Showing posts with label MGB. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MGB. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 10, 2024

Buying a Low-Budget British Sports Car. Part Four. Louis Shalako.



Louis Shalako



You got to have a plan, Stan.

How much you gonna pay, Ray.

It’s just another toy, Roy,

You better listen to me—

There’s fifty ways to empty your wallet.

Especially, with an MGB.

 

How did British Leyland lower the compression ratio on the MGB engine, from 8.8/1 to 8.0/1, circa 1973: deep-dish pistons. Ergo, therefore and thusly, the block and the head are the same as previous years...maybe. These are the deep-dish pistons, this cylinder head (below) has larger valves installed. The ad states that the last three owners all had intentions of restoring this vehicle. $1,000.00 in Collingwood, Ontario, an easy 200-miles from Sarnia.

And is true, that my crusty old minivan will pull a max of 3,800 lbs. and you can rent a utility or car-hauler type trailer by the day or the week or whatever.

Looking at the photos, I would say that my old ’71 roadster had the shallow-dish, in fact the little raised ring was perhaps a bit smaller, a little further out from the cylinder wall. The difference is unmistakable but only if you have seen the other type before. If you are totally a first-timer, you may not spot that without prior research or information. 

(Assuming you take the engine apart in the first place. - ed.)

All of those holes are for oiling, cooling, and the eight holes on the far side are for pushrods.

But this ’73 project car would definitely be an 8.0/1 compression ratio engine, with significantly less power than the ’71, which was rated at about 95bhp and 104 lb-ft. of torque—yet the vehicle would still have the dual carbs, it would still have air injection, which most folks simply remove, and it would not have a catalytic converter, for example. (And this would be a good time for a guy like me to go off, read up on it and either check or confirm my facts.)

This gentleman has an interesting blog post on the subject of rebuilds, oil pressure, and oil consumption and things like that.

The Locost mentioned in the text appears to be a one-off, home design.

Larger valves, the water control valve.

Ah, nice. You can see the water control valve for the cockpit heat and windshield defogging.

The link for the parts car is already dead...

How hard is it to take the rubber bumpers from a later model MGB and replace them with chromies. I had wondered, my instinct is that the turn signal castings, lenses and gasket are 'probably' simply re-used from previous iterations. Some guys simply rewire the N. American side marker lamps and that now becomes the turn signals. The frontal visibility would be somewhat reduced, but they’re prepared to live, or to die with it. (It probably does skirt the letter and intent of the law, so you might want to get the safety check first and do the mods later…) Otherwise, you have to cut a couple of rectangular holes in the fenders, not quite centred under, but below the headlights, bearing in mind the curve or conformity of the original castings. Or, you can buy period-correct fenders which will have provision for these lamps, which are stamped and the mounts do stick out from the curve of the fender. 

The actual 5-mph collision-safety bumpers also required additional structure. It was an add-on, which interferes with the simple bolt-on chrome bumper mounts. You can get those fenders new or used, one would think. All it takes is patience. And money. If a company modifies a vehicle, they may not have bothered to drill them holes, where the old bumpers attached. What looks simple at first glance will, inevitably spawn complications. The same could be said of modifying any vehicle. And quite frankly modern cars are not meant to be maintained or repaired by the owners. Fifty years ago, the more enthusiastic owners thought nothing of putting in new spark plugs, changing their own oil, air and fuel filters, burned-out bulbs, or doing brakes and things like that.


***

The rear bumper does not have lights in it, but the additional structure must be there, in order to sustain a 5-mph hit.

This guy has done away with the front signal lights, in the images. This is the classic position for turn signals in the early models.

This MGB is a ‘project car’ listed at $1,000.00, in Burlington, Ontario.

(Link will be dead at some point.)

…The Plan Spawns Endless Complications.

 

Let’s say you do buy that later model MGB, with the rubber bumpers, the ride height increased by one inch, and the engine detuned and pollution controlled, with the result that it is heavier, handles much less well than the previous models, and the horsepower is much reduced. What is the best thing to do with that car? Bear in mind, in a previous post, I concluded that a clean body-shell is ‘everything’ to quote myself, which is a bit like the guy who represents himself in court and has a fool for a client.

I’m a writer, quoting myself.

Why not try a low-ball offer. Why not see if you can get the machine for a little cheaper than the asking price. Why not see if we can get it through a safety check, why not register the thing in our own name, why not put insurance on it, the bare minimum of insurance, and why not just drive the thing as it is. Why try to pretend it’s something that it is not? Let’s not delude ourselves into thinking that it will fetch thirty thousand poonds at auction. We’re simply not playing at that level, but we are playing, and sometimes that alone is enough.

Knowing that you probably aren’t going to make bags of money on your new purchase, influences the decisions about how much to put into it. If you gave someone a completely disassembled MGB or other sports car, and they put it all together again, it’s really only going to be worth so much in the marketplace—and if you really have twenty or thirty grand laying around, you can just go buy a much better car…at a high-end auction. You can also probably afford brand-new parts and any modifications might be done by seasoned professionals. You might be looking for a car that’s original, matching numbers and all that sort of thing, rather than something cobbled together by someone who maybe shouldn’t be doing such things…

It’s a low-budget sports car, true, but that is only a relative concept. It’s not a race car, it’s not a show-car, it’s not a street racer, it’s not going to impress your friends, but then they all think you’re an idiot anyways—they may love you in spite of yourself, but they still think you’re an idiot.

Here is one example. You have the 1977 MGB roadster and you want to upgrade the power, go back to chrome bumpers from the classic era, and you want to lower the machine by one inch. The later model vehicles use the front sub-frame from an MGB V-8. The company welded one-inch steel plates, (probably), under the ends of the sub-frame, in order to mount the suspension…the front sub-frame is held in place by four big bolts, then there is the steering rod and the steering rack to consider, then there is the independent front suspension, and then there are the brake lines, an anti-roll bar, etc.

Assuming you can unbolt and disconnect, you have to lift the rest of the vehicle off of there, dismantle all of that, and then you have two choices. You can try and cut and remove the one-inch steel plates, or you can try and find a front sub-frame from an earlier model, or try and get a new one from some supplier somewhere. You can try to get adaptive bits and pieces (new or re-engineered aftermarket parts) in order to just bolt on and not go that far with the dismantling. You may or may not be able to use the original springs. The plates, in my interpretation, simply push the springs an inch further down, and the shocks are still bolted on top of the sub-frame. This would, in fact, change the geometry of the steering and suspension, which is one of several reasons why later models are not noted for handling. I would have to examine two different cars side-by-side, listen to an expert, or get the proper information somewhere. This is where those online forums are so useful. They’re riddled with expert mechanics, and more than happy to help a fellow enthusiast. They might even have a few things to sell, right? And we are sort of interested in buying.

Those pesky turn signals. 1972 U.K. version.

It’s not an easy job, and one would think having done all of this, it’s a good time to check that steering rack, replace the flexible brake lines at the very least. Naturally, when you take all that apart, you may consider new bushings, bearings, brake pads and rotors and all of that sort of thing…such a simple little plan, and yet it spawns complications.

The rear end may be a bit easier, it is unclear at this point if the rear leaf springs are simply jacked up by shackles, or whether the company found some other way of recycling old parts from the bin, bearing in mind the MGB was showing its age at this point, (1977) and clearly did not justify major expenditures in terms of re-design and re-tooling at the factory.

The importance of a clean body shell. There is simple cosmetic appearance. There is structural strength, and then there are the niggling and persistent little details. In a vehicle of some age, we might decide not only to replace the flexible brake lines, but also the steel brake lines. I have done steel brake lines, borrowing the flaring tool, purchasing the raw steel tubing; piecing all of that together. The problem comes when you go to hang that on the actual vehicle—you need screws, clips, rivets even, and the bottom of your vehicle is rotten. Where are you going to drill all them holes—you can’t drill a hole in air, and screwing or riveting or clipping something to some surface that is corroded or paper thin is a lose-lose proposition. The problem at this point, is that you are already committed.

The same goes for the fuel lines. Just substituting fuel-resistant rubber hosing on wire garbage-bag ties under the vehicle may be a low-cost option for the fuel lines, but it really isn’t going to work for the brakes, which operate at a higher pressure.

Interestingly, for many of the conversion-type jobs listed above, you can probably get some kind of estimate of parts and labour…from somebody, somewhere.

Our surprise pick for this post.

Before you even buy the car—helpful information, to be sure.

Here’s one of those terrible truths that aren’t all that much fun to confront. If I don’t have ten or twelve grand for some reasonably complete and driveable little sports car of any description at all, (option one), I probably don’t have ten or twelve grand to fix up a wreck, assuming I had the tools, the knowledge, the experience and the facilities, (option two). If I honestly thought I could find ten or twelve grand over the next year or two, then I could also, probably find ten or twelve grand to pay off a loan on a vehicle that was clean, whole, complete and driveable from the beginning. Five years ago, the rate was 8.99 %. I checked the other day, and it is now 14.5 % in this town, for a personal loan. So, cash would be decidedly better.

The first option is clearly the better one. I just want to have some fun, and the rest can wait.

 

END

 

 

A 1980 MGB, in red. You could do worse for the price. 

The MGB Experience.

The MGB Register Forum.

My Surprise Pick from the 22 Recent Entries from Auto Trader Ca.

Just listed; Right Around the Corner. Needs Fuel Tank, Not running. ($5.000.00. '73 MGB)

Looks like a trap.

Classics.On Buying an MGB.

On Buying an MGB. Part Two.

Buying an MGB (or other) Sports Car.

Uhaul. Rent a Trailer or Whatever.

Images. Mostly stolen. 

Check out Louis Shalako’s The Art of Murder, an audiobook available from Google Play.

See his works on ArtPal.


Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.







 

 

 


Monday, November 27, 2023

My Criminal Memoir, Part Thirteen. The New Highway. Louis Shalako.

 

Mine was a dark blue, with steel rims and baby-moon hubcaps. Not quite so cool...







Louis Shalako


The new highway. The first time Johnny and I became aware of the new highway, the project had barely gotten started. We were heading north on a gravel side-road, in his full-size Dodge cargo van. He’d paid about $1,500.00, it had a six-cylinder engine and three speeds forward, with the gear shifter on the steering column. I drove the thing, and the brakes were four-wheel drums, and the steering wheel a large, skinny plastic thing.

The clutch was heavy, and over time, your left leg would end up bigger than the right leg…this in spite (or because), of a brake booster. You didn't need to push nearly so hard on the brakes, that's what I'm saying. The steering was pure manual.

Judging by the remains of a red stripe around the mid-line of the vehicle, it was part of a fleet owned (or previously owned), by a local leasing company. Vans were popular, this one had been customized inside, and it was a big step up from the Cricket. Yes, Johnny had a bed and everything in the back…

It was getting dark out, we’d had a couple beers anyways, a doobie or two maybe. And there it was. This big, double lane cut through the forest and the bush-lots behind the farms along London Line, otherwise known as Highway 22. Back then, the legal age for drinking was 21 years of age, and this is where we learned to cruise the back roads.

It must have been in the newspaper, but the highway was actually built in short sections. This one was all mud, heavy equipment, road graders parked here and there, stacks of metal culvert, piles of sand and gravel. They had the basic soil profile, with two long flat strips for paving and a total of three ditches, one on each side and one up the middle…

At one time, the 402, a multi-lane divided highway, used to end at the city limits. Traffic was dumped onto good old London Line, through the Golden Mile, four lanes, two-way traffic, a commercial strip on the city limits, and then it was two lanes, or three with a central, two-way passing lane, all the way to London, sixty miles down the road. The building and completion of the 402 was a big thing for its time, and here we were, bumping across it on some kind of extended crop tour, and the night was black as pitch.

Johnny's was an old leasing vehicle, with a few miles on the clock.


That middle passing lane on what is now London Line, was the scene, and the cause, of many head-on collisions over the years, and at some point that thing had to go. Up north, a short section of similar roads will have passing for northbound traffic, and then the next centre lane section has passing for southbound traffic, and hopefully, never the twain shall meet…although it probably does still happen.

***

The first new section of the highway was open. The second new section was more or less complete…but not yet open. I pulled onto the ramp, slowed it to a stop. My girlfriend hops out, pulls aside one or two big orange traffic cones and I pull the MGB through the gap. She pulls the cones back into position. She hops back in, closes the door and we are off down the curving ramp, onto a big, beautiful, brand-new highway that is absolutely deserted. The top is down, we are in love, it is a beautiful, sunny evening and in a moment, she’s got the wine out. A twist of the wire, a pull on the cork, and the bubbling, sparkling cheap-ass wine blows the cork off into an eighty mile per hour slipstream.

The cork is gone, I caught a quick glimpse in the mirror, of it bouncing down the road, but we aren’t likely to need it again anyhow.

After some hour, the construction workers have gone home, at some point, it is a weekend, a holiday. We were trespassing, considering potential hazards, dangerous driving, speeding, disobeying detours…alcohol, marijuana, the girlfriend in a sun dress with no bra and no panties, kicking off her sandals and shifting up that dress, a hot and naked girl, my finger inside her wet pussy as she went down on me, well. I guess you could say it was pretty much all illegal.

Worth every minute of it, one has to admit—but still plenty illegal.

In that sense, we really were criminals.

We were also having the time of our lives…

***

Image Credit.

Willy had married his childhood sweetheart at this point, Trina was six months pregnant when they got married, shortly after her sixteenth birthday, which was legally permissible without the parents’ permission…

The four of us were cruising in his dad’s 1975 Chevy Impala station wagon, upon which he’d mounted a pair of Mean Mother Magnums, 800-watt spotlights, more normally associated with bush trucks and Australian poachers jacking ‘roos at night in the outback.

We were on the way home from a very long tour, a crop-tour, with plenty of wine, doobies, all kinds of sexual foreplay and other kinds of provocation of a womanly kind, and somehow I woke up in the driver’s seat. One guy can drive, his wife or girlfriend on the seat beside him, and the other guy and female person can fuck in the back end. We didn’t have too many inhibitions back then.

Willy, was asleep in the seat beside me, and the two ladies were snoring quietly away in the back seat. This is when I realized that I was driving.

Fuck—

I sat up a little straighter. I pushed the button and lowered the window in the tailgate to get a little oxygen through there.

I had no idea of how we had gotten there…

I have no idea of how we survived that last fifteen or twenty kilometres, I have no idea of when we switched seats, the only thing that probably saved us was the fact that we must have gotten onto the new, empty, deserted highway…those big fucking lights blasting away from the front bumper. Also the fact that the road was mostly straight. What was really food for thought, was the one or two kinks in the road. Even on the dead straight sections, it really was some kind of a secular miracle.

It was a boat, with a 350 cubic inch engine and a few power accessories.

Just past Warwick, westbound, I pulled off down the ramp, ah, I think Highway 21. The Forest road. With no one to help, I put it in park and pulled the traffic cones out of the way. Back in the vehicle, people were still asleep. Rather than get back on the highway, for the next section was now open, I took it north and followed Michigan Avenue back into town. This was better than a major highway, and let’s be honest. People had phones and truckers had CB radios back then, and sooner or later, someone is going to call it in: those crazy teenagers driving on the new highway again…surely someone must have remarked upon it.

Once or twice, we saw other folks out there, farmers or other young people. We just ignored each other.

It was a good thing Burger King was open late back in those days, or we might have starved to death…just an observation, ladies and gentlemen.

If you don’t believe in resurrection, you should see people sort of wake up and sit up and look around them when you tell them that you’re home, and is there anything in particular you want from the drive-through…???

Oh, and do you guys have any money on you.

***

I was heading out of town, not going anywhere in particular. It was a dark, wet, autumn evening. I had a few joints, most likely, and a cold six-pack of something sitting on the passenger seat beside me. I was driving my 1967 Beaumont, which sounds cool. It had a certain body style, although nowhere near as desirable as a Chevy II S.S. The thing is, you could sort of use the body to build one—assuming you had money. It would be a fake Chevy II, still desirable for all of that, especially with a 327 cubic inch V-8 and a four speed Muncey transmission and a Hurst shifter…

Mine had a six cylinder engine, and a two-speed automatic, shiny (and very slippery) vinyl seats. Bias-ply tires, mostly bald, and baby-moon hubcaps.

The radio was on and a song was playing…All of My Love.

I had never heard it before. It had a plaintive, sad kind of vibe to it, and furthermore, I know that voice—I know that guitar. Fuck, I knew those drums. Convinced, I turned it up a bit, cruising along at about 65 mph, and when the song ended, the on-air personality told us that John Bonham, the drummer for Led Zeppelin, had passed away and it was all very sad.

I smoked a joint, drank a couple of beers and headed on home.

It was the end of an era, really.

Those days would never come again.

***

One day the highway was open. I was alone in the MGB, eastbound on the 402. I took it up, holding the pedal right to the floor. Traffic was light, the road was dry and the car took a bit of time…finally, we’re going over a hundred miles per hour or forty miles per hour over the limit. At about 106 mph, the engine starts to knock and it was time to shut her down…

Fuck.

She blowed up at about 106 mph...

I humped it over farm fields and ditches, and through the woods to a farmhouse along London Line, where the people graciously allowed me to use their phone.

Of course. The first question my old man asked was, ‘did you check the oil?’

Well, that’s dad for you. It had all kinds of oil, although the oil pump may have been on the way out. It is also true I had been running it pretty hard. Basically, I had ‘spun a bearing’, and when I took the thing apart, sure enough, the little curved pieces in the oil pan were paper-thin. The block and the crank were fine, but sometimes it’s cheaper just to find a used motor somewhere than doing a major rebuild.

This, is why we pulled an old ’69 MGB, up, and out, it was literally sinking into the ground in a backyard along Pine Street. The roof was collapsed, the bottom of the vehicle sitting on the ground and the wheels stuck in holes of their own. I used to see that thing all the time, walking over to Pete’s Variety at the East Street Plaza.

For fifty bucks and a bit of labour—a stout rope and my old man’s Volvo, a bit of air in the tires, I got another engine block, a transmission, and that aluminum hood. They even had the ownership, which is important. I stripped that thing down to nothing and then had it towed for scrap.

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.


END


Louis has books and stories available from Barnes & Noble.

Louis has art on ArtPal.

Listen to his free audiobook, One Million Words ofCrap, here on Google Play.


My Criminal Memoir. (Part One).

My Criminal Memoir, Part Two.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Three.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Four.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Five.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Six.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Seven.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Eight.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Nine.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Ten.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Eleven.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Twelve. (Access restricted due to content.)


Thank you for reading, and listening.

 

Author’s Note. Chapter 12 was difficult to write, not so much from the technical aspects of writing, but from the emotional standpoint. I also sort of knew I had to do it—for reasons which are difficult to explain or even justify. I was lower than a sidewinder’s belly at the bottom of Death Valley for a couple of days beforehand. Writing it seemed to help, and then again, the day after, I was literally in tears a couple of times, perhaps for myself. Perhaps more so for all those other victims, most of them a lot more serious than my own experience.

 

#Louis





Monday, November 20, 2023

My Criminal Memoir, Part Ten. High Speed Chase. Louis Shalako.

Mine was Primrose yellow, and was slightly modified...


Louis Shalako



High speed chase. High speed chases are a very bad idea. Zipping across a public park, at night in an Austin Mini, was dumb enough, and yet it was also purely impulsive.

One dark and stormy night, I was alone in my 1971 MGB, heading west along Lakeshore Road in what was then Sarnia Township. It was freezing rain. The road was ice. For that reason, I was probably only doing 60-65 kilometres per hour, admittedly in a 50 kph zone. I’d lived with the car for a while. I had put in a lot of time in that seat. The fact that I had Hooker tube headers, an Ansa free-flow exhaust system, I had ported and polished the head, probably resulted in another five or ten horsepower to an engine that was rated at 94 brake horsepower. I had lightened up the vehicle, and substituted a 12-volt battery in the trunk for two six-volt batteries under a panel behind the seats. The hood was aluminum instead of steel, I’d pulled this off a scrapped ’69, this is also where I got the new cylinder head to work on. This may have improved the forward-rear balance of the car. Looking at the photo, my car had the steel ‘rallye’ wheels, not wire wheels. Even the stock air cleaners were big and heavy, but I had fabbed up a couple of metal plates for each of the dual carbs and used little circular filters from a Pinto or something. This is a frequent mod for the vehicle, one barely frowned-upon by the purists, who could be a real pain the ass sometimes.

Interestingly, I had taken out side-marker lamps, a requirement for the North American market. What did that save, a fucking pound or two? I had removed the air pump, a pollution control device…I had the head milled down by thirty-thousandths of an inch to up the compression. I had driven, (crazy as it was), at night, eighty miles per hour (or more), on gravel roads.

Remember, I wanted to drive Formula One, even though poor boys don’t stand a chance in hell…

And there is a set of oncoming headlights on what was a pretty empty road, understandable considering the weather conditions…it was probably eleven-thirty at night. I was a lonely guy, and long tours around southern Ontario were a form of recreation. I didn’t smoke and I wasn’t drinking…I wasn’t high on drugs. This was before I met my girlfriend.

I was real clean back then, with reflexes like a cat.

As that other car passed in the opposite direction, the reflective markings on the vehicle, and the typical ‘cherries’ on top told me it was a cop. And I just gunned it. I didn’t even think.

Sure enough, the fucker hits the brakes, and I saw the flash in the rear-view mirror.

He is turning into a driveway…he’s backing out, but I had a head start. The sensible thing to do, would be to simply pull over. Admittedly, he never really did put on the flashers, he did not turn on the siren. I could see him, a half a mile back at this point, and I was doing eighty or a hundred kilometres per hour by now. On the map, it looks pretty straight, but it did twist a bit, back and forth. Since then, they’ve leveled out some of the humps and straightened out some of the bends, but even now, it is not dead straight.

One of the things I did on that car was to put on bigger tires. The stock tires were 165 millimeters wide, originally, (on early-sixties cars), they would have been bias-ply tires, not radials. I had 175s on the front, and 195s on the back end, the benefit of a bit of reading up on mild performance modifications for the MGB. People thought I was nuts, of course. I worked at a tire shop, trying to get through the academic upgrading program at Lambton College…I could beat any other MGB in town, and that was just a fact.

The cop car was slowly gaining on me. It’s not a real long stretch, and at that time, Murphy Road was the boundary between the City of Sarnia and Sarnia Township.

The conditions played a role. I could imagine him on the radio, trying to coordinate between the two police forces. If the Sarnia cops could get into position, they could head me off. Just west of Modeland Road is a sharp right-hander, which drops off and then bends back to the left.

At some point, I saw that he wasn’t catching up any more…he was still a good half a kilometre back, and I could imagine the thoughts going through his head. He’s thinking these are really shitty driving conditions, especially in a big, V-8 powered Dodge.

He’s thinking of his wife and kids. He thought of the asshole in the little sports car, what with Dead Man’s curve coming up fast…by this time he might have gotten a ‘negative’ from the dispatcher. Sarnia cops unavailable. He stayed right where he was, probably wondering when I’d lose it and then he’d either have me, or they’d be scraping me off the road and out of the trees.

...you won't come back from Dead Man's Curve...

Rather than hit the brakes, which would show braking lights. I let off on the throttle…rolled on past the end of Modeland Road, down the drop and turn to the right. I haven’t lost him yet. I had just enough time. Turning off all the fucking lights, pitch black out there, I had it in second gear, using the emergency brake just to slow her down a bit. This did not throw brake lights; a good thing to know, right. I hung a left turn at Notre Dame Place, a short stretch, which leads to a right hander onto Sylvan Court.

In the mirrors, I saw the fucking cop car go past the end of the street, still proceeding west along Lakeshore Road. I reckon he was out of his jurisdiction, but whatever. And I popped out onto Cathcart Boulevard, having turned the lights back on as soon as I knew I’d lost him.

It was a bit of a tough call, but to go left would lead back to Modeland Road. Only so many options down that way. I turned right, ending up at the intersection of Cathcart and Murphy Road. I knew the area well, as we had been racing shitty cars through some of the subdivisions, which were made of curving streets, little crescents, cul-de-sacs in a more modern, upscale residential area. I made a left on Murphy, no sign of any cops…

I took the first right, and by this time I was well and truly away, even if they had caught up to me, Sarnia or Township cops. At this point, all I had to do was drive the speed limit, signal my turns and lane changes…

The officer had lost sight of me, which sort of equates with losing the ‘chain of evidence’ or something. Without even a radar reading, what in the hell were they going to say?

I made it home, no problems.

Why did I do it? I could have handled a hundred-dollar ticket. It was just pure testosterone, at that age.

***

Not too many years later, in a similar incident, I outran the Ontario Provincial Police. I was northbound on Highway 19, coming out of Tillsonburg, Ontario. I was working as a reporter in Delhi, Ontario, and this was the best way to get home to Sarnia. I was on the curve at Salford, basically a hamlet at a crossroads, and I was probably doing over seventy in a sixty-mile per hour zone. Not that serious, I would be the first to agree, but there is this cop coming along from the opposite direction, and of course the OPP had the radar, what with policing major and regional highways.

Fuck, ladies and gentlemen. I was driving a 1972 Chrysler New Yorker, I’d paid $750.00 for it. A big, wide, long vehicle, admittedly lower to the ground than the typical modern SUV. It might have even weighed less, basically just a big metal envelope, two-door, with a fucking 440 cubic inch engine—7.2 litres in modern parlance. At a minimum, 225 horsepower, with bags of torque. Okay, bias-ply tires, hell, I had snowies on the back. But those vehicles loved the highway, they could cruise, essentially, at 80-plus miles per hour all day long, (or until you ran out of fuel), with no fuss and bother—also, they were a hell of a lot more comfortable than small, drafty, leaky old British sportscars…

We had adequate power, ladies and gentlemen...

Yes, fuck, ladies and gentlemen. I saw that cop, saw a couple of cars, headlights at least, in my rear-view mirrors. There was a car ahead of the cop and a couple of cars following along pretty close. What with the cop being there, they were all scrupulously going along at about 60 mph. Fuck, I just nailed it, ladies and gentlemen, with barely two and a half kilometres to the overpass just south of Ingersoll.

So, the poor cop has to figure out what’s going on. He has to put on a signal, pull into a driveway. He can’t even accelerate—the other drivers have no idea, and they’re just moseying along. He has cars behind him, and I have a few coming along behind me.

It all clicked in. Going by the map, it’s maybe two and a half kilometres, and then, up and over the overpass. What with the gathering gloom, all I had to go on were headlights in the mirror, but I had gotten lucky in that there wasn’t much ahead of me, and when there was, the road was clear and I could pass. I blew past one or two folks and then onto the overpass, letting her coast on the uphill bit to avoid braking…drop her down one gear, the transmission moans a bit, slowing her some more, back up into drive. I eased on down the ramp and got onto the Highway 401, westbound for London, (and then, the 402, westbound for Sarnia, just for detail.) The trip was about 140 miles.

And he must have caught a glimpse of that action, because he decided to go westbound on the 401. He could have gone eastbound 401, or he could have gone north into Ingersoll.

The 401 is a busy highway. I managed to use the fast lane, get ahead of a few vehicles.

I dropped her down to 65 miles per hour—no metric on those old gauges, and sure enough, someone gets a little pissed off, snapping on a signal and getting into the other lane. He passes, then another. They want to do 70, which is pretty safe as cops would prefer to write a ticket for something real.

...just coming around the Salford curve...

Fuck, at this point, I’m just some little old lady out for a Sunday drive, right.

There were transport trucks behind me, and right about then, that fucking cop car blasts past my door handle at eighty, ninety or a hundred miles per hour. No lights, no siren—just speed, ladies and gentlemen.

I watched him sail off up the highway…

Why did I even do it? We shared weekend duties at good old Cash Crop Farming Publications. With only so many reporters, and so many publications, every third week I had to pull the weekend. That meant two whole weeks away from my girlfriend.

It had been a long two weeks and I just wanted to get home…a young healthy male, right.

I guess.

It just struck me—if they had put the lights and put the sirens on, I might have stopped.

It’s a purely psychological thing, but I probably would have.


END

 

Image. MGB. By Mr.choppers.

Louis has books and stories available from Amazon.

Louis has art on ArtPal.

Listen to his free audiobook, One Million Words ofCrap, here on Google Play.

My Criminal Memoir. (Part One).

My Criminal Memoir, Part Two.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Three.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Four.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Five.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Six.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Seven.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Eight.

My Criminal Memoir, Part Nine.


Thank you for reading, and listening.