Man's Gotta Do What ...

Today was really home brew day, not Model A day. But in the process of making my favorite recipe I had time to change the oil in the transmission and the differential of the Model A. The tranny has a fairly loud growl that made me suspect the a rebuild was not too far off. Still, knowing it wasn't something I could afford to do before spring, I decided to change the oil. After all, the truck has been sitting idle in extreme temperatures for 21 years and only been driven 800 miles in all that time. I started to imagine how the inside of the transmission and differential might look.

As I took off the floorboard and started to clean away some of the caked on oil and dirt I was surprised to find a fairly nice coat of paint on the transmission case. The crud on there was nowhere near 80 years old. Someone had worked on this transmission just prior to my brother acquiring the car. Cool! Anyway, upon removing the drain plug only a small amount of oil drained out. Still, it was not the black sludge I anticipated. I refilled the transmission case with gasoline and started the car to slosh it around a bit, then drained it back out.

While I let the tranny air out I drained the oil from the differential. Again, there appears to be a newer coat of paint on the torque tube and differential housing. And, when I drained the oil it was red and clean looking. I refilled both with heavy duty gear oil.

The subsequent test ride was very satisfying. Whereas, before conversation between the passenger and me would have to stop when high revs made the transmission noisy, now the little truck seems relatively quiet. Also, shifting is greatly improved. Very satisfying.

I cleaned up both the mechanics mess and the brewing equipment and went in to shower. Typically, after any repair or adjustment, even a washing I take my cars and bikes out for a little test ride. Hey, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Besides, tonight is a beautiful temperate winter evening. So I took the little truck out for a cruise through town. It was a pleasure to be able to relax about the back half of the drive train.

Registration Runaround

Registering my '31 pick-up has become a hassle. One morning last week I camped out at the DMV to be there at opening time in order to quickly transfer the title and registration of the truck and to pick up my California license plates. Just before opening the door a lady from the DMV came out and sort of pre-sorted the shivering group. When she got to me she determined that since I was registering an out-of-state vehicle I'd need to fill out a bunch of forms and bring the car in to have it verified. So I was sent home. Strike one.


Those who know these cars are aware that they really have no VIN. There are some who say the frame was stamped with the engine number at the time of assembly, but the number is now hidden under the body and can't be seen. Consequently, some DMVs have assigned cars VINs based on engine numbers, or maybe issued them some other way. The title on my car has a VIN listed but it doesn't match the engine number. I have no clue how this number was assigned to the car. Perhaps it matches another engine number. In any case I showed up at the DMV again today to take another crack at this. First the worker informed me that since the vehicle was a pickup, it was therefore potentially a commercial vehicle and needed to be weighted. I tried to point out that the car was just too small to use for anything commercial. But she pursed her lips, looked at the timer on her computer screen and huffed. Since the car is old there was no database info on the gross weight so she told me I'd have to have the care weighed and she shoved a form across the counter at me, sent me outside to meet with the inspector. When the inspector came along she decided there was nothing she could do and handed me another form and told me to contact the CHP. So, the DMV has decided they can't confirm the car and the title match so they won't register the car to me until the Highway Patrol inspects the car and issues it a number. Strike two.

As I drove off I was struggling with my temper. I'd been handed off four times to four different clerks none of whom was permitted to think for themselves or be helpful in more that a perfunctory manner. Yet I was driving off in a really cool little truck and people on the street were reminding me of this as I headed off to the transfer station to see if I could at least get a tare for the vehicle.

I pulled up to the waste transfer station and asked for a weight slip for the car. "Is this for the DMV," asked the lady behind the glass.
"Yes"
"Okay, do you have your title and registration?"
"No"
"Then we can't give you the paper you need, sorry."

It really was heating up outside on this sunny December day. The car was starting to steam a little and so was I. Where does the guy at the dump get the notion that he has to determine whether the car and the title match before he weighs the car?

I again tried to remind myself, that this could still just be one long errand. A hassle, but not no real pain. I cruised home and called the Highway Patrol. The lady said I'd need to come down to their office to make an appointment for an inspection. "I can't make the appointment with you right now, over the phone.?"
"No, you have to come down to the office to make the appointment. And then come back another day."

"Fine, see you in ten minutes."

More forms, and I'm not exaggerating here, more that ten signatures later, I had an appointment for next week, to have the vehicle inspected and possible assigned a VIN.

Maybe I'm glad I couldn't pursue this any further today. I need a little time to cool down and restock some patience for a bureaucracy that seems to despise it's citizens and accommodate aliens.

Rip VanWinkle

For the twenty-three or so years I've owned my '28 coupe I've kept to myself. I've driven and repaired the car with the assistance of either advice from either my dad or reference to the one Model A book I own. That's been fine in that I've kept the car in running order and enjoyed the challenges this quirky machine has presented over those 20,000 miles. However, recently I was reading a blog written by a young man in Michigan. He committed to drive his Model A as his only car for an entire year and wrote daily about the experience. It's a fantastic read. I've followed with great interest his every move.
http://www.365daysofa.com/
In the process I realized how much I don't know about my car after over two decades. As I read I found myself paying particular attention to the entries related to maintenance and repair. I realized I really want to find a network of A-owners who can provide some additional knowledge of these cars. I have my prejudices when it comes to car club members.  I don't want my cars to compare unfavorably with those that have benefitted from expensive restorations or modifications. I would like to meet some folks who regularly use there cars and especially those who work on them themselves. So, as soon as I get the chance I think I'll drop in on some of the local A-club meets and see what I can see.
I feel a little like Rip VanWinkle coming out of the Catskill mountains after a 20 year sleep. Hope the reality live up to the dreams I've enjoyed.

Rear View Mirror

How does one become the odd figure I've become over the years? How is it I drive and wrench on a forty-horse Model A coupe in the age of maintenance-free hundred-horse economy cars? Hard to say exactly what part nature plays in how we turn out versus the role of nurture. As for nurture, I don't recall any real mechanically nurturing facets to my upbringing. No father-son engine rebuilds or restorations in our garage.  Later, in high school, I got a motorcycle, and a '65 F-100 four-wheel-drive. Everyone knows dirt bikes break down and the old Ford was always in need of something which, it seems, it was in my nature to try to fix myself. I do recall working on my Hodaka Super Rat and the '65, but mostly from necessity rather than pleasure. Also, function was important, certainly over fashion. I kept my machines clean but never really worried about scratches and dents.

Wherever we lived lurking in ever greater stages of disrepair was Dad's old '28 Model pickup. I recall a sense of veneration for this vehicle pervading the fellowship of Dad, my brother, and myself. Though it rarely rarely ran, ir remember feeling that we were lucky to have the old truck in our possession. Attached to it was a warm vague feeling of having something good. We has something special that no one else had.  Despite Dad never having had much more than a sniff at prosperity during my upbringing (though he is doing well these days.) he drug that truck around with us as a testament to his belief that in better days he'd have the time and resources to restore his prize.  

Thus, since  he was our living hope at the time, and since he loved that Model A,  I loved it too. I played in it. Slid down it's fenders, and peeked at it through the junk in the garage all during my childhood. I actually only have two passing memories of the Model A in running condition. In one, my brother and I are riding in the bed. Dad is driving down a little hill and I'm standing peering through the missing roof down through the missing floorboard at the blacktop passing beneath the transmission. Dad turns the motor off and coasts for a second and then hits the switch and a great backfire thrills me to the bone. The other is of Dad filling the radiator with hot water on a cold snowy morning while I watch from the front window.


Perhaps 25 years ago I finally had moved into a rental with a small garage. One morning I called my dad with an offer. In appreciation for his supporting me through college, I'd restore his Model A for him with the understanding that when he passed on I'd use the truck to drop him off at the cemetery then I'd head on home with it. Guess I underestimated his attachment to the vehicle. His response was short and negative. Some months later he called up to tell me that he'd picked up another Model A that he'd like me to have. I've been the happy owner of a '28 coupe ever since. Dad and I often swap Model A stories and advice. I regularly call him as I drive it to work. He seems to like the sound of the car in the background as we catch up.

Around the same time my dad came across a '30 pick up and gave it to my brother. My brother recently relocated and decided to offer his Model A to me for a very reasonable price. With my wife's enthusiastic support we plunked down the cash and now I have a full stable of vintage Fords.

Crankin' 'er Up

My name is Brian. I've owned and regularly driven a '28 Model A coupe for about twenty-three years. And just last month, I acquired a '31 pickup. Mostly I get around on the Harleys I own and I enjoy writing in another blog about being a motorcyclist. Recently my wife suggested that I might also like writing about the Model A's. Fact is, these cars, their maintenance and the pleasure of driving them is a big part of my life. So, she is right. I would enjoy chronicling the experience. I imagine I'll start with a little personal history about how the cars became a part of our lives and then subsequently relate the experiences of driving around with only forty horses under the cowl while the rest of the world races by with over a hundred. There's plenty of material as anyone who owns an old car would know. There are the people you meet, the discoveries you make while keeping the cars on the road, and the adventures that arise when they act their age.

So let's Crank 'er Up and see how well she runs.