Jil McIntosh

Hot rods: just too much damn fun

Last night being one of the first in recent memory without a torrential downpour, I fired up the Studebaker and headed out to the local cruise night. I'd forgotten just how much fun I can have with this truck.

The Stude used to be my daily driver from April through November; it was how I got to work, bought my groceries home, and how we hauled everything from a queen-sized mattress to our kitchen cupboards back from the store. It saw less use when I started reviewing cars, because you can't judge a vehicle when it's sitting in the driveway. That's a shame, because this little truck's a blast.

I went out to a local cruise night, one of the real ones that are still the way it "used to be". No offense to the guys who work so hard to present regular cruise nights each week, but I'm not a fan of being told what year vehicles can come into the roped-off area of the mall parking lot, and here's your ticket, and park where the attendants tell you, and when the last prize of the night is drawn, everyone fires up their cars and drives straight home via the shortest route possible.

No, this one out here (Pete's Big Bite in Whitby, Ontario, if you're ever out on a Friday night after about 9 pm) is as it was in the beginning: you come in, wait until one of the families getting a meal gets back in the minivan and vacates a spot, you double-park if necessary, and you hang around and talk cars until you've had enough, and then you slowly cruise on home because the night's so nice, and the car's running just right, and you're in the coolest thing on the road, and it's just good to be alive. Gas is how much a litre? At times like this, I really don't care.

In today's paper: Car tattoos

I was at the Toronto tattoo convention with my friend last week, where we both added a little something to our collections (call it a weakness), and I put together an article for the Toronto Star on car tattoos. You can find it here.

I didn't get anything car-related this time, just an old-fashioned nautical star. But I do have the Studebaker logo tattooed on my ankle ... a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do ...

What's that again?

Every now and again, Transport Canada will send me a list of the latest recalls; apparently, the agency gets the notice from the auto manufacturer and just runs it verbatim. So I'm not sure if it was someone at the government or someone at Cadillac, but taking a few bucks out of the kitty to purchase a dictionary might not be a bad idea:

No remedial action is required due to the unlikely-ness of such an occurrence.

Chevrolet Malibu, and days gone by ...

In today's Toronto Star, I have a review of the Chevrolet Malibu; you can find it here.

I also took some navel-gazing from these digital pages, and turned them into a story on my Plymouth and driving in the "good old days" of the 1970s and 1980s, which you can find by clicking over here.

Letters? Oh, yes, I get letters ...

As a freelancer, I work at home, rather than in an office; there are times I feel like I'm working in a bubble. That's why it's nice to get feedback from readers, whether it's through the printed newspaper or my online work. But every now and again, well ... let me share some examples from the mailbag.

The conspiracy theorist: A reader wanted me to investigate and expose GM for false advertising, claiming that it was advertising a car at a higher mile-per-gallon average than he figured its L/100 km rating was when converted. I investigated ... and reported that if he'd converted into Canadian gallons, instead of the smaller American ones, the math would work ...

Now there's an incentive: The inventor of a new auto-related product asked me to feature the product in a story -- in effect, a free ad. In return, he said, "I promise to read all your stories twice each time if you do."

I must have been asleep that day: A reader chided me for writing about new cars, and giving up my newspaper column on used cars. I told him I'd never written a column on used cars. He said I had, called me a fraud, and said he'd check the previous issues to prove it. Needless to say, I didn't hear from him again...

Feeling gassy: A reader was told by the dealer that her brand-new vehicle had been filled at an Esso station, but she wanted to patronize the Petro-Canada station closer to her house, and asked me what damage she might do to the engine by changing brands.

I think I saw that already: A reader mailed me a copy of a magazine article on old trucks, thinking I'd be interested in it. He apparently didn't notice that I'd written it.

Yes, that's a good reason: Someone complained when I found fault with a Pontiac; I needed to "stick to the positive," he said, "because GM employs the most people per car."

Ooookay: I mentioned that two mechanically-identical models had "unique sheet metal" to describe the styling. Someone wrote and told me I was wrong; he'd called the company, who confirmed they used the same type of sheet metal in both.

I'll get right on that: "Would you mind ranking, in order, the safest minivan to the least. Also, please confirm my assumption that American cars use soft metal that quickly loses its compression, thereby increasing fuel consumption after only five years."

Those were the days ...

That's me, age 13, on my mother's new car, a 1972 Plymouth Scamp. (She just about had a bird when the photos came back from the drugstore.) I learned to drive on that car when I was 17, and not long afterwards, it became the first car I owned. Less than a year after I learned to drive, believe it or not, the city of Toronto gave me a taxi driver's license.

I was thinking about that Plymouth the other day, and the cabs I drove in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when I was assessing a brand-new car and marking against it because it had very few storage cubbies.

How times have changed. My Plymouth had a glovebox and an ashtray, and that was it. With the cabs, we'd sometimes buy plastic consoles that sat on the transmission hump. They could be a pain if someone wanted to sit in the middle, though, because most cars had front bench seats.

Cars didn't have cupholders back then, save for the inside of my glovebox's metal lid, which had a couple of indentations to hold a mug if you stopped at A&W for a root beer. I don't remember people drinking anything when they actually drove. We did in the taxis, because there wasn't time to stop. Coffee shops used styrofoam cups, not paper, and we'd wedge them between the dash and the windshield. Some guys bought cupholders that hung off the windowframe, but they were more trouble than they were worth. We'd put a lid on the cup and then tear out a hole so we could drink on the go, and sometimes passengers would marvel at such a great idea. Now the lids come with the holes already scored.

Cars didn't have door pockets. They didn't have a mirror on the passenger door, but they did have vinyl roofs that were definitely not the stylist's finer moment. If you ordered a rear defogger, it was a fan in the parcel shelf that blew warm air on the window, very noisily. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven the day I got a taxi that had air conditioning, power windows and power locks. It was like driving a Cadillac. And those were back in the days when the only thing better than a Cadillac was a Rolls Royce. Good heavens, I feel old.

Why I don't have children, Part II

This so-called adult is my husband, who had a half-built go-kart frame, a 5.5-horse motor, a couple of old Radio Flyer wagons, a welder, and far too much time on his hands.

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Why I don't have children ...

I don't need 'em. Not when I have a spouse who thinks that the only good Radio Flyer wagon contains a 5.5-horsepower motor, and he's got the car-building skills to back it up.

I can hear him running around in the back forty with it right now. I suspect by this time next week, I'll probably be a widow ...

Where it all began ...

a I was going through some old paperwork and happened across this. It's the stub from my first paycheque as a writer.

It's dated May 9, 1970 and it's for $25.00. I was eleven years old and you better believe that was a huge sum of money back then. My mother was a receptionist at an auto bodyshop and she took home $62 a week.

The paper was the Toronto Telegram, now defunct (although I don't think my story was to blame). They had a special section for children, and they'd ask for submissions -- double-spaced, please, and don't forget to keep a carbon copy for yourself. I wrote a fantasy story about a flying horse, and lo and behold, it became the very first piece I had printed. They even included a little sketch of the horse that I'd sent with it. And a few days later, this incredible cheque came in the mail.

I'd been writing for some time before that; I spent almost all of my spare time in the recreation room, tapping out stories on an ancient Underwood Standard Typewriter that my grandfather bought for me (and which I still have, sitting here in my office). This was my first published piece, and from that moment on, I knew that no matter what, I was going to be a writer. I did manage to make that dream come true. And in an odd twist, if you look at the short length of the piece I sold them and the buying power of the dollar back then, I don't think I've had a story since that's paid quite as well. As they say, I peaked early, and it was all downhill from there.

Okay, I'm old ...

A little secret: I like tattoos, and I have several of them, including one that's a copy of the Studebaker logo, in honor of my 1949 pickup truck.

I'm going to get another one next week (non-automotive-related) and I dropped by my tattoo shop today to hand in some artwork. My artist was gone for the day, but I met his young apprentice, who asked if I had any work by the older master.

Why yes, I said, and proceeded to show him the logo. "That's the Studebaker crest," I said.

He replied, "I'm sorry. I don't know what Studebaker means."

I'd probably just buy one Rolls-Royce ...

I frequently have my breakfast in a bagel shop down the road, and since I've usually got a test car, that's what I drive. The test car will change weekly, so I'm always showing up in something different.

Not that long ago, the two ladies who work there came over and said, "We don't mean to be rude. But we have to know ... you've always got another car. What do you do?"

I explained that I'm an auto reviewer, and these are vehicles lent to me for the purpose of driving and evaluating them.

"Oh," said the one. "We thought you were just rich!"

Viva Las Vegas!

I sure would like to be in Las Vegas today. It's the annual Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekend, and what a great event that is.

I've only been once, in 2006, but I loved every minute of it. It's primarily a music weekend that has a car show attached to it, but being a fan of all aspects of the event -- rockabilly music, tattoos and hot rods -- I was in heaven.

The car show is primarily for rat rods, those rough-and-tough unfinished beauties that have burrowed their way into my heart. And I also love the fact that the show isn't about the "traditional" 1950s music -- which has been so done to death at car shows that I now loathe Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper -- but the raw music that seldom made its way to the mainstream.

And I love the people. Unlike the average 1950s car show, where older men and women squeeze into poodle skirts and jeans and pretend to be teenagers, these folks go for grown-up glamor (this lovely lady is Tanya Harris, who looked just marvelous beside a 1929 Ford). To the day I die, one of my favorite moments is sitting at the tiki pool party, watching young women in Betty Grable swimsuits posing poolside and listening to a band singing Rock Around the Clock in Spanish.

You can read my full report here. And next year, try your best to get there. I promise it'll be more fun than you can possibly imagine.

Never underestimate a cowboy ...

I was going through some pictures and came across this, and thought, hey, there's a story within a story. This was during the launch of the updated 2008 BMW 5 Series. The company put a group of journalists into the cars in Las Vegas, and we drove them to Monterey, California.

That's a lot longer than the average press trip, and my deadline fell smack in the middle of it. The problem is that I write in linear fashion: if I don't have the first line, I can't write the story. And try as I might, I didn't have a first line. The clock was ticking, and I was desperately trying to come up with something. Nothing sounded right; nothing worked. It was getting on for three o'clock, and I had to have the story done that night.

Well, every now and again, the world just turns in the right direction for you. BMW had turned the trip into a bit of a scavenger hunt, and we had to stop at a general store in the middle of nowhere. Other than the general heading of "California", I had no idea where we were. We hadn't seen any living thing other than cattle for two hours. Why this store even existed was beyond us, but we pulled in, and that's when I noticed the beat-up old Ford pickup across the road. A cowboy got out, as lean and dry and weathered as a Joshua tree, and he came over and looked at my German-made machine. I fully expected him to ask what type of car it was.

"Nice car," he said.

"Thanks," I said.

He looked at it, and then drawled through a walrus moustache, "That must be a brand-new one. The ones last year didn't have them headlights."

(You can read the whole thing here.)

What REAL horsepower is all about ...

I just realized that today is April 3rd -- time to start counting the days until that moment when cars mean absolutely nothing. On May 3rd, the first Saturday in May, I will make myself a mint julep, park in front of the television, and take in the Kentucky Derby. (So far I'm rooting for Pyro, which means he probably won't win.)

Yes, I'm a horse racing fanatic. I don't bet much, if at all; I just love to watch them run. And this year marks 35 years since I saw one who turned out to be the greatest of them all. It was on television, mind you -- try as I might, I've never been able to get tickets for the Derby, and while packages are available you need to mortgage your house to buy one -- but I've never forgotten it. Through the magic of the mail, I have every Derby program from 1971, including one for May 5, 1973.

The Derby is the first of three races that make up the illustrious Triple Crown, along with the Preakness and Belmont. Only eleven horses have won all three since 1919, the last in 1978. By 1973, racing fans had gone 25 years without a Triple Crown winner, but it looked like one horse had a chance. His name was Secretariat, and although he was an American horse, his trainer was from Quebec and his jockey was from New Brunswick.

Well, he won the Derby by two and a half lengths, and his record time of 1:59-2/5 still stands. On May 19 he went to Baltimore for the Preakness, and in the first turn, he surged from last place to the lead, which he held right to the finish. He'd have set the official speed record for that race too, if the teletimer hadn't malfunctioned.

So in June it was off to New York for the Belmont, but Secretariat had his critics. His breeding indicated speed at shorter distances, and at a mile and a half, the Belmont was one of the longest races in America. He wasn't undefeated; he'd lost three races prior to the Derby (one by disqualification). And it's a tough campaign: most horses who win the first two lose the third. Not everyone was convinced, although I sure had faith in him. But even among those who believed in his ability, nobody -- nobody -- expected what ultimately happened.

Well, that day, he cemented his place in history. You can talk about your overtime goals, your triple plays and your checkered flags until you're blue in the face. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the greatest moment ever in professional sports.

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Would you let this woman fix your car?

I was going through some old photos and found this one. I'd all but forgotten this!

I think this photo was taken some 27 years ago. I went to visit my aunt in Michigan and found her somewhat upset because her trusty Studebaker had developed a nasty exhaust leak. She didn't like spending money and didn't want to take it to the shop, so I offered to fix it for her. Of course she couldn't bear the thought of me getting dirty, so she found a pair of my late uncle's overalls, along with one of his work shirts and a bandana to wrap around my head. I think it took me longer to get all dressed than it did to fix the car!

In "loo" of anything else to say ...

You have to admit, it isn't every day someone shows you pictures of her bathroom ... 

... but I will. I thought I'd have some fun showing off what originally started as a single taxi-themed coffee mug. This is my taxi memorabilia collection. (Most of it, anyway. There's a bit more on the walls, and a rooflight on top of the toilet.)

Back in 1977, I got my taxi license, and became the youngest driver in Toronto; I drove for six years for East End Taxi. I originally wanted to be a driving instructor, but you had to be 21 years old. The city fathers figured I wasn't old enough to sit in the passenger seat, but was mature enough for other people to put their lives in my hands as I sat behind the wheel. I never hurt anybody, although a few passengers did threaten to hurt me.

Much of my collection consists of run-of-the-mill toys, but I've got a few gems in there. Among them are a cardboard checker game, sent by Checker to its clients, still with checker discs untouched (I don't dare pull the sheet out) and matching Christmas envelope; a "Safe Driver" cap badge from Yellow Cab; the fare sheet from my own taxi; a sill plate that went on taxi-specific Dodge models, with "Dodge Taxi" embossed in it; and a porcelain Checker made by Limoges, a generous gift from my best friend (who drove alongside me back then, and we've been best buds ever since).

I've also got taxi pencils, taxi rulers, taxi ashtrays, taxi lighters, taxi licenses, taxi magnets, taxi Christmas ornaments and taxi tin toys. I buy many of my items from the big automotive flea market in Hershey, Pennsylvania each year (I don't do eBay) and taxi memorabilia is surprisingly rare, but I always manage to find something.

Why the bathroom, you ask? Well, our house is very small, we don't have a recreation room, and my office -- the only spare room in the house -- is crammed with books. So we figured, if you're sitting there anyway, you might as well have something to keep you occupied.

Besides, the garage already contains 3,000 Hot Wheels and 200 die-cast cars. Did I mention I married a collector, too?

Just for fun ...

No reason for this, just that it's great fun. This is Corb Lund, a singer from Edmonton, Alberta, with a cool song about trucks.

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