By Ken Edgar

As we take a tour through life’s experiences - or the bug house tour, depending on your view - we all constantly run into those things and events that make one go “hmmm, what was that all about?” If your journey has been like mine, our cars seem to possess a richness of those very experiences.
   Two and a half years ago I purchased a 1975 XJ12C and wrote about it in this newspaper; I nicknamed it the Beast. It is my sad duty to inform the membership that the Beast is no longer with us. The car had been in use as a secondary car for our daughters for a year and a half (the older claimed the car hated her and didn’t like driving it) but was the everyday driver for our younger, Evyn, for nearly a year. It carried her to school, friends’ outings, and her job. She was leaving work one night and something let go under the hood. The resulting engine fire burned up the front half of the car. Evyn kept her wits about her and got out and away from the car, suffering only some second-degree burns on one hand. After ascertaining Evyn was alright I brought my trailer to tow the still smoking carcass home.
   I can hear the questions and comments now – “Did you check the condition of the fuel hoses?”; “You know the Twelves have a reputation for engine fires” and so forth. For the record, I did check the hoses when I changed the oil a month previously. I wonder if there may actually be more going on than a mere mechanical failure and everyone else in the household thinks this is what actually happened.
   My wife loves cars as I do but has a soft spot for the old Detroit iron. The readers well know my continuing penchant for scrolling through eBay and Craigslist looking at cars even though I’ve been handed the Edict of No More Projects. This all was conveniently set aside when my wife saw a red 1961 Corvair on Craigslist. I asked her about her stance on not dragging any more projects home and she said we should go look at it – if it’s a project we will walk away. You know me – I’m not going to turn down looking at an old car. If we decided to buy the Corvair I agreed to sell the XJC as I am at my limit as to the number of cars I can keep on the road. The Beast was, unfortunately, quite thirsty so it was the obvious choice to sell. On the day we were to inspect the Corvair (it was only an hour’s drive from us) I walked up from my workshop with a bag of tools and a battery to take with us. The Beast sat in the drive facing me as I walked up the hill. I looked at the car. Its four headlights seemed to stare at me accusingly. I had a feeling of the scene in the movie 2001: a Space Odyssey where HAL the computer asks the main character “What are you doing, Dave?” I put the thought out of my mind and we went to see the Corvair. It needed the carbs cleaned out and fresh fuel but little else. The paint and interior were even decent. My wife loved it and a deal was made, with arrangements to come collect the car the following weekend.
   Things began to get weird that week. The Beast began to act up on Evyn – ironically, the car had proven to be rather reliable prior to this time. I had driven the car to work on that Tuesday and it ran great. The only thing out of sorts I could find was a wonky coolant temp sensor. I changed it and the problem disappeared – for a couple of days. Evyn mentioned later she had told the car she was mad at it and she would be glad when it was gone.
   My brother-in-law and I went to collect the Corvair on a Saturday. We completed the sale and the Corvair was loaded without incident. We towed the car the 65 miles back home also without incident. Four hours after we arrived back at the house Evyn called to let us know she was leaving work. Thirty minutes later she called again and told us the car had caught fire. Afterwards Evyn and her sister were adamant in they were convinced the car committed suicide. The Beast was, after all, a Frankenjag: it was an XJC with an XJS powertrain. As such it wasn’t deemed to have much value and I hadn’t paid much for it. It had been allowed to languish in a shed for ten years before I acquired it and was most likely facing a dubious future of further sitting. To add insult to injury it was to be replaced with a Chevrolet with a checkered past. To the girls, the car preferred going out in a blaze of glory rather than face a bleak future in another barn – somewhat like Frankenstein’s creation.
   The pitiful remains of what I consider to be a fine-looking automobile are still sitting on my trailer in the back yard as I try to decide what to do. I’ve taken a long, hard look at the car and I could resurrect it – to do so wouldn’t be any more ambitious than some of my other projects. I had entertained an idea of getting it running again – leaving the scorched bodywork - and entering it in the 24 Hours of Lemons under Team Immolation but my wife and daughters are saying to get rid of it. They all refuse to ride in it if I do resurrect it. They’ve gone as far as to forbid me from using any salvaged parts from the Beast on our other cars.
  On the other side of the coin the Corvair has been pressed into service as my wife’s work hack – Evyn is driving my wife’s car while the Morris is being put back together. As of this writing she’s put a thousand miles on it and it runs like a champ. The car is easy to work on and has no worse road manners than anything else I’ve driven. Based on my experience I would say the stigma attached to the Corvair thanks in part to Unsafe at Any Speed has been quite undeserved.
   On the surface this story sounds rather silly. Some of you would say “it was an unfortunate accident and we understand your feeling of loss, but it’s just a piece of sheet metal”.
  We don’t really believe that, do we?