I Bought a Corvette Without Really Trying

Good things rarely fall in your lap—or, at least historically, not into mine. More great deals on project cars and motorcycles have fallen through my fingers than I can count. So imagine my confusion when I put in zero effort and the perfect project still ended up in my driveway.

I’ve spent a solid two years working on a variety of Honda XRs and my Chevrolet Corvair. There were a couple small detours to assist some friends, but the vast majority of my projects as of late have been pretty simple air-cooled engines and their associated systems. Somewhere along the way, I began to think about bringing a waterpumper into the garage. I’ve also been wanting a “modern” car that I could use for activities for which the Corvair is just simply not suited without significant modifications and compromises. I began a passive search for a solution that would not break the bank.

One option that rose to the top of the pile was a fourth-generation (C4, or 1984–96) Corvette. The C4 has been the butt of the joke as far back as I can remember. These Corvettes aren’t particularly sexy, but 1980s cars are a sweet spot of sorts: they boasted enough technology to allow dramatic increases in capability and comfort but were not yet touched by the many complicated systems found on today’s cars. It was a transitionary time. Many components of the C4’s chassis were computer-designed, but the car itself carried no computers. A C4 has all the benefits of modernity without its complications, making it especially appealing if your plan is to modify the car in a way that would make any factory computer panic.

Which is, of course, my plan. Leaving well enough alone has never been my strong suit, and to be honest, I’m tired of not owning a car that is capable of a burnout. Not that I really need that in my life, but I’ve learned from my KTM 950 Adventure that a little excess seems to be the perfect amount. I would have loved a first-generation Dodge Viper, but I missed the bottom of the market on those and have since watched their prices sail away, far out of my reach.

A smart man would buy the best C4, also known as the generation that followed it in ’97, the C5. Even a base C5 would be killer for anything I want and would ask very little in return. Much like Vipers, though, the right C5 has gotten tough to find, and the prices are swinging up. So I stuck with the C4, partly on the encouragement of fellow editors Sajeev Mehta and Andrew Newton, both who have hands-on experience with both early and late fourth-gen Corvettes. On a Monday, during our annual team gathering a few weeks ago, they stood over my shoulder as I scrolled through for-sale listings and outlined my dumb idea to snag a cheap C4 and turn it into the perfect medium-horsepower toy and grand tourer.

That’s when the ad appeared: A sleek black coupe, framed nicely in a front 3/4 shot. The price set the hook: $2000. The car looked as though it was cared for, but it had certainly been used. Dirt sat in splotches on the black paint, where it had collected in small puddles of morning dew after being blown around by the summer breeze. The exhaust hung slightly askew, in partially out-of-focus photos. The catch: The owner had put in a new battery but the car was not powering up at all. It was a near paperweight of a car, and it was just 2.5 hours from my home in Traverse City.

The project was right, the price was right. The timing was decidedly not right. Even in my afternoon-cold-brew-induced excitement, the emergency safety switch in the back of my brain tripped. I had no space in my garage already. Between the arrival of winter in just a few months, and the promise I had made to my lovely wife to clear a space for her to park inside for the season, I was in a literal corner. Sajeev assured me it really was the right car for my wants and needs, but I held fast: I needed to sleep on the idea before I even sent a message. There was no need to be pushy on something I didn’t need. Maybe someone else needed this deal more than I did.

Tuesday, on the four-hour drive back home from our editorial offices in Ann Arbor, I revisited the idea. I’d be an idiot, I decided, to not try to grab it. The car would certainly be sold before I could mosey down to meet the seller, so why think about what would happen if I did get it? As far as the parking situation went, if any of my vehicles would be exiled from the garage during the winter, it would be the one that had the least material to rust. Corvair: steel. Model A: steel. Corvette: fiberglass. The choice was clear.

The next day, freshly rested, I sat on the swing in the backyard with my wife.

“Are we doing anything this weekend?” I lightly prodded.

“We should go kayaking Saturday. The weather is supposed to be really nice.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. What about Sunday?”

We’ve been together long enough that she probably already knew what was coming. She played along anyway.

“Nothing that I know of. Why?”

“I think I’m going to buy a Corvette.”

“Hmmm … Okay.”

There’s a reason I married her.

Still sitting there on the swing, I typed up a quick message to Ron, the seller of the Corvette. Knowing the chaos of messages Ron was likely getting, I kept the message clear and direct: I know what I’m buying, I have a trailer and cash, and I can be there Sunday, late morning or early afternoon. It was the laziest I think I’ve ever been when trying to buy a vehicle that was likely to have plenty of interested buyers. I clicked send on a Wednesday. The car was surely going to sell by Sunday.

Ron’s response was delayed. As expected, he was inundated with messages and interest. He promised to let me know if the Corvette was still available come Sunday. Fair enough. I forgot about the whole thing until Friday night, when Facebook told me that the price on the Corvette had dropped from $2000 to $1800. Suspicious, I sent another message to Ron.

When I read his reply, I could feel his exasperation through the screen. I repeated my offer: He could list it as pending and I would be there Sunday, easy transaction. That sounds nice, he said. Suddenly I was shuffling around town, grabbing a trailer from a friend and stopping by the bank just before closing time to prepare for my Sunday morning road trip.

The trip went so smoothly that I thought the universe was screwing with me. Ron was a kind gentleman who had bought the coupe, an ’85, in 1988 and drove it over 100,000 miles since. The tires are date-coded 1997 so he must have racked up a lot of those miles in the early part of the ownership. The car appeared to have been stored for a number of years and was exhibiting the symptoms of improper storage: a coolant leak, and the aforementioned total lack of power. It was perfect. I winched the Corvette onto the trailer and headed back north, smitten with victory.