks for it. Three-on-the-tree, for those who remember. I didn’t realize you had to put oil in those things so a few months later I blew the engine... Now I know

Scott Matz (courtesy of his dad): Scott’s first car was a harvest goldavocado green ‘72 Toyota long bed hand-me-down. It sat in front of our house for so long cobwebs had formed between the pavement and tires. We removed the huge camper from the bed and Scott had the truck painted white, stem-to-stern. After decking it out with special wheels and a sound system that seemingly included every speaker known to man and an over-sized amplifier, the truck “looked” awesome but redefined “loud.” The windows on our house rattled when he pulled into the driveway. Actually, the sound system pulled so much power that the head lights barely lit. So, I offered to take the truck to work with me one day and have a professional car electrician remedy the problem. After I left the electrician, the following day, I was traveling back to work on Imperial Boulevard in Brea when black smoke started coming from under the dash board. I pulled the truck over, turned it off, applied the hand brake and sat briefly until the smoke began to get worse. So, I got out of the truck and stood to the side as the interior ignited in flames. I watched the paint on the roof bubble and the rear-view window melt. The door mirrors melted and fell to the ground. As people started gathering on a sidehill to watch, the hand brake melted and Scott’s pride-and-joy began to slowly roll down the hill. Oh yeah, I was parked on a hill facing a busy intersection with an ARCO station on one corner.

The truck was picking up speed. I was running after it waving my arms to alert any potential target. The truck continued to go faster, burning like a comet when it jumped the center divider and was now heading directly into on-coming traffic. It was a nightmare. I envisioned the worst. I knew Scott would be devastated and I would probably spend the rest of my life in prison. Fortunately, no cars were hit but the fireball collided with a lamp post on the opposite side of the street. Flames from the hood spilled onto the embankment and the vegetation caught on fire. As the fire moved up the hill toward an electrical substation, a good samaritan ran over to the truck with an extinguisher. I said “Forget the truck, get the hill!” Another driver came over and asked what he could do to help. I asked him to call my work to let them know what just happened. As it turned out, he was a priest (I didn’t know that at the time). One of my coworkers answered the phone. The message went something like this: “Hello, I’m Father Murphy. I’m out here with Don Matz on Imperial Boulevard. His truck exploded in flames and he won’t be coming back to work.” Word spread throughout the department that I was dead, and Father Murphy was administering Last Rites.

An hour later the truck was dumped off at a junkyard in Brea, on Ash Street, of all names. I called Scott and broke the news. It was like a stake through the heart, although he rebounded eventually with another bitch’n ride. When I called work, I heard screaming from my co-workers. “He’s Alive!”

Just another day at the office.

And there you have it. Lots of fun memories and not a single person I asked owned a Porsche as their first car. I wonder how many Porsches they own now…

“I’ve always been asked, ‘What is my favorite car?’ and I’ve always said ‘The next one.’”

Carroll Shelby

“A racing car is an animal with a thousand adjustments.”

Mario Andretti

“Straight roads are for fast cars, turns are for fast drivers.”

Colin McRae

“If you’re in control, you’re not going fast enough.”

Parnelli Jones

“The ideal racecar will expire 100 yards past the finish line.”

Stirling Moss

“I am an artist, the track is my canvas and the car is my brush.”

Graham Hill

“Racing is Life, everything before or after is just waiting.”

Steve McQueen

“If your car could travel at the speed of light, would your headlights work?”

Steven Wright