Picked up this '74 autobox for the sole purpose of using until the Citroen wagon and my '70 142 got fixed. Had to be a Volvo, naturally; and a 140 by default since I had $0-400 to spend. I got away with the former because of no 2-3 shift. Fixed that... The real obstacle: getting from Sacramento to San Francisco and the esteemed Redwood Chair's BATCAVE of 140 series parts, in order to retrieve torque rods for the 70.

So, first had to select a handful of wheels to get that far on, ended up with crazy Dunlop 205/55ZR15 SP 9000s on the front, one of which was on a 5.5" ES rim, a Cooper 165 and a 10 year old Signet 165 on a '70 4.5" rim. Well, it drove, and spending money on anything but gas was out of the question.

Parked in the Haight on a steep incline across from an alcoholic's recovery center, with my mismatch of rims, blasting Velvet Underground, and the horrific cacophony emanating from what remains of the exhaust. It drew some unwanted attention.

A sandwich, a beer, and a smoke later the car was still there and my God it started. On the way to Ken's, I see a guy in a Citroen wagon I know on his way back to Santa Cruz, and pass another down on it's stops belonging to a guy doing a world tour in a Citroen ambulance. Wave at the kid in the beat-beyond-recognition 220 and I've arrived at Ken's.

I introduce Ken to the 142, make a sacrifice of an Isky vv-71 cam for his generosity and to rub off his good 140 karma, note the flames scribed in the dirt on the hood of his commando 245, the dog knocks the wind out of me and before long we're off to the BATCAVE starting in 2nd in the 245.

He's down to 5 Bricks at the moment but that's a temporary situation. A shop light and bare bulb maintains the necessary secrecy involved in a veritable tomb of Volvo 145 stuff. I cannot divulge all of what I witnessed, suffice to say the Volvo menace may one day emanate from San Francisco owing to the sheer density of stuff within the BATCAVE. It is a B20 neutron star.

The cycles are another story... Several dozen lined and stashed. They can be hung from the ceiling. I can only assume Redwood Chair is devising means to keep cars stacked without damage. Until then...

We matched some bolts, and filled a box with what we could safely carry. Measured some backspace on rims '70-88 and took some mental notes, compared sways; then dinner, fight the dog, and try to make the record store before it closes.

No dice.

Try the starter, operated in this case with right hand turning the IGN, left hand finessing the gear selector to find the sweet spot between N & R that starts this thing. The starter just grinds in the most miserable way. Ken says, "Roll it back, try to turn the flywheel" so drop it in 1 and creep down the hill. Try again: GRIND. Twice more around like this... We joke about going back to the 'CAVE. First though he jogs back to the house, to retrieve part of a fence to smack the starter with. Try again: "Well I can see it's turning; wait a minute!"

You're not supposed to SEE it turning, I thought.

Sure enough, the starter was just hanging there, nose down on the hydraulic lines to the radiator.

Thank God I bought an auto, or my starter would be a doorstop for some freak in the haight. How many people would find themselves saying that?

We laughed, the kind where you hurt your stomach, for about 20 minutes. We go looking for some bolts. Find that the bolts are still there, unthreaded. Laugh some more. Try to squeeze under the car, but the 55 series tires on front keep us from crawling under. Struggling to breath from laughing, Ken runs away, returns dragging a floor jack and four pieces of wood. Some dessert bread appears, knowing we'd be a while.

Now, the car is about 3 feet into traffic to the rear from all our tries at getting it to start. Ken's taller than my 6'2", and is sticking out into the road. We've got the car on blocks under the front tires, eyeball the 5/8" bolt, and the starter, though a little stripped, is again one with the engine.

Car back down, glory be, it starts short on the first crank. Now I don't have to look for an apartment in SF.

He's admiring the rust-free totally straight body, excepting the crunch to the driver's fender... Must come to the conclusion with the wood blocks and the fence post in his hands that he can do a little body work. He disappears again, returning with a mallet, cackling benignly.

"So how much you think you're going to ask for this car?" he says as he arranges the blocks behind the fender. I had been reminiscing about 122s earlier and toying with the idea of pulling the engine on this one to use in a zombie 130 series.

"I don't know, $460 maybe." I say.

"Here, push on that" I put my scant weight on the end of the fence, the dent starts to pop back out.

With the swing of the hammer, my car's exhaust squealing in the foggy night, and rice-burners trying to find parking, Ken says: "480 -smack- 500 -smack- 520 -smack. There! Work on that a little more, sand off the rust, get some hot rod grey primer, robin egg blue and that's that."

I'll be damned if it didn't look considerably better.

Shook hands in camaraderie, shook heads in amazement of the 140, and did one long burn back to Sacramento, parts in tow. 23mpg and haven't even tuned this thing yet. Left some kids pushing the 89 Supra out of the way for morning's street cleaning to their own devices. -the unenlightened.

The events of the day, hosted by the 145 savior himself, have in all likelihood sent me down the path of Volvo-freakdom.

I think I can live with that.

-Sean R. Custer
--
'66 122s, '70 142s, '74 142e... Blue is beautiful.