Wrapped it with tin foil from chewing gun wrapper

Ron MacPherson

I bought my 1954 Jaguar XK120M when I was in high school. Saw an ad for it in the paper, got my mother to co-sign for my loan (1500 dollars); was quite a sum when you are only 16 years old.

I was working at Gene Hinkle’s 76 gas station on 6th and Redlands Blvd (old route 99). Most of the high school crowd were into hot rods, Chevies, etc. But I grew up mopping the floor at the garage in Riverside, where the big wigs brought their cars to race at Riverside, so developed a desire for more than straight line racing. Got Richie Ginther’s autograph at that garage.

Used to drive up to Big Bear to the old Sugar Shack club, after I closed the gas station up on weekends. One night on my way home at about 2 or so in the morning, I was zooming down 330, which had the best straights and shallow curves so I could get a head of steam up. Crested a little rise at over 100 and the lights went out.

Seems I blew a fuse. Fortunately for me, there was a full moon and I was able to lift my head up above the windscreen and pull over to the side of the road safely. Found the blown fuse, wrapped it with tin foil from chewing gun wrapper and drove on home, safely.

The first date

Judie DeBone

Well Gail, since us gals are coming clean I must tell the tale of the first date I had with Bob. Remember, we are from Motown, Detroit area. Cars and speed are in our blood.

Our FIRST DATE was a BLIND date set up by my best friend and his cousin Marylin … yes, we are still speaking.

So I hear we are going to a wedding reception for one of Bob’s hot rod friends who told the guys they had to have a date for the reception or they were not welcome. So I dressed nice with a white and powder blue eyelet cotton dress WITH matching dyed shoes, hair bow, white gloves and little white purse … all 1963 styles.

Bob shows up a half hour late. Dressed nice in a powder blue seersucker jacket with white shirt, black tie and black trousers … WE MATCHED.

So we are starting out late and he shows up in a car right off the race track with racing numbers and balloon letters announcing “BOBBY’s BEETLE,” an early 1960s VW with sun roof. Okay, I can handle a foreign car from the daughter of a Henry Ford Trade School Grad who was working on fuel injection at the GM engineering plant. No problem.

So we head off for the reception BUT Bob announces we have to stop off at the local VW dealer for an owners meeting. You got to be kidding … sitting in a garage all dressed up. Should have been a sign of my future life.

So we finally got to the reception. Had a nice time. As he was driving me home on the infamous Woodward Avenue I spot a yellow Jag XKE with tinted glass right next to us. I love this car. Bob notices my interest so he speeds up and does circles around the Jag. Thank heavens that driver took it in stride.

So I figure this guy (Bob) has no fear, loves cars, loves the race track and little did he know he was going to love me and I was going to love all kind of cars and PODS.

So there must be other car stories out there, gals.

I made it in one piece

Gail Caveney

OK … when Rob mentioned that he’d ask for the BCCH members to share their car stories, a memory flashed into my head. I will confess this one of mine … so here goes … don’t think less of me …

I was 18 years old and under the influence at the time. I drove home to Burbank in my 1955 Chrysler (sorry, not British) from Oxnard California around midnight going at least 100 MPH. I don’t know how I made it in one piece but I lived to tell about it. That’s my story.

150 mph and I had experienced sheer terror

Tom Strickland

I’m sure your inbox is filling up fast with a broad assortment of harrowing tales. Mine comes from my freshman year in college at WSU in Pullman, Washington. This is rolling hill wheat country.

A friend from high school somehow got his hands on an Aston Martin that had a Chevy Corvette engine under the hood. He asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. Little did I know.

We headed out of town on one of the back two lane roads that snaked amongst the hills. Before it was over we had hit 150 mph and I had experienced sheer terror. I knew that anything on the road around one of the many turns would be the end of us.

We passed a car going in our direction and it was as though he was going the opposite direction. While that was incredibly stupid, crazy and scary, it was not the scariest ride I have taken. But that is another story.

I should mention that I put the Rolls-Royce pistons through my dishwasher, something I would never get away with if I were married.

Trusting Fate (Part 1 of 2)

Ed Kokubun

It could be argued that Alfred Hitchcock’s iconic thriller Pyscho had a major impact on how we think about the simple act of showering. I know enough about that haunting scene that in spite of never having seen the movie, the seemingly eternity that my eyes are clamped shut while rinsing the soap from my face can never pass quickly enough. Thus, the reader should be quite sympathetic to my panic-stricken, heart-thumping, flailing efforts to clear my eyes upon hearing the door to my mother-in-law’s bathroom bursting open to the screams of “I SAW IT… I SAW IT… I KNOW WHERE IT IS”, slicing and stabbing through the still and silent steam. Upon recognizing my wife’s voice, my fright quickly transformed to irritation as I yelled back, “For crying out loud… saw what???”, as I wrestled with neutralizing the sting in my eyes. “The Jaguar… I know where it is”, she excitedly replied.

The Jaguar in reference was likely the one that appeared in the Honolulu Advertiser classified “For Sale” section that I stumbled upon days earlier. It was October 1986, a distant time before the Internet, Craigslist, and eBay; a time when you had to rely on luck and fate when searching for a good used car, much less a collectible. It was a simple listing.

I was already a Jaguar owner having purchased a used 1979 XJ6 Series III a few years earlier. But, it was always the pursuit of an E-Type that made me comb through the classifieds of local newspapers no matter what part of the country I found myself. Thus, it still remains a mystery to me why I didn’t immediately pull the trigger on this opportunity. Perhaps it was because my wife and I were vacationing back in Hawaii catching up with family and friends and the prospects of buying a car and then shipping it back to Rhode Island where we were living seemed too daunting. Perhaps it was because I was not ready for the commitment. And so, after seeing the ad on the first day, I anxiously checked the paper each subsequent morning to see if it was still listed; torturing myself, tempting fate by not taking action for yet another 24 hours.

It took destiny to force the issue by intervening and intersecting my wife’s morning jog through Mililani’s labyrinth of side streets and cul-de-sacs with the very carport where the E-Type casually awaited the coincidental and possibly predestined turn of events surrounding it. The shower incident was oddly all it took for me to break out of the fortress of indecision that I had built around myself. I made the phone call.

The owner/seller confirmed the E-Type was still for sale and minutes later my wife and I retraced her steps from earlier that morning and soon found ourselves staring upon the incredible sight of a British Racing Green Series I E-Type that, while having its share of battle scars, appeared to be in exceptional original condition. The E-Type was actually one of two cars that the owner was selling, the other being an Alfa Romeo Spider. He went on explain that he would part with the car that sold first and then keep the other.

Never having driven an E-Type before, I awkwardly stumbled through the test drive; my nervousness and excitement making it impossible for me to logically and clearly assess the car’s condition. After returning to the carport, I’m certain I muttered some ridiculous judgment to the owner along the lines of “It's fine” much as I would after sampling an exquisite Pinot Noir and finding myself at a loss as to what to say to the awaiting sommelier. Clearly, a once in a lifetime opportunity lay before me only to have the walls of indecision once again restricting my progress.  “I’ll think about it overnight and get back to you” was all I could offer to the owner at that point.

After much discussion with my brother-in-law, who was well versed in British cars having purchased and raced a Mini Cooper factory modified works car, we agreed the E Type was worth another look, this time under his careful scrutiny. And so under the same carport as the prior day, my brother-in-law politely asked the owner if he would agree to a cylinder compression test and the owner raised no objections. While fully aware of the risks with the aluminum head, my brother-in-law delicately removing the spark plugs and conducted the test. The cylinders performance were found to be within the accepted range.

Under the keen observation of the owner, my brother-in-law meticulously torqued down the spark plugs but only after deftly applying a skim of anti-seize compound to each plug much like a skilled sushi chef elegantly smearing the thinnest layer of wasabi on a prized cut of maguro. A check, title and handshakes were soon exchanged and I drove the E Type to my mother-in-law’s townhouse to begin its new chapter.

My wife and I were scheduled to return to Rhode Island in two days so I left the E-Type in the very capable hands of my brother-in-law who graciously agreed to make all the arrangements to have the car shipped to New England.  

During the long flight back home, sleep did not come easily. With my eyes clamped shut, the steady drone of the plane’s engines mimicked the steady drum of cascading water on a shower curtain. Fate and destiny had certainly bathed me with good fortune with the E-Type, but still a haunting tension gripped me with an ever so slight premonition that this gift would soon turn psychotic and test the very limits of my sanity.

To be continued…