I needed a car to commute to Flint, Michigan’s General Motors Institute after high school, but had yet to earn a paycheck from my sponsor, Cadillac Motor Car Division. All I had from teen year’s odd jobs and newspaper deliveries was $1500, so a co-op educational program would be the only way to attend college. I also needed starter money for books, room and board, and expenses, which left little for a vehicle. So my father and I began looking at used cars along Michigan Avenue, not finding anything that fit. Like all first time buyers, I needed something cheap and reliable, but everything cost more than I could afford and I didn’t know how difficult GMI would be or how long I would last.

We finally found an old two-door Mercury with a banged-up front end that we repaired over a few weekends, replacing a fender, hood, and bumper from a salvage yard. It wasn’t too difficult taking parts off and bolting new ones on before having the car repainted an eerie, silver gray by an Earl Scheib paint facility for $29.95. Which, by the way, in no way matched the existing yellow and black interior. But this was before I thought about color coordination, and Earl wasn’t in the business of matching exterior and interior colors; they just wanted thirty bucks, and the customer was left hoping they didn’t let the wet paint dry in a dusty parking lot. I drove that Mercury back and forth for two years before it needed new tires, brakes, steering, and coolant work. Even the radio was beginning to sound a bit foggy from its ancient vacuum tubes leftover from WWII.

So, with a small but growing bank account, I began looking for a replacement. Dad said I shouldn’t buy another used car since it usually meant owning someone else’s troubles. But just west of Schaefer on Warren, an imported car dealership featured a new British sports car called an Austin Healy Sprite sitting on its lot. It was the “Bug-eye” model, as the motoring press labeled it, because its hood-mounted headlights were perched above a surprised-looking mouth of a grille. The car was tiny, weighing a third of domestic cars at 1,328 lbs and powered by a one-liter, raspy-sounding 48 hp engine. The Sprite was good for 70 mph with a tailwind. Actually, the engine was less than a liter in displacement, at 948, and I’m exaggerating its top speed, too. But, it was new, which supposedly meant less trouble than a used car, but this was before I began understanding an oxymoron; English build quality.

It was both a joy and revelation to drive but, best of all, cost less than $2,000 out the door. So I said good-bye to the Mercury and leapt into the Sprite. How much, exactly, Sir Donald Healy had a hand in its creation and execution doesn’t matter as it was instantly wonderful and strange.

After a few months of enjoying fall drives in the winding countryside, Michigan’s winter hit, as it is wont to do on occasion, and it felt like the Sprite was seeing snow and cold for the first time. It was almost like a new-born puppy staring out at winter snowdrifts and the wonder of it all for the first time. In its first cold, blustery blackness of 6:30 am blowing snow, its nervous, hesitant engine shook and trembled like the puppy pushed out the door into the cold to do its thing. Unlike family Chevrolets I’d grown used to, this tiny thing seemed to be asking, “What’s with this white stuff and bone-chilling cold I’ve never seen in jolly old England?” The first time it saw 15 degrees, it needed a jump-start because, apparently, the British had never converted Celsius to Fahrenheit and its tiny battery simply couldn’t cope. It’s a good thing the Battle of Britain took place in the summer of 1940 because Hurricanes and Spitfires would still be on the tarmac never having started.

But, ah, the British, in their attempt to figure out metric to English conversion, had also forgotten to change the polarities of their electrical systems. Connecting normal red-positive to red positive terminals, the American way, began melting the electrical wiring harness to great shouts of dismay, alarm, wisps of smoke and burning plastic, along with acrid smells of ozone. Now, who would have known that a people who drive on the wrong side of the road would get their electricity backward, too.

But the car endured itself. It was a delight of differentness with its strange mix of rubber floor mat smell, engine oil aroma, harsh ride, and incredibly quick steering, all propelled by a snicky-snick four speed manual transmission. The doors lacked door handles, requiring un-snapping and opening of its plastic side windows to reach inside and release a catch. So, there was no way to actually lock the car, perfectly fine for the stately British Isles where no one ever steals cars, but rather inadequate for the crime capital of the Midwest, Detroit, Michigan. Once seated inside, the view out through flexible plastic side windows revealed wavering Monet-like images one could only guess at.

The Sprite was so low and tiny, it should have been called Tinker Bell. From the driver’s seat, top down, one gazed up at Chevrolet door handles, pedestrian trouser pockets, and ladies handbags, altogether providing a new perspective on life. No one at Cadillac seemed to mind a new co-op student employee bought himself a British sports car because, I suppose, they weren’t sure what it was as long as it wasn’t a Ford. Besides, expecting a student to buy one of our products like a Cadillac Sedan DeVille would have been like asking a Boeing co-op student to begin payments on a commercial airliner.

Three days after driving it off the lot, I ran into the back of a co-worker’s car in front the Cadillac Administration Headquarters Building when I pushed the clutch pedal instead of the brake pedal. I’m sure the General Manager never even glanced up from his coffee, but most of the first floor came out to stand on the entrance steps and stare. There was no damage at all to the other car, but it took a few weeks for my forehead bruise to fade and an entire month for a repair shop to get a new Sprite front end from England. When they were done, it was still bug-eyed.

 By Jon Reed 

Back in High School, my best friend Denny’s father had a relatively new 1956 “Rocket” Oldsmobile with a high horsepower engine for its time. I couldn’t figure out why his father bought it, knowing his son’s wayward inclinations. Do people put dogs next to a hundred dollars-worth of steak and tell them not to eat? The Oldsmobile was a great looking car with a stunning two-tone coral and silver paint job. But all my friend knew about cars was taking off an air cleaner without dropping it. Late night, when he was allowed to drive it, with myself and our other friend, Kenny, in the front seat, he would put it in reverse and floor the accelerator until we hit 30 mph. Then he would shift into drive, spinning the tires in a haze of burning rubber as we screeched forward a half-block. Only years later, after graduating with an engineering degree, did I realize how durable that Oldsmobile was. Amazingly, nothing ever broke, but his father always complained about his lousy GM rear tires wearing out so quickly. 

Michigan’s first National Hot Rod Association drag racing facility, the Detroit Dragway, opened downriver near Dix and Sibley that spring. It was a big event in the Detroit area and any licensed driver who wanted to run a car in a drag race was encouraged to participate. The news flashed around Fordson High School, and even families were talking about drag-racing, likening it to an adventurous outing. At the time, the drag strip portrayed itself in a family carnival fair atmosphere, but Oldsmobile friend was being kept on a short leash, allowed to use the car for only a few hours on weekends. Oddly, its lousy GM rear tires didn’t wear out so fast when he was kept away from it. 

One Saturday night, he was granted the privilege of going out for hamburgers, but he had a surprise. After picking up Kenny and me, instead of burgers and milkshakes at a local drive-in where our parents thought we were headed, Denny drove us down to Dix and Sibley to race the Olds. Of course, this was all happening without his father even suspecting. I couldn’t believe I was involved in an adventure so obviously wrong. His father was stricter than mine, and this was as dangerous as drinking Mogen David wine with girls in the back seat at a drive-in movie. If the car was damaged in any way or anybody discovered us, we were dead meat, grounded forever. 

Nearing Detroit Dragway, night sky was lit with searchlights, deafening loud speakers, bellowing cars, and screaming race fans. The scene along the spectator fence was pandemonium, howling cars streaking away into the distance every few minutes. We went back to the parking lot to remove the Oldsmobile’s air cleaner, wheel covers, and spare tire to reduce weight. After Denny registered to race, Kenny and I ran to the starting line to watch. Sure enough, there it was, a two-tone Oldsmobile in the line moving up to begin its race into the night. I shuddered, still wondering how I had contributed to Denny abusing his family’s Oldsmobile without his father knowing. What if he blew up the engine, finally destroying the car’s rear axle after all its abuse, or went off the track and crashed the thing somewhere in the process? I was both excited and horrified, but we cheered mightily as the car’s tires spun with a burnout perfected late at night on neighborhood streets. 

As the starting lights blinked down yellow to green, Denny gunned the engine and stood on the brakes to keep the car from moving forward. The poor sedan never meant for anything like this, howled, wanting to lunge forward. Lights flashing, spectators screaming, raw fuel and burning rubber in the air, we were focused on the green starting light about to flash. 

That’s when I felt a nudge from Kenny and a gesture to the rear. Glancing back, I froze. Both my parents and Denny’s were sitting two rows back, probably the first and last time they would attend such a “family adventure” together. It turned out later our totally respectable, middle-American parents had decided to visit the drag strip on this particular night, on a whim, to see what all their friends and kids were talking about. My father had driven them down because we boys were supposed to have gone out for local hamburgers. 

At that singular moment, the Oldsmobile began howling and snorting at the starting line, smoke bellowing from rear tires. Kenny and I turned to watch, while two sets of stunned parents and thousands of spectators saw the starting green light finally blink. Without any idea his parents were there, Denny timed it perfectly. The Oldsmobile gathered its flanks and sprang forward, gaining speed, screaming down the quarter-mile track. The loud speakers announced a great run, his speed displayed a respectable 84 mph on a large sign at the end of the quarter-mile. We ran to meet him on the return road and, after excited laughter and congratulations, we told him about our parents and his grin faded into wide-eyed grimace. 

We somehow avoided a confrontation and, without waiting around, climbed in and drove back to the parking lot to reassemble the car. As one might guess, there wasn’t much conversation on the way home. My parents never thought much of the incident, assuming Denny had his father’s permission but, a few days later, the three of us met at a local soda fountain to find out what happened. Denny said when his father returned that night, he thought he would be maimed for life by a belt-whipping. But his transgression was so great, apparently, his father simply asked what his elapsed time was before telling him he should go to bed since it had been quite a night. And he should begin saving money for a new set of tires. 

The fun part of marriage are the odd disconnects that make life interesting or, should we say, challenging. Years ago, for instance, we were shopping at a major suburban mall and I noticed there seemed to be few customers in the mall’s primary store, Lord & Taylor. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearing 8:00 pm closing time. Just then, an announcement came over the store’s sound system confirming they were closing and everyone should leave.

Now, I’d never been in a department store so late, but I mentioned to Joan that we’d better get moving. She said she’d only be a minute, so I ambled out of the entrance to wait inside the mall. As expected, within minutes, Lord & Taylor’s store lights began winking out with no Joan in sight. Then, to my great concern, a twenty-foot-high metal security gate began descending from the ceiling but still no Joan. Many other mall stores were also closing and, with few people around, there was an eerie sense of abandonment. She’d always made sure I wasn’t to worry in case she didn’t arrive exactly on time; that she’d be alright. But this fortress-like metal gate was clanking its way half-way down and it was now so dark inside Lord & Taylor that I couldn’t see her in last mad scramble to get out.

As the massive, castle-like gate thudded into position, she rounded a corner and stood there, helpless. We were well and truly separated, with not the slightest clue what to do to extricate her. This was long before cell phones, and I had no idea how to contact Lord & Taylor Security, much less the store’s main offices. Would I have to find someone in the mall and call corporate headquarters somewhere in Georgia? This couldn’t be the only occasion when a customer was trapped inside. Did Lord & Taylor offer sleeping bags and emergency rations in cases like this? Were there any other trapped last minute shopper ladies inside? I’d never inspected the store notices, so maybe Lord & Taylor offered all-night champagne parties that no one knew about, but I wasn’t counting on missing anything.

How can wives who love to shop actually purchase anything when it’s too dark to see and no sales people selling them anything?  Was this what drove the beginning of the new age of internet shopping, when they can look at a screen, with no salespeople, and customers don’t get trapped inside? In this case, we finally came upon a security guard that let my wide-eyed wife escape. Seeing her tiny, at first clinging in desperation to the wrong side of the bars, her release reminded me of a cuddly thing being coaxed from behind a zoo cage enclosure. We were overjoyed at reuniting, promising such a separation would never happen again.

Of course, the next time we were abruptly scary-separated, we were schlepping two, very large, roll-around suitcases and a smaller version through downtown Portland, Oregon’s streets, trying to catch a rail-car to the airport. It was misting rain, what else, and we weren’t really dressed for the weather. An automatically-operating inter-urban rail train finally arrived, the doors opened, and I began lifting our two, huge, overweight suitcases up into the interior while Joan waited momentarily with the smaller roll-around on the curb.

While I was still struggling with the two pieces, the doors began closing. Before I could locate and push a button to stop the entire process, the train began moving. Joan was still standing, wide-eyed, curbside in Portland’s ever-lasting mist. What to do? Semi-scary panic time. I wasn’t sure where, exactly, to get off. Joan had our airline tickets and I wasn’t even sure what airline we were taking or what terminal to use. Neither of us had cell phones at the time so, should I get off somewhere between the last stop and Portland International, or guess what Joan would do?

I decided the best thing was to get off as soon as possible, still struggling with the two suitcases, wondering how to return to the previous train stop to meet her again. But now it wasn’t obvious where the opposite direction line was located. How much time did we have before the flight left, I had no idea, but we were well and truly disconnected without a backup plan.

Saving us both, the next automatic rail-car arrived with Joan on it before a train in the opposite direction hove into view. She was waving wildly, hanging onto her smaller roll-around, and a passenger pole, which takes three hands if you’re counting. Practically tossing the suitcases inside, I clambered aboard in record time. Greeting each other again after only minutes of separation, throwing our arms around each other, was like Stanley meeting Livingston in the deepest African jungle.