<lrc@red4est> writes, with a mixture of sadness and regret (?):
> My first car was an Austin America, a '69. I called it the
> Limey Lemon, but sure as hell missed it when I sold it
> (for twice what I paid for it). If I had it now, I could keep
> it running, oh well.
Ours ran fine, with an occasional field trip back to England for parts
and service bulletins. (Took me four years to discover that the plug
fouling problems had been remedied via a service bulletin that never
reached the U.S. dealer... sigh...) It took some time to convince the
security guys at Heathrow that the large object in my suitcase was a
CV joint/driveshaft assembly and not a pipe bomb. They were surprised
to open the offending suitcase and find a taillight lens staring back
at them, at which point the inspection ended quickly.
We sold it for $1100 in '79 to a girl with the exact same name as my
mother. (The Title transfer chaos that ensued is a whole 'nother story.)
This girl called back two weeks later to enquire how the gearshift was
supposed to go back in after she'd pulled it out by the roots. After
another two years went by, we ran into her at a party and learned that
the car had run fine until a trip to Wisconsin and a gas station that
left the dipstick out after checking the oil. She was picked up at the
side of the road by a Wisconsin State Cop who also owned an America,
and bought the remains of hers.
I miss it. It was a weird shade of almost-black green color that really
shined, except for the rusty parts such as anything made of sheet metal.
The bumper had two bolts in perfect position to install a honking big set
of Cibie driving lights. Now I've got a Cutlass and life isn't the same.
Andrew C. Green
Datalogics, Inc. Internet: firstname.lastname@example.org
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