Against All Oddities: Fright of the Concord

As some of you know, I work as an engineer in the professional racing industry. And because I can guess what you’re thinking, I acknowledge the absurdity of a serious corporation invested in high-end motorsports that trusts a guy who spends his weekends fiddling with utter garbage. (You and me both, brothers and sisters.)

Anyway, this is the time of year when many of us in the industry drop what we’re doing in the off-season to go to PRI, the Professional Racing International show in Indianapolis. I’m not going this year, but hearing people in the office making their travel plans reminds me of a one-way ticket I booked out there some years ago. Why one-way? Come on, you know the answer to that question! It certainly wasn’t to go easy on the corporate budget, but rather, I’d gambled on finding something interesting (read: awful) to drive back home to Charleston, South Carolina.

I’ll admit, there was one additional factor I had in mind. About six months prior, I paid my friend in central Indiana for a Tremec TKO500 five-speed manual transmission. (It was for my Australian Ford Falcon ute.) I hadn’t yet laid hands on it, and surely transporting the thing with a car I’d buy and then sell later would be cheaper than freight… right?

I had no particular car in mind, but I had a few standards: under $1500, must be capable of immediately driving 1000 miles, and bonus consideration for weirdness/obscurity. As usual, I packed my tools and flew out.

Facebook Marketplace is a hell of a travel agent. It didn’t take much searching before I booked my return chariot: a maroon, vinyl top, wire-wheel-covered 1982 AMC Concord. It had a 95-horsepower 258-cubic-inch straight six and a Chrysler 904 automatic that slurred from gear to gear. I could think of no vehicle more ill-fitting for the high-performance standards of the professional racing industry.

I simply had to have it.

Wackiness is always favorable to normalcy, and thus, the potential juxtaposition of parking a maroon ’82 Concord among the rental cars in the downtown Indy JW Marriott underground parking deck was enough motivation for me to schedule a time to look at it. After my duties of manning the Bosch booth and answering 1.6 million questions about spark plugs, washers and dryers, and a precious few about advanced data logging and engine management, I conned my buddy Mikko into giving me a ride to the AMC.

The location was, to my deep satisfaction, in a trailer park. Much better than an Indianapolis piano bar during PRI, but I must admit, I didn’t plan out the test drive very well. It was winter, which meant daylight was scant and temps were in the high teens. Other than the dull green glow of utility lights and my weak cell phone flashlight, the trailer park was pitch black. On cue, it started snowing.

On the Against All Oddities rating scale of car buying conditions, this was 3 Moskviches out of 10. Mikko and I took a hasty drive around the gravel lot. Wheels? Check. Gas tank? Check. Heat? TBD. Clothed like a southerner and shivering as such, I anxiously awaited closing out the deal. The $1300 from my hotel ATM was burning a hole in my pocket—the only thing keeping me from going hypothermic. Before long, the deal was done. Any hidden rust under the vinyl top, among other secrets, would need to wait until morning.

We were off! Mikko followed in the chase car. Only a few miles down the road, once the acquisition excitement dulled, a Very Bad Feeling took over. I just bought a pile of junk, blind, on a work trip. Again. Making it home alive seemed uncertain. Then, conditions improved: the engine temperature needle stabilized, the heat started to warm the tufted velour recliners, and the Boston cassette in the 8-track player came to life with a shove. The mighty Concord executed the majority of its vehicular duties not significantly worse than it would’ve in 1982. Maybe this was a good idea?

An hour later, miraculously, we were back at the JW Marriott to claim the extra tradeshow parking pass we requested for the hotel deck. My work colleagues gathered ’round to satisfy their morbid curiosity. I had unresolved questions of my own.

In the light, the Concord wasn’t actually that bad! Of course, the date on the tires was from the Winston Cup era. (Thank goodness Charleston isn’t 1000 miles away or anything…) At the bar that night, I managed to recruit a few people to ride home with me: friend and coworker Jon, an intern, and a customer/friend named Hunter. We all still had a few days’ worth of trade show to grind through, but the road trip was the light at the end of all of our tunnels.

The morning finally came for us to leave. Again, it was frigid, but the Kenosha-born heater was earning its keep. We all burdened the sagging leaf springs further with our Pelican cases and duffel bags. We were snug, cozy, and low to the ground but hardly comfortable. The headliner had fallen down and was folded into an itchy, pillow-shaped rectangle that wedged between Hunter and the door.

As a final sendoff, one of our friends who was not riding with us slapped an “I Love Meth” sticker from one of the racing fuel vendors on the back bumper.

Four guys in a slammed Concord with fogged-up windows and double entendre winking at methamphetamine on the bumper. It was unclear if the local cops or Bosch HR were the bigger danger.

Oh yeah, we still had to grab that Tremec transmission. I’m relatively sure I disclosed this wrinkle to the guys at the bar before they agreed to come on the trip. (None of us can remember anymore.) Squeezing the gearbox with the bell housing, flywheel, clutch, and all of our gear into the trunk would be tight… but mission-critical. About 2.5 hours later, after picking up the TKO500, we managed to repack our belongings successfully around said grease-caked gearbox. Some trunk contents were relocated to the cabin.

The poor AMC’s leaf springs and ancient whitewalls protested further. My intern and Jon started smoking Black & Milds, blowing sweet smoke at the duffel bags on their laps. Hunter was asleep with his head on the fiberglass pillow. We traveled in the right lane, at a period-correct 55 mph. The sticker, unfortunately, remained stuck to the bumper. At least jails are warm, right?

The sun rapidly fell, and the AMC soldiered on while we took turns at the helm. Somewhere in Virginia, around midnight, morale took a turn. The once-minor shimmying through the steering wheel became so intense that it vibrated my open can of Louisiana hot sauce sardines off the tunnel, dumping its spicy contents on the plush carpet. Directly under the heater vent, I might add.

We pulled over in a Burger King parking lot to to better investigate the tire situation and gag outside. My subsequent inspection of the trademark SpaceSaver spare made me equally nauseous.

After some deliberating, we resolved to swap the most bulbous tires onto the rear end. Satisfied with the result, we three employees of a division responsible for high-end racing electronics, plus a Porsche race engineer, climbed back into our rolling travel policy violation.

Many hours, Red Bulls, cigarillos, and anxious miles later, we rolled into Charleston around 3:00 a.m. Cramped, itchy, smelly, and sketchy though it was, the Concord was a far more interesting alternative to earning a few SkyMiles.

I ultimately did some maintenance on the 44,000-mile hulk, swapping on some vintage Crestline wheels (with new tires!). I enjoyed it for another year before selling it. In the end, it sure beat a hefty freight bill.