I drive a pretty beat-up old 1965 Pontiac year-round. It's a very obnoxious car and I love it to death. I beat on it perhaps just a bit too much, but over the years, this has allowed me to weed out inferior parts and slowly build an engine up to my exacting specifications, replacing one part or set of parts at a time as they fail in a spectacular fashion, generally at the worst possible time.
The "best" that I can think of, waswhen my timing chain randomly broke going down a busy hill one morning.
This is the first cool cop story related to this particular incident.
I was in a little bit of a panic, so I rolled the now dead car into the median and hit the brakes. It took about thirty seconds for a cop to roll in behind me and start directing traffic around me. A second came up and asked if I was alright. Long and the short, I was having a rotten day. These guys made it a little easier by creating a little protective barricade directly behind me while I rolled the thing down the hill, helped me push this monstrosity *up* the next hill and into a church parking lot (as one said, It'll be safer up there than sitting next to the seedy Phillips 66 station) and then when it turned out that my cell phone was dead, one lent me his personal cell and sat around to make sure I got picked up safely, chatting the whole time about old car problems.
Now, this was a week or so before THanksgiving and I work in retail, we'll get to that in a moment.
At this point, I needed a car for BLack Friday because I was expected to open the department at 4AM. Could be worse, but not by much.
THe only loaner my family had at the time (we have too many cars and too few bikes) was a built 1978 Trans Am with an obnoxiously heavy racing clutch and a 4-speed that had a bad second-gear synchro.
I should mention as well that I was also a virgin to manual transmissions in cars. In a bike, it's one thing. In a car, it's a slightly different thing. In a stupidly touchy car like *this*, it's entirely another thing.
So by the time we came to this conclusion, the other proposed option being to fix my Tempest before then (which was simply not possible) I had about 18 hours to learn how to drive a manual.
It worked. But not without a few flaws.
With as heavy and grabby as the clutch in this thing was, and the light flywheel in there, I had to start *very* aggressively if I wanted to get moving without pissing off the melee going on all around me in the streets, given it was the busiest shopping day of the year.
I got pulled over for a really hard start coming down one of the little bypass back-roads I like to use, and stalled the thing pretty predictably trying to stop.
"Morning, Sir. YOu look like you're in a hurry, you mind telling me what's for sale that could be worth cracking this Firebird up, or getting yourself hurt?"
"Sir, I'm really sorry, you probably won't believe me, but I blew the engine in my own car, and this was the only thing my family had to let me drive, and I had to beg to get my dad to let me use it... THis is only my second time ever driving a manual, and it's got a really, really heavy clutch and my dad built the engine for--"
At this point I think he noticed the ID badge on my shirt and the apron next to me on the seat.
"So when I run your plate, it's going to come up under your father's name, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Alright. Can I see your license and proof of insurance?"
I hand both over, he performs the usual check.
"Everything checks out fine. I'd normally let you go, but if I had to guess you're probably running late. DO you want me to write you an equipment violation warning so you have something to show to your boss?"
Probably the coolest cop ever.
On the way home I attempted to stop at a gas station. It worked pretty well.
I was very frazzled, so I filled the tank and went to buy some cigars, with the intent of smoking the whole pack when I got home. Yes, Black Friday is *that* bad.
A police car followed me into the gas station, parked right behind me at the pump.
Now, for the record, my family likes noisy cars. Except for my sister, she doesn't care what it is as long as it's pretentious and expensive.
THis one was no exception. Straight pipes with baffled inserts between the headers and the pipe.
So I get out of the car, and the officer behind me gets out too. In retrospect, I should have known I wasn't in trouble; they always freak out when you get out of your car when you're in trouble.
"Sir, what year is that?"
"Uh... '78. Why?"
"It sounds a little loud."
Oh, great.
"Yeah, it doesn't get driven much."
"That's a shame, it's pretty cool."
At this point he starts chatting me up about the thing. And then just when I think I'm *completely* off the hook...
"Oh, by the way... It sounds nice, but it's probably a little loud. You might wanna get that checked out before you get in trouble. Happy holiday, Sir."
But, I suppose if it's their job to ruin our fun, these fine gentlemen were doing a remarkably poor job.
