John Carson/April 2025
It was the mid-nineties. My son was soon to be the holder of a new driver’s license, so the time had come to find him a suitable automobile. The shortlist for him had come down to a 1960-62 Valiant or Lancer 2 door. We had looked at a few cars already and passed on them, but an ad for a Lancer appeared in the Everett Herald. It looked like it might be “the one.”
I dialed the number and spoke with a pleasant woman who explained that her husband had purchased the Lancer to restore it, but he simply hadn’t had the time to finish it. She described it as rust free and solid, with only a few minor dings. She said the interior was nearly perfect with just a small hole in the driver seat. She said the whole car just needed thorough cleaning (soft alarm bells might have gone off at that point). Our excitement-clouded judgement allowed us to set an appointment to see this potential one owner cream puff (one can always dream).
Saturday morning dawned dark and foreboding, with wind blowing the rain horizontally. We rolled up to the address to find a mobile home/junkyard nestled between a few neglected small homes. They had told us to weave to the back of the lot where we would find the car. I threaded our way past three dead trucks, and past what seemed to be a chicken coop. There she was, in all here moss enhanced glory! Immediately I could see where 3 inches of Bondo was beginning to part company with the right quarter panel. Our host, however, said not to be concerned because all the metal he had riveted on was 100 % galvanized, so even if the Bondo cracked the patches couldn’t rust. I managed a pained smile as he explained his bodywork prowess.
We poked our heads in through the windows to check out the interior. It appeared to have been done a generation earlier, and the “hole” was where his dog had eaten a quarter of the front bucket seat: foam, vinyl, and everything else. On a handy note, we were able to inspect the driveline and exhaust through holes in the floor.
At that point, our host was eager to show off the engine bay. He theatrically jiggled the hood open and beamed as we beheld the slant six residing within. He explained that the PVC couldn’t be hooked up because it would blow oil on the engine. It was obvious that that rule had been broken in the past though – nothing under the hood would ever rust due to the healthy covering of oil. He ran to one of the derelict trucks and grabbed a battery, twisted the bare battery cables together and connected it all. He chanted “come on baby make me proud” as he fired up 225 cubic inches of half dead cast iron. The engine looked to be locomotive judging by the smoke coming out of the breather. He also mentioned the new muffler, which was bound to stay fresh as there was no real header pipe connecting it to the engine.
We really had seen more than enough, but our host had an ace up his sleeve to sweeten the deal. He proudly explained to us that he was a “prankster.” To that end he had set up the windshield squirters to spray forward out of the grill! He said it was so fun to squirt people crossing in front of the car at crosswalks. We somehow held back our reaction to such cleverness. We hustled to the van to make our retreat as he shouted “whattya think?” I gave him a “will-let-you-know” wave and accelerated down the drive. I saw his wife on the front porch with a pellet rifle taking aim at a neighbor’s dog. There was a pop as we sped past and we could her yelling “Hey, Chester! I got him!”
Thus ended another day of car shopping. I’m so glad we found a Valiant later.
