Beloved Buick: The Centurion Rides Again

“It’s a couch with torque, and I love it!”

I beamed as I said this to my wife, Misty, about my first drive in the Centurion. We’d just gotten home from a 78-mile back-road trip from the Ohio shop that helped me finish the car. Misty followed me the whole way back in case anything went awry. (It didn’t, mostly.) The Buick was a champ, and I pulled into our barn feeling a mixture of joy and relief.

Those 78 miles were the first the Buick had driven under its own power in 32 years. The path to getting it back on the road began a couple of years ago, when my Aunt Linda called me out of the blue.

“Do you remember my old Buick?” she asked.

How could I forget it? We’d gone for rides in the handsome white convertible back in the ’80s when, given my grade-schooler’s perspective, it might as well have been a road-going luxury yacht compared to my mom’s little Buick Skyhawk (which my dad called Skypigeon). Cruising with Aunt Linda in the ’73 Centurion was an early “driving-as-an-event” moment that seared into my brain, that relaxed 455 V-8 burbling away as it pushed us along, the top-down breeze unlike anything I’d yet experienced.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have it,” she said.

Surprised though I was, she didn’t have to ask twice.

We retrieved the car from its storage location under paint tarps in a nearby barn. The Buick had been there since 1992. Moisture and temperature swings hatched little spots of patina on the paint and in the engine bay, but I nevertheless marveled at the big B-body’s sweeping lines and its gorgeous-if-musty interior.

I had the Buick flat-bedded to my own barn, and from there I dug into what it’d take to get the car back on the road. First on the list was paperwork; as I shared when I initially wrote about the Centurion, my aunt couldn’t find the title. I held off working on anything mechanical because I didn’t want to put time and effort into it if I wasn’t going to be able to get the Buick road-legal.

After her search came up empty, Aunt Linda rang and said she’d talked to an attorney friend who could help her navigate the process of getting a new title. It was also around this time that she mentioned she wasn’t feeling well.

Aunt Linda wasn’t much for going to doctors; that side of my family is pretty good at putting their heads down and pushing through whatever obstacles are before them. Ultimately, this wasn’t a scenario in which any such strategy would have worked. She relented and went to the hospital last year, and from there, her cancer escalated pretty rapidly. She passed last October.

Aunt Linda wanted to see the Buick run again and trusted that I’d be a good steward of it. But after she died, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of paralysis. I put the project off for months before I finally asked my Uncle Paul, Linda’s husband, if he had any ideas where the title could be. He offered one last suggestion: a file cabinet in the back of the garage of the house where he and Linda used to live. My mom and I headed over there, and sure enough, there was the title, along with a bunch of other paperwork from the ’70s. Uncle Paul facilitated the transfer.

I went to work on the Centurion. First up was to change the oil and send a sample out to Blackstone Labs for analysis; my primary concern was whether any coolant had found its way into the oil. The results offered a clean bill of health. Further under the car I went, inspecting lines and checking for any issues. Fortunately, the Centurion had been undercoated at some point in its life, and aside from a rotten exhaust, everything appeared in decent shape.

Out came the old fuel tank, which had some gas in it that probably dated back to the first Bush administration. Atop the tank sat a fun archaeological find—a tattered build sheet for the car. I blew out the fuel lines, replaced the pump, and dropped the Quadrajet off for a rebuild at a local shop owned by Jack Doughty, an 80-something-year-old former drag racer with a thick New England accent. He came recommended to me by my hot-rod-building neighbor, and since I’d heard Q-jets can be a challenge to get just right, I figured it better to leave the job to someone who’s fiddled with hundreds of them.

While I was waiting for the carb rebuild, I fitted a new master brake cylinder, front rotors, pads, calipers, wheel bearings, and cycled out the old brake fluid. Belts and radiator hoses were next, along with new plugs, wires, and a cap for the distributor. I trashed the OEM-looking bias-ply tires in favor of modern radials.

After sitting for all those years, the interior had a certain… bouquet. Desiccant helped take the olfactory edge off, but the whole thing needed a deep clean. Out came the seats (in which I found a second build sheet, beneath the rear bench), carpet, and insulation. Fresh carpet would help the odor a lot, I reasoned, and it wasn’t that expensive, so I pulled the trigger.

A bit of advice, now that I’ve been through this process: always get sample swatches when you’re replacing leather or fabric, and even after you place your order, keep your sample. The Saddle color on the swatch didn’t match the carpet that showed up. The supplier’s batch of material had changed, so there wasn’t a remedy available to me, but since the Centurion is an ice cream getter and not going to be subject to judging in any concours, I decided that the color worked. I went ahead with the install.

Since I was rooting around in the interior, I replaced the rear speakers and the convertible top cables. And, the surprise of surprises, while I was wiping down the dashboard, the radio face gave way to reveal an eight-track unit. Though it isn’t working at the moment, this discovery spawned outreach to family members for any eight-track tapes they had hiding in storage. The best yield so far has been Christmas with the Chipmunks and Polka Spree With Milan and Bea, featuring my grandmother—Aunt Linda’s mom—who’s still chugging along at 98 years old. I found a shop online that restores old eight-track/radio units and retrofits bluetooth capability, so the best of both worlds will soon fill the Centurion’s speakers.

Once I got the repaired Q-jet back and affixed it atop of the manifold, I was ready to see if the Buick would start. I primed the oil pump, got in the driver’s seat, turned the key, and… nothing. It was getting fuel, and power made it to the coil, but there was no spark.

It was at this point (or should I say points) that I decided to phone a friend. Mind you, my projects were beginning to accumulate—my go kart was on its second engine for the year, the race car needed preparation, and Eddy’s Barn of Wayward Toys had just welcomed another donation—a ’97 Dodge Ram, courtesy of a close buddy. There were a few things the Centurion needed, and if it was going to hit the road in ’24, I could not do it alone.

Rocky Yusi, who’s kindly shared some of his cars with me over the last couple of years, was happy to help get the Centurion over the finish line. He and his dad own a shop in Strongsville, Ohio, and his team installed a new high-energy ignition, fresh guts for the oil pump—a very smart call that I hadn’t thought to execute—flushed the transmission and diff fluids, set timing, tweaked the carb a little, and gave the car a thorough once-over. He phoned me last week to let me know it was ready, and, just my luck, the weather looked great to bring it home Thursday evening.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little concerned about the drive home. It was a bit of a risk to reintroduce the Buick into the wild for what ended up being more than a two-hour journey, but hey, it was a beautiful 70-something-degree fall evening. Who knew if we’d get many more days like this in Northeast Ohio this year? Besides, it felt wrong to stick a freshly revived car on a flatbed.

Down went the top, out came the phones for a couple quick snaps, and off we went. Just to the gas station down the block, for starters. I’ll happily gamble on getting home in an old car that’s been worked on by people I trust, but the 455 needed fuel to place any kind of bet. Twenty-two gallons later (there were already three or four in the tank), we were on our way in earnest.

Several of my colleagues take great joy in personal luxury cars, but I’m not sure I really understood the appeal until that trip home. The Centurion had the ingredients of a car I’d love and appreciate in essence—the ties to my aunt and the childhood memories assured that—I just didn’t have high expectations for, you know, the driving part.

But driving the Centurion is so. . . Easy. Like Sunday morning. Smooth. Every bit of this car, especially the ultra-cush suspension and the overstuffed thrones that’d be at home in a living room, ooze comfort. It’s not quick, but the 455’s torque calmly whisks you along and delivers on the promise of the car’s assertive visual presence. Commanding like a Commodore (sorry, I had to)—a relatively high perch presents a clear view over that expansive hood and comparatively low sills, enhancing that feeling that you’re at the helm of something substantial. There’s no rush in this car, and that’s the point; let life come to you, boss, cause you’ve got this. (As if to prompt that musical description, when Misty and I pulled out of the driveway the following day for her first ride in the car, I switched on the radio and Easy was playing. “This song fits this car perfectly,” she said. So it does.)

The only not-so-easygoing bit popped up on the dash about a half hour into the journey. The glowing red “Gen” light suggested that the alternator might not be offering a charge. I turned off the radio and made sure the blower fan wasn’t running. It was just far enough from the shop that I didn’t want to turn around and have to make the trip all over again, and it was a brand-new battery, so I figured I’d have enough juice to get home. The light didn’t get any dimmer, and nothing ever faltered. Sure enough, though, when I tested the battery that evening, it read 11.87 volts. I broke out the three-amp Battery Tender and counted my blessings—swapping in a new alternator is a quick project.

Along with the alternator, this winter, I’ll address the exhaust, eight-track, and a few other little items. Getting it going was the important thing, though, and we’re already planning a few local trips for the first warm days of spring.

As I mentioned, my Aunt Linda passed away on Halloween last year. By happy accident, on the same day this year, we brought her car home. She’ll be with us every time we drop the top.