1981 DeLorean DMC-12: Creature from the Bleak Lagoon

It came from Hawaii. God only knows how the ’81 DeLorean got there, but its VIN appeared on a list of cars reserved for company use, so maybe some executive needed it for work retreats with his “niece.” Anyway, the sharklike DMC-12 later surfaced on a used-car lot, where a university professor bought it. He loved it and retained it until the early 2000s.

Upon delivery in California, it had covered just 15,200 miles but had suffered from decades in a warm, humid environment. As expected, the stainless body was nearly faultless, but the painted steel wishbone frame—actually, everything underneath—was corroded.

The fuel system rejected all repair efforts. Its legions of mysterious lines, filters, cannisters and hoses ran from here to eternity, like a tangle of snakes in an Indiana Jones dungeon. And the gas tank? It smelled like the La Brea Tar Pits. But the good old Bosch Jetronic mechanical fuel injection still worked, and the blasted car ran!

Friends joked about my DMC-12 ownership. But why? Lotus engineering carried prestige, as did John DeLorean, father of the muscle car. Truthfully, though, the DeLorean was all sizzle, no steak, as it wed highly provocative styling to a flaccid Franco-Swede V-6 mounted way astern. This was a deal breaker for “real” car guys, as were the subsequent scandals, bankruptcy, and a certain movie that reduced DeLorean’s masterwork to a PG-rated temporal comedy.

However, the public thought otherwise. I’ve owned a lot of cars, but I’ve never owned one that garnered so many waves, smiles, and inquiries. Lonely or feeling blue? Buy a DeLorean and drive it around; the reactions are euphoric, and you’ll instantly make new friends.

Knowing this, a friend and I planned a grand entrance at a pretentious local restaurant, where valets ensure red-carpet style arrivals seen by all. Our goal was for the mulish DeLorean to deny some prancing horse a parking spot. It all went wrong. Just 500 yards from our target, the DMC-12 started kicking and bucking, reducing progress to a crawl. Its fuel-starvation gremlin had returned.

Still dressed to impress, we U-turned and limped back up the mountain whence we’d come. It was a long, quiet drive, punctuated by the hiccupping engine. We finally struggled up my street at 5 mph, and the DeLorean was served its papers shortly afterward. The buyer arrived in an ex-Las Vegas limo full of partiers and called AAA to haul the DeLorean away.

It had found the right home.

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