Antique & Classic Cars Blog

Hot rods are fun and the V8-in-a-TR6 project (long running, slow moving) is along this continuum. My friend Bill is taking the build-your-own car idea a little further.He’s always wanted a certain limited production V8 sports car built in the late 1950s. Less than 300 were built, however, so they come up for sale infrequently and at big buckaroos. Bill loves the look and really wants a driver, not another full-blown classic.

So…Bill and a local fabrication shop are gonna build one, reproducing the body with great attention to detail and putting in modern running gear for dependability and ease of maintenance.

They’re eyeing the MGA as a possible starting point; that’s all I know right now.

Soon as this project gets rolling, I’ll post a few snaps and further details. I might even tell you what kind of car it is…though you’re all welcome to guess. :^)

This cheering for Spring thing has been a complete bust, so some reverse psychology is in order:

Snow, snow,

Swirl and blow,

Stay a while,

No need to go.

Afton Alps’ live cam shows a snowy, if slushy, hill. The only way to get some sunshine around here may be for all of us to plan a ski trip.

A friend spied this Lamborghini Gallardo in Singapore.

You know, that’s the trouble with Italian supercars. They’re just so ho-hum if you don’t dress ‘em up a bit.

A wrecking yard transmission often doesn’t come with the shifter. The ‘63 Buick Special T-10 four-speed I scooped up from a Wisconsin yard did. While I have no immediate plans to use it–Hurst, baby, all the way–letting a rare piece like this sit rusted and seized wasn’t right.

So in she went to meet a few shop friends–wire wheel, glass-bead cabinet, hammer & drift, and hand press.

Disassembly was not easy. Even though this gearbox sat inside a wrecking yard warehouse for maybe 30 years, corrosion seized the pins that move the levers and hold the gear stick to the main shaft. It also locked the shaft in place. Nothing budged…. but this is what shops are for.

It took a hot wrench to get the pin out that grabs individual levers. A good penetrating oil soak, hammer and drift coerced the pin holding the gear stick to let go, and the main shaft, with equal oil dousings, finally listened to a large hand-press’ well articulated arguments concerning shearing force and pounds per square inch.

The wire wheel, with a little glass-beading for tight corners, buzzed off all that grungy, scummy, crud, and we were back to the plain metal pieces GM workers put together 45 years ago. These would not have been painted by the factory but they lie unseen once installed–by anyone who might end up with this piece–and I wanted the nice appearance to stick around and rust to stay away.

Assembly awaits another day, though I won’t wait too long or parts might disappear. (We have cats and batting around small objects provides them the same fun that a good game of pool gives us opposable-thumb types.)

Whenever I get on a suitable road to drive at consistent speed, I like to use cruise control. Mainly I do it to avoid tickets–if I’m locked in at the limit I can’t roar up to ten over while watching some ‘70 Road Runner tear up a frontage road on a sunny day.

This device also highlights other vehicles’ varying speed. Most drivers not using cruise control slow down on upgrades and speed up on declines like clockwork. Presumably they drive with constant pedal pressure. The result is that other drivers fall behind me going uphill, then go past on the downhill. In rolling terrain, they pass me this way many times.

Funny thing is, because of perspective, they think I’m cruising past, then letting them by, cruising past, then letting them by. In short, they think I’m messing with ‘em. Sometimes, as happened this morning on my way south of Lakeville, they’ll accelerate hard and disappear in an apparent huff, all because they were doing exactly what they thought I was–speeding up, slowing down, speeding up, slowing down….

Next time you think the car beside is toying with you, watch your speedometer and see who’s mixing it up and who isn’t.

Anybody who’s waited tables understands the mandatory gratuity concept–big tables require a lot of service….

It’s annoying though when Minneapolis’s parking meters force a tip from you–taking more than the stated cost of service. The old kitchen-timer style meters either worked or they didn’t, but the more recent electronic ones randomly eat quarters without registering more time.

When gas costs over three bucks a gallon and cigarettes cost–I don’t smoke, what, ten bucks a cigarette?–twenty-five cents seems small. But unless you park all the time, your quarter supply is often limited. You look in your pocket, you got two quarters, you need ten minutes to run to the bank or post office… Cool. Then the meter eats one. Now you gotta be one of those impatient customers or hope the meter readers are on another block.

If the meter eats the first quarter, should you put in a second–or will it eat that too? Is there another spot around? If it eats the second and the third–it happens–do you drive away from the time it registered or keep gambling?

It’s not like casinos or amusement parks where employees wander around with money changers to make it right. You have no useful recourse. Good spaces are seldom plentiful, businesses may or may not want to give you more change. The quarter the meter ate could cost you a $30 or $40 ticket and fighting it is not worth the time.

Since meters are a game of chance, they should at least make it fun. Stick a little crane in there and some plastic rings, stickers and Spongebob Squarepants stuff. The meter either gives you the time you paid for or lets you try to pick-up a toy and swing it over to the drop-off chute. That way, at least you wouldn’t be so annoyed when your quarter gets you bupkiss.

A friend of mine with a ‘62 Buick Skylark called yesterday to say the Coen brothers were filming in Minneapolis this summer and needed cars from the 1960s as background vehicles. He was sending in a shot of his car–good choice Joel and Ethan, if you ever see this site–and suggested I offer my cars.

(Bracket before wire wheel, primer, paint.)

Though mine are too new–the ‘69 MGB GT would pass notice by all but hardcore MG enthusiasts–once the conversation turned to my garage, my buddy had to give me some grief for not having the TR6 done.

(Bracket after wire wheel.)

On that note, here’s the bracket started below, all painted and ready to keep my battery from wandering into the engine cavity on a hard stop. See T.V.–I am working on it! Hope readers are nudging things forward too now that you can hold a wrench outside without the bones in your hand hurting from the cold.

(Bracket after wire wheel, primer, semi-gloss black paint. Good ’nuff.)