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Cars: An Homage to Unreliability
I believe one of problems with today’s cars is that they are too reliable. I know it sounds strange, but stick with me for a bit.
When I was 16 years old, my father bought a 1976 Triumph Spitfire that I was allowed to use. He didn’t really buy it “for” me, he bought it for himself. If you’re not aware, British sports cars at the time were notoriously unreliable and required constant maintenance.
To give the most prominent example of this, I could be driving down the road and my engine would simply stop running. My only choice at this point was to coast safely to the side of the road and wait until it would start again. This usually took about 20 to 30 minutes. Fortunately for me, because this typically only occured after an hour or so total driving, so it rarely impacted my ability to get to school or work on time, but it also created some great opportunities for conversations with my stranded passengers. I know what some of you are thinking, that sounds dangerous. Well, it wasn’t really because so many cars were unreliable at the time, every driver understood that there was a constant risk that the car in front of you might break down, so drivers were forced to actually pay attention to the road and the cars around them.
Another trivial example is that not only did I have to check the oil in the engine, I had to check the oil in the carburetor. Yes, that’s right, not only did I have a carburetor (which no modern cars have) but it required oil to function properly.
I worked at the local hamburger drive-in as a car-hop (no skates or short skirts) for well under minimum wage (but decent tips if I showed a little cleavage), so I wasn’t able to pay a professional to fix minor things on the car. That meant I had to do everything I could myself, and back then, you could do a lot yourself. As a result, I figured out how to solve problems, figured out how things functioned, worked with tools, performed cost-benefit analyses, and perhaps, most importantly, knew when to call a professional. These are life skills that have helped me throughout my life.
One consequence of being unreliable was that the engine bay was designed to be worked on. The Triumph Spitfire had relatively long hood, a clamshell design that opened forward. This accomplished two important things, 1) it gave you a lot of room to work on everything in the engine compartment, and 2) you could see everything. I could see the distributor cap and the wires leading to the spark plugs. I could see the oil-filled carburetor leading into the intake manifold. I could see the exhaust manifold leading to the exhaust pipe. You could open the hood of that car and explain to a neophyte how the internal combustion engine worked by walking through the entire process while pointing to the actual devices. Today, you open a hood and you see a big piece of plastic with the manufacturer’s logo on it and maybe a radiator. You used to open your hood so other people could admire your engine; now you open the hood so people can admire the judicious use of logo-emblazoned plastic.
So, why does this matter? Is it just that I learned some useful skills in my youth that still benefit me? No, not really. I probably would have learned more useful skills trying to become an Eagle Scout. No, the real benefit of being forced to work on my car is that I felt connected to the car in a way that you can only be connected with something in which you have invested a lot of time.
Every time I started the engine, I knew it was the spark plugs that I had properly gapped and installed that were igniting the gasoline flowing through the carburetor that I ensured had the proper amount of oil. The battery was being recharged with the alternator I had replaced, which was being turned by the belt I had installed and tightened (and when it wasn’t being recharged enough, I knew just how to push the car down the driveway to jump start the engine.) Every bump I drove over was dampened by the shock absorbers (what the Brits called dampeners) I had installed. Every stop was accomplished through the brake pad I had installed, including those rear drums. I could tell at a glance if the tire pressure was low because I had checked it countless times; I could tell just by looking at them. Every mile that crossed odometer was one mile closer to the next maintenance event, like the oil change every three months or 3,000 miles. Even the foibles I didn’t or couldn’t fix added to the connection, like the broken snaps on the convertible top that ensured the left side of my head would be covered with snow on wintry days. There was the knowledge that your car needed your love and affection to get it to your destination. Even though my name was never on the title, that car was mine in a way that no other car would ever be.
My parents sold that Spitfire when I was in college without even telling me. I teared up a little, but my dad assured me it went to a good home, to another mechanically-inclined teenager who would soon enough be cursing Lucas electronics. I never met the new owner, but I often wonder if he learned to love that car, or if Lucas forced him to sell it on.
About a decade later, I bought a 1990 Mazda Miata. I thought it a great car. It evoked many memories of my old temperamental British sports car (after all, it was allegedly inspired by another British sports car, the Lotus Elan, even mimicking the exhaust noise). During the 13 years that Miata was my only car, I described it to my family as a reliable Spitfire. It was, indeed, very reliable; in fact, that was probably its only shortcoming (well, that and the spare tire taking up most of the trunk.) Yes, I changed the oil, but I rarely did anything else, it simply didn’t need it. I got in, turned the key, and drove it away. I knew without question that it would get me where I needed to go, and somehow, that was it’s only shortcoming.
I’m sure somewhere along the way I changed the spark plugs, but I don’t remember doing so. At one point, I replaced the rear shocks, but they were struts that required professional installation, so I couldn’t do it myself. I’m sure I had new brake pads put on it, but I didn’t change them myself and I can’t swear I ever actually changed them. That is all I ever did in 13 years. I really liked that Miata, but it was never mine the way that old buggy Triumph was. So, a few years after my oldest was born, I changed jobs and started driving to work rather than taking the train, so I bought a new four-door car and sold the Miata. The only pull on my heart strings was the years I had spent in the car, not the hours I had spent under the car. So, it was just a car I owned, not “my” car.
More than a decade later, I eventually bought another Miata thinking it would be an awesome first car for my 16-year-old son. While my son has some vague interest in getting his license (meaning he is constantly asking about it), his interest vanishes when we tell him the criteria he needs to meet to be able to get his license. One of those criteria is to learn how to do some basic maintenance like change a tire and the oil. To my son, cars are not meant to be worked on, they are simply appliances that take you from one place to the next. Time spent changing the oil is time that can’t be spent playing a video game or keeping up with his “streaks” on snapchat (which, near as I can tell, means sending random pictures to dozens of people at least once a day.) I feel somewhat sorry for my son, not just for the skills he will never gain, putting him at the mercy of overpriced mechanics, but for the connection he will never feel for a car into which he has invested his time and energy. And he has no idea what he is missing.
I listened to an episode of EconTalk recently where the guest discussed the “future of cars,” and one topic was that electric cars will eliminate all the jobs currently focused on repairing and maintaining the drive train. I think more will be lost than just those jobs — a portion of the American soul. And I, for one, think that is not necessarily an unmitigated good.
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All progress has this symptom. Nostalgia is nice, but we should take care not to “think like a tourist.”
Thank you, A-Squared. I’ll have to come back and read this. At the moment I’m just here to say that October will be here in a bit more than half a day, and the Group Writing topic for October is “Cards.” For those interested in anything dealing with Cards, go grab a date now. You’ll be able to write about greeting cards or the time you were red carded or that big poker game where you won your first wife from her father.
So many good points here. Having had a succession of unreliable vehicles in my youth, I certainly became used to poking and prodding (where’s that starter?). Now I open up my bullet proof Toyota and see . . . plastic.
IMO, the Super Bowl of unreliability would have been between Fiat (124 Spider, 128 sedan) and the venerable British sports cars (let’s not forget the TR-6–fast and unreliable in my experience). I once had a buddy pick me up in his Austin-Healey after my Fiat had broken down. The Healey overheated on the way home. Time to call somebody else.
I agree, I am amazed at the lack of interest young people especially men have in cars nowadays. Some of it that it seems parents buy their children much newer cars that are much more reliable. In my day we received family cast downs that were being replaced because of their unreliability. As young men our job was to milk more operational life out of these vehicles until mechanical failure or a wreck made fixing them too expensive. I remember hours pawing through junk yards salvaging parts. Even more time in garages with my buddies and or our fathers attaching those parts. It was a time of learning, understanding, inventiveness and camaraderie. Time learning lessons that still hold strong today. I feel our young are missing something by not having these experiences.
Damn. That Spit is prettier than anything in the showrooms today, at any price.
I can relate. I lived for 20 years with unreliable vehicles and became very skilled at fixing them. Eventually I realized my skills were getting rusty with the advent of modern vehicles. And although these skills are not properly valued by people these days (especially women, who I think should be impressed by my mastery of the physical world), I valued them, so I got a hobby – old British motorcycles. The gold standard in unreliability!
There is a place where these skills still lurk – young men who grew up as farm boys. Even lawyers who grew up on a farm! I love these guys.
Conjecture: The American male propensity to tinker with cars and trucks contributed to the Allied victory in WWII.
The improvisational skills it taught, and the ability to keeps jeeps, tanks, and airplanes operating by scavenging and making field repairs had a material effect on the capability of the American fighting unit.
Discuss.
I remember when I got out of school and finally had a “real” job, one of the benefits was being able to buy a car that worked reliably! In college and grad school I always had junkers I bought for a few hundred bucks and that needed a lot of attention.
But I know what you mean – those old cars had sparkplugs that I gapped and put in myself, and I set the timing using a Heathkit timing gun I assembled myself. I replaced headlights, and wires and hoses, changed the oil and flushed the radiator, even put in a new head gasket once, and replaced an accelerator cable. I used to buy a car and then immediately get the service manual for it. I knew a lot about those cars! Tinkering with the car was part of life
Now if the car needs anything I just take it to the garage, and pick it up, and swipe my credit card.
First car the future wife & I purchased together was a TR4 during our freshman year of college. It was probably the best education for a budding engineer than anything I learned in class. We demonstrated a certain optimism over higher order thinking and purchased a TR6 shortly before I graduated a few years later. HER TR4, HIS TR6 were the plates.
They are long gone replaced by a string of super reliable Toyotas and later mostly reliable BMW’s. The only driving criteria was the engine in the front, driving the wheels in the rear, via a manual transmission with a con brio handling and braking manors.
As we slowly near the stage of finding that the daily routine of getting to work diminishing, she occasionally asks me if we could get another TR4 to restore. The resources of time and money are not quite so dear, and the compulsion to be somewhere punctually is no longer an imperative. I find the siren song of either that old 2 liter tractor four cylinder or the 2.5 liter sweet six singing to me getting harder to resist.
Reliability can be vastly overrated compared to the joy of the moment when you find yourself on a curvy road, with the engine singing while you execute the perfect snick, snick, snick, thru the gears of the Leyland transmission, and the exhaust noise trailing just a few feet behind you in a car build purely for the tactile sensuality. In hindsight it was never just about getting from here to there, it was the journey.
I hear you loud and clear @asquared, but I’m still not inclined to go out and buy a Fiat. Great post!
I think this is spot on.
In 2017, many of the things we use are essentially un-tinkerable. In the late ’90s, I changed out almost everything on my first computer. Last year I paid $500 (or was it $600?) to replace the spark plugs on our (yes, absolutely reliable) ’03 Toyota Highlander (half the engine has to be removed to get at 3 of them).
We are learning helplessness. I doubt it is a good thing..
I’ve owned two Triumphs, a TR-3, and a TR-4A. They both required attention but they were fun to drive. The TR-4A was more comfortable. The TR-3 was a bit more primitive, side curtains instead of roll-up widows, and the heater was an option. The previous owner did not opt for the heater. Needless to say my wife did not find the TR-3 as much fun as I did.
First car we bought after the TR’s was a 79′ Spyder 2000. Compared to the Triumph’s it was a paragon of reliability. Magneti Marelli had Lucas beat six ways from Sunday in the electronics department. However ergonomically one would think that Italian’s were proportionally closer to Orangutan’s based on the distance between the steering wheel and the pedals. Long arm stretches with your legs seriously bent at the knees. But it was a fun piece of continental metal with a heater that could actually thaw your toes….
From what I recall, Stephen Ambrose made this point (absent the connection to automobiles) in his book Citizen Soldiers. He discusses the challenges American troops faced with the unexpected challenge of fighting around the hedgerows of Normandy. The aerial photos did not prepare them for how high they were, and it took good old American ingenuity to solve that problem.
Said perfectly. This is exactly the point I was trying to make and said better than I could have.
You know what I miss? The siren song of lifting the hood of your car in the driveway.
Men young and old heard it and arrived on cue.
I have a lot of nostalgia for my first car, a 1948 Buick, which I bought in 1958. But the nostalgia is only for its connection with my lost youth, not for its rusted body (which my father patched and repainted), lack of power (a straight 8), lack of stability (light in the rear, thanks to the massive straight 8 in the front), or rear-wheel drive.
I have a lot of nostalgia for the first of two 1963 VW Beetles that I owned. But only because of its excellent gas mileage and reliability. (The engine blew out on the second one, which I bought used.) But Beetles were underpowered, lacked a decent heater, wouldn’t defrost properly, had poor visibility, and were terrible on long trips. (I made several of them in my Beetle when I was in my 20s.)
I liked the 1995 Saturn coupe that I bought from my daughter when she went to B-school. I liked it for a 5-mile commute, anyway. It was murder to drive on a long trip, which I had to do once. It was an austere and reliable little car. But GM managed to make a hash of the Saturn line, and its demise was no loss to humanity.
I have absolutely no nostalgia for my 1964 Rambler, 1969 VW Squareback, 1975 VW Dasher, or 1984 Cadillac Cimarron. I liked, but didn’t love, the ’82 Cimarron that I wrecked. The ’84 was poorly made by comparison.
My life changed markedly for the better when I bought my first Japanese car in January 1988. Except for the Saturn, I’ve owned nothing but Japanese cars for almost 30 years, and have always been glad of it. I have no time or patience for the myriad problems that I experienced before I went Japanese. Car ownership, for me, is a necessity, not a hobby.
A 1978 Malibu coupe was my first new car. The V-six, push-rod engine in that car was an old design, certainly not ready for the emissions jury-rig that drained HPs from its already anemic output. It was also an old school cold running motor and prone to coolant issues. The valves made a constant rapping noise. Those who thought lack of power was evidence of efficiency would be disappointed. This vehicle slurped gas like a V-8 if pushed hard. But it had a big tank.
In the cold Boston winter of 1980, it had some troubles. The coil thermostat that released the choke on warm-up refused to expand so the choke would stay closed. On the other hand, the car would stall immediately if placed in gear when the choke was closed. So I had to start it and let it warm up, sputtering and spewing a heavy cloud of petrochemical infused smoke, fogging the entire neighborhood, until it finally warmed up after 15-20 minutes or so. My landlord complained so I had to fix it. A carburetor rebuild was expensive, so I took on the job myself. The mechanical coil was just not expanding enough to open the choke valve. Even when the engine was hot, the gas mix was too rich. (Hence the lousy mileage.) I used the hook from a picture hanger with the nail removed and a small sheet metal screw to secure about a 3/4 inch extension to the end of the thermostatic coil. This was just enough to allow the coil to warm, expand and open the choke. No more early morning neighborhood fogs. My mileage improved from 10 or 11 MPG to 15, maybe 16 MPG.
At just over 100K, the “alibu” (the M fell off in 1981) developed coolant sclerosis (chronic circulation problems) and would regularly overheat. I removed the thermostat, flushed the cooling system, but to know avail. The clog was somewhere in the block. I limped it to my friend’s father’s dealership in Gloucester, stopping every 10 miles or so to let it cool down. I traded it in for a new Pontiac Sunbird Turbo with a four speed manual.
The Sunbird’s little, Brazil-sourced, four cylinder engine was not designed to be force fed the high compression fuel mixture the turbocharger served up, but that is another story…
It’s not just that the tinkering is unnecessary, it’s all well-nigh impossible. Today’s cars don’t even need a tune-up. The computer tines it all the time already. Other than replacing fluids and air, there’s nothing to do 99% of the time.
As also mentioned above, it’s not just cars: computers, televisions, appliances… Their hardware is solid-state, few people would know what to do with the software even if it was accessible…
No wonder we’ve replaced sheds and garages with “man caves”. Men need something to do and somewhere to do it.
A couple years later it finally required a new clutch. There was a great little repair shop in town perfect for the job. Only problem was the original linkage was so worn, the pedal could not work the stiff, new clutch. The guys hunted down a new linkage, and delighted in recounting to me it was a design from the Thirties, with something like 13 or 14 moving parts between the pedal and the clutch. (Today’s cars have what? an HDMI cable transmitting electronic signals from the engine’s brain or something?)
But reliable? Once it sat buried in snow for about two weeks after a horrendous midwest blizzard. When I was finally able to dig it out enough to squeeze into the drivers seat and turn the key, the thing started right up! Amazing!
One tangential thought.
Several decades ago, I remember hearing a quote from some computer magnate that said something to the effect of (i.e., very rough paraphrase from memory of a quote I read 20 years ago, “Computers will never become mindless entertainment devices. When you sit down in front of a television, you shut your mind down. When you sit down in front of a computer, you turn your mind on.” Nobody who has spent hours down the youtube rabbit hole of cat videos would say that they “turned on their mind” when they sat down at the computer.
When I was 16, driving a car engaged at least 4 of your five senses. You drove by the seats of your pants to feel the road and where the limits of the car were. You listened intently on the noises your car were making because they were usually the fist sign of trouble (and when that trouble came, describing the “noise” it was making the car is making to the mechanic was an important skill.) There were several smells you were constantly (if subconsciously) on the alert for, leaking coolant had a very distinct smell from leaking oil. Cars today are designed carefully to completely insulate you from the sounds and smells of your car, so much so that some car manufacturers have resorted to importing artificial exhaust noises. Driving a car no longer engages your senses and your mind, it’s now a place to turn off your mind. That may be a safer world (let’s face it, as a race, we are terrible drivers), but there are fewer and fewer places where we actually turn on our minds these days. That is a bad thing.
If it’s any consolation, there is some hope with my youngest son (12 years old). I just had to take him to the soccer game. I gave him three choices for the drive, the minivan, the Miata with the convertible top down, or the track-prepped car with racing seats complete with five-point harness, all the rubber bushings in the suspension and engine transmission mounts replaced with metal-to-metal mounts. It took him exactly zero seconds to say the track car (obviously).
Wow. Thank you for the original post and all the comments. They have triggered all sorts of memories and old loves. One thing, though: if you want to learn to tinker with modern cars, just keep them longer. The tinkering is different, requiring different tools and knowledge, parts are more expensive and harder to jury rig, but wait long enough and you will find yourself under the car, covered in grease, cursing. Just like the old days.
Nothing like tinkering with a car to really enjoy and appreciate the experience of driving. I’m blessed to have a father who really loved cars. When he was young, he bought an MG B from Bernie Ecclestone, who at the time was a second-hand car dealer with a reputation for having unfortunate fires at his warehouses. He went to Bernie’s house and was told the car belonged to his wife, so it wasn’t being sold through his business. Coincidentally, in the UK, Value Added Tax isn’t payable on the sale of private vehicles.
Later on he had a Lotus Elan +2, in which he took my mum on their honeymoon to Greece. This may be why my mum has not since shown much interest in British sportscars. Lotus of course stands for “Lots Of Trouble, Usually Serious”, and there’s a story of having to change the brake discs on some remote mountain pass. Who, now, would even think of bringing spare brake discs with them on holiday?
Anyway, he passed on the love of sportscars to me. When I was 17, we built this kitcar together:
I still have her, all 1300lbs of driving ecstasy. And if there’s a problem (there usually is), I know exactly how to fix it. Not too long ago my father and I spent a fun afternoon taking apart her Weber 40 DCOE carbs. I don’t know if kitcars are a “thing” in the States, but they should be.
Anyway, now I have a TVR Chimaera, and tomorrow I’ll be taking off the front grille to try to replace the headlights, which I’m sure will be a lot of fun ;) Some have speculated that the fumes given off when engine oil and petrol combine in the confines of a garage that addles men’s brains, and makes us have to flush out the pores by driving fast with the top down on country roads…
In our past hiring, applicants who knew how to work on their cars enjoyed an advantage, especially if they were to work in the lab. The same goes for those who knew how to use a soldering iron, as any self-respecting EE should be able to do.
Alas, those days are past as software becomes ever more detached from hardware. Still, the best computer engineers have at least a bowing acquaintance with circuits. After all, in the end, all those bits turn into electrons. Someone has to know how to wrangle them.
When I was in my early 20’s, Dad picked up a 76 Fiat 124 Spyder 1800 for me at a dealer auction. White, black interior, tan top. Spent as much in two years for repairs as I did to buy the thing, but oh, how I miss it so.
Some may consider this rather odd, but owned a few Spitfires as daily drivers and sport for many years. Such cars are an involved process and can be well manged. Once one knew what one was working with, reliability was a minor issue.
Having turned a wrench a many a car prior to this, taking no for an answer one would not accept and proved successful.
These fascinating improvements included, 40mm side draft Webers, Headers and basically updating the car by chucking anything the previous Back Yard mechanic had done previously. Proved a good insurance plan.
All that aside a well maintained Spit was great car. Suffice that, find or build a Rotary Powered Spit, street legal, yet track ready. Honestly, the things are scary as all Hell, but once you get handle of the reins. one of the best drives ever.
With all that said, the one that eluded me was the experience of a Lotus 7, much to my eternal regret.
If you have a Miata and want your son interested in working on cars, that should work out fine. Rather than spend his time FIXing the car, he could spend it MODIFYing the car. Here’s a good place to start.
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_9?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=miata+performance+projects&sprefix=miata+per%2Caps%2C246&crid=SLMZUSZZDM95
“…we built this kitcar together:”
I want one. So does my son.
With your bum literally 6″ off the ground, 1/12″ of aluminium between you and the outside world, the wind in your hair and oodles of power under your right foot, there’s nothing like a Lotus 7 replica for sheer exhilaration. Religious experience ain’t in it, old chap!