Hawking for My High School Studebaker: Part 2

If you’ve been reading this column regularly, you know that I recently struck a deal to buy my old high school ride, a 1964 Studebaker Gran Turismo Hawk. After 19 years away, mere hours stood between me and the car. When Sunday morning finally came, my wife and I hit the road for Johnston County, North Carolina. With some cash and a U-Haul on hand, I set out certain that this whole transaction would be a breeze. After all, the ad said it ran great!

As we approached the seller’s provided address, the Google Maps lady said “You have arrived!” a bit prematurely. Or so it seemed, anyway; there was no house in sight. Just a tight, sandy trail. So, down I went, not entirely sure I was in the right place.

The trail ended at a dam holding back a two-acre pond. Past that was a pasture at which, according to my correspondence with the seller, the Studebaker should have been parked. It was not there. I did spot a narrow two-track path, which I followed until I spotted an old man in overalls. The remainder of the path led down a steep berm. The whole situation had an uncertain vibe. Overalls Man waved at me.

“You might want to stay here,” I told my wife, as I started off towards the gesticulating figure. The rain was starting to pick up. I started thinking of all the things I didn’t bring, a tow strap and dry clothes chief among them.

I followed the ol’ fella through the gate, across the stream. Up the hill and sharply to the right, to the left, between two fenceposts. Up another hill, past a woodpile, a brush pile, to the left of a garden, to the left 90 degrees, between a house and a dog pen, and, finally, to the backside of the Hawk.

Through that whole maze, we passed not one convenient place to turn around; I shuddered at the thought of backing the trailer through the gate, across the stream, up the … well, you get the idea. The only thing left to do was get the Studebaker running, so I walked back to the car to get my jump battery. (That much I did bring.)

Upon laying eyes on the Hawk for the first time in nearly two decades, it looked nearly identical to when I had last seen it. Only one thing caught my eye: a patch of Bondo in front of the left rear wheel. The rest? Straight out of the Leesville High School parking lot. Was my counterfeit off-campus lunch pass still in the glovebox?

Further nostalgizing would have to wait. I had to get the thing running well enough to back it between the house and the dog pen, and then forward out into the pasture.

I popped the hood, noticing that someone had wired a wooden pull handle to the massive piece of metal’s safety catch. A nice touch—I have no idea how many times I cut the backside of my hand trying to address the breakdown du jour.

I began by positioning my massive motorhome battery (the one my wife convinced me to buy on the way to Albania) over the battery tray, valve cover, and starter solenoid. Overalls Man sprayed starter fluid in the carb and around the air filter (I don’t usually do that) and the mighty four-barrel 289 lit off. And then, with a backfire, it lit up. The flames were surprisingly high, given the volume of ether soaking the paper filter element. (Usually, “down East,” my cohort and I would worry about starting a forest fire via scorched pine needles, but everything on this property was saturated in water from recent rain.) I did the only thing I know to do in such situations: floor it and keep cranking!

Overalls Man, unaware and thus surprised by my method of making cars run while on fire, let out a yelp and fell backward into a bush. In retrospect, I should have warned him, but I was a little busy. Eventually, the fire went out, squashed with a combination of vacuum and smacks from a wet rag.

With one hurdle crossed, I turned my head over my shoulder to inspect my trailer’s reverse route.

At the time I sold my Hawk, I was just entering my 200-level engineering classes. Almost twenty years later, I was facing a graduate-level trailer backing exam. “This will go fine as long as you don’t watch me,” I told the man as I walked all the way back to my 4Runner.

For this final exam, I used every tool at my disposal. I rolled down the back glass of the 4Runner, lowered the side windows, pointed the mirrors down, and made sure my backup camera was turned on. 4WD locked in Low, plus differential lock. Amid a montage of hand movements and neck straining, along with a lot of false moves, the trailer made its way… up the hill and sharply to the right, to the left, between two fenceposts. Up another hill, past a woodpile, a brush pile, to the left of a garden, to the left 90 degrees, between a house and a dog pen … and, finally, landed at the Hawk’s rear end.

Using the aforementioned (massive) battery, plus my strong desire to immediately leave this place and never return, I backed the Stude onto the trailer using its built-in winch, i.e. the starter motor. This is abusive behavior, yes, but it was pouring rain and I was getting mildly annoyed at the stench of stale gas; shockingly, the 289-cubic-inch V-8 didn’t “run great,” as the ad stated. Given that the trailer was loaded with a backward-facing car with a 700-pound engine sitting beyond the trailer’s rear axles, we planned for this to be a short trip to the nearest parking lot. There, we’d flip the Hawk around and head on our way home. Don’t fail me now, Hobby 600 battery!

We were a few, terrifying miles down the road when we spotted a Lowe’s off the highway. On the exit ramp to the store’s large parking lot, there was a Mazda Tribute completely engulfed in flames. The driver was nonchalantly chatting on the phone while walking toward Smithfield’s BBQ (worth a stop even if your car’s not ablaze!) while the fire department approached the scene. “Well,” I figured, “if my car happens to self-immolate due to fouled gasoline bathing an overheated starter, at least I won’t have to worry about response time.”

We navigated around the flaming Mazda and parked in the Lowe’s lot, directly downwind of the Tribute/Smithfield-flavored smoke.

Just for giggles, I tried firing up the Hawk. The electric fuel pump ran spastically and never stopped. I tried once, to no avail, and realized that I had neglectd to bring a fire extinguisher of my own. Leaning, once again, on my miraculous Balkan camper battery, I motored the Hawk down the trailer ramps and then back up again, this time with the heavy side forward. I was just half an hour from my parents’ house, so I popped over there to share my spoils, eat some snacks, and pick up a set of Crestline Mark II mag wheels that I knew I had been saving. After stuffing my face with cheese and crackers and doing a quick wheel mock-up with the old man, we were back home Statesville in no time.

Well, now what? I have the car back, and that’s what matters. Nothing could really prepare me for what it felt like to sit in the driver’s seat after all this time. I haven’t yet found the words for it, except to say that something in my bizarre universe feels more right than it did yesterday.

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