Model T's and Me

My first old car after moving to Nevada was a 1922 Model T Ford roadster. The engine was worn out, the radiator needed re-coring, there was no top and, of course, I paid too much for it. That little car could barely make it up the hill behind our residence. It’s no good for touring, a local guru told me. You need something with power, a lot more power.

Turning to the ‘For Sale’ section of the national magazine, there was advertised a 1915 touring car equipped with an overhead valve engine! That ought to do it, I thought. And, the car was advertised as “everything is like new!” Perfect!

This jewel was located in Southern California, near Poway. It would be simple. Fly down via San Diego, look at the car, drive it and buy it. Then, since I had all of about 150 miles of Model T driving experience behind me, drive the ‘new’ car 525 miles back up to Minden. No trailer queens for me!

Lengthy conversations with the owner assured me it was a really good car and a successful participant in something he called the Baja 500. “It was really hot down there,” he said, “but she kept running like a dream.” Hey, this was better than a CARFAX.

I flew down and drove the car. It was indeed powerful, had a two-speed rear end and a beautiful paint job. The brass had been polished and sparkled in the sunlight. The tires weren’t too good but there was a spare so I bought it and headed for home via I-15 north at 40 mph.

Now, going 40 mph on an Interstate highway is not so easy when you are passed by cars doing 80 and the occasional driver who would come up from behind, stomp on the brakes, lay on the horn, then give me a single finger salute as they snarled past. I moved to the far edge of the road on the apron. It wasn’t too bad except for the debris, rakes, shovels and boards mostly, and the recessed storm drain collectors that rearranged the fillings in my teeth.

In Riverside, CA, the 15 and 60 freeways jumble together and I was caught in the center lanes between two honking semis as I tried to change lanes. So much for that pair of shorts. A tire went flat just north of San Bernardino. I pulled off the Interstate and made it to a fast food restaurant parking lot where the tire was changed using a balky jack and a couple of old 2x4’s. Cresting the Cajon Pass, the Ruckstell jumped out of gear. In the truck lane already, I slowed down enough to get it back in gear and proceeded on.

Turning on to 395 North, the road is only two lanes for some distance. That was a relief. I stopped at Kramer Junction and got the tire fixed by a well inebriated magician who had it done in about two minutes. He wouldn’t take any money but did let me buy him a couple of six packs of Budweiser.

Pearsonville, California was gas-up time and an opportunity for checking all the fluid levels, including the oil sight gage mounted on the hogshead. Proceeding on north was like a walk in the park, not much traffic, the foothills of the Sierras were on the left. It was a really fun time as I motored along past Coso Junction and neared the village of Olancha. I had decided to stay the night in Lone Pine as it would be dark in a couple of hours.

It happened without warning, sudden loud metal clanging noises. The car lurched to the right. I gave it the clutch, jabbed at the brake and steered to the shoulder, barely missing a road marker. The engine had died and all at once it was incredibly quiet with not a car or house in sight. I tried to start the engine. It grunted for a second and refused any further input. I was cooked. My cell phone service had been activated just prior to setting out on this adventure. Miraculously, I was able to contact AAA (should have contacted the AA) and report my breakdown. They would send a tow truck. Four hours later, the tow truck, Millers from Lone Pine, arrived, with two guys inside. They dragged the Model T up the ramp and opined that the transmission was locked up. Then they told me I would have to ride inside the ‘T’ as there was no room in the cab of the tow truck! It was total humiliation as I rode all the way to Lone Pine up in that car on the back of that darned truck.

I stayed at the old Dow Villa Hotel where all the movie stars had once stayed. I was beaten, bruised and exhausted, and reconsidered the wisdom of the whole escapade. The next day, a bus transported me to Bishop and a U-Haul truck and trailer rental establishment. Back at Lone Pine, I tipped the boys at the tow service twenty bucks to help me load up the car and drove wearily to Minden and home.

A dismal disassembly inspection several days later showed that a drum in the transmission had come apart, freezing the transmission. The car was not as advertised, except it really was good-looking. I had bought a lemon. The Ruckstell was bad, the engine was hopelessly butchered. (it had a Model A crank badly installed) and the OHV setup was a mechanical nightmare. It was worth about half what was paid for it, maybe.

I ended up cannibalizing the car for parts and installing them in the old roadster after rebuilding them. A stock engine was installed in the touring car and it was sold. The OHV set-up went to a guy in Washington. All in all, I came out about even on the deal, depending upon the monetary value placed on the blow to my pride! I was surprised at what I didn’t know about those old, simplistic Model T Fords. Ah, the lessons in life.


Thad McAfee is a novelist and civil war buff. His latest publication is Sulfur Creek, released in August, 2009.

Permission to Reprint is Granted.