Consonant Cowboy

For your reading pleasure, the story of a young man and his warrior machine...

THE MIGHTY FALCOON

By Cameron Douglas

995 words

Once in a great while, a car comes along that is so dependable, so impervious and so downright stubborn that it absolutely refuses to give up — even in the worst conditions.

In the hard winter of 1975, my friend Tom and I shared an apartment on Euclid Avenue in East Cleveland. We lived a simple life of work, hangin’ out with our rowdy friends and getting from point A to point B. The cars we drove were different than they are now. Back then front-wheel drive hardly existed. Nearly every the car on the road was propelled by its rear wheels, which, in winter, were typically shod with great, gnarly snow tires. The cars themselves were heavy, poorly suspended tanks with terrible brakes. Even with snow tires, they skated across the icy roads like Dodge-Em cars on a Teflon rink. Snowplows ambled through the gloom, showering rock salt to melt the snow and ice. Their heavy plow blades turned the asphalt into a minefield of lumps, bumps and potholes that slowly destroyed front suspensions. The road salt caused massive structural rust. (I once had a rusty ’65 Ford Galaxie actually break in half as I pulled into a driveway.)

‘Twas a land of great automotive hardship, and that year my friend and I faced a grim car situation. My ’68 Plymouth Road Runner had a bad transmission. Tom owned a broken ’64 Chrysler Newport that was up on blocks. Money was tight and we needed something to get us around.

In January, we bought a ’66 Ford Falcon for 40 bucks. That’s right: 4-0 dollars. We named it, “The Mighty Falcoon.” It was a dark green, two-door coupe with a 200 cubic-inch six-cylinder engine. It seemed to run pretty well, but the transmission leaked badly. It had no snow tires, and the tires it did have were all worn out. The heater didn’t work. Neither did the horn. Extensive body rust had left gaping holes in the floor pans, so bad that the front seat used to rock back and forth on the weakened metal. And before long the muffler fell off, adding to its charm.

It was the quintessential beater car, and we flogged it like a sheetmetal mule. We ran it through wind, rain, ice, snow, slush and salt, giving it only cheap gasoline and lots of transmission fluid. We never tuned it. We did no work on the brakes, even after the drums started grinding on bare linings. Never changed the oil. Nor did we add any oil because, quite surprisingly, the engine never leaked or burned any oil at all.

The Mighty Falcoon just kept rolling along on its bald tires, leaving a trail of bright red tranny fluid. In zero temperatures with no heat it was a handful to drive. We had to drink some hot chocolate and take a blanket, hat, coat and gloves. The blanket went across our legs, while the gloves were there to wipe frost off the inside of the windshield, since there were also no defrosters. But the little inline six ran flawlessly. It ignored the freezing weather and started right up every time.

One day, I had to drive up to Cleveland Heights for a job interview. Heavy snow had accumulated for two days and showed no sign of letting up. A bitter, Canadian wind blew in from Lake Erie, and thick flurries of snow clouded the view of the street from our windows.

As I pulled on my coat, Tom said to me, “Looks pretty nasty out there.”

I agreed with him: “Yeah, sure does.”

“You sure that car’s gonna make it?” he asked.

His question made me think. Hmmm...leaky transmission; no heater; bad tires; bad brakes. Most people would have sat down, switched on the TV and said the heck with it. But I was determined.

“No problem,” I replied. And off I went.

Gloved, blanketed and hot-chocolated, I fired up the Mighty Falcoon and made my way onto Euclid Avenue, cutting deep tracks in the snow. With the wipers wiping and my hands clearing frost, I waited to make a left turn onto Green Road, where there would then be a long, twisting, uphill grade. A hitchhiker stood near the bottom of that hill, hoping for a ride. I considered stopping to pick him up and decided against it: a running start would be my only chance.

When the light changed, I punched it and made a crab-like, sideways turn onto Green Road, climbing about 30 feet up the hill before the madly spinning tires lost their grip and the car began sliding back down. The hitchhiker stepped away: he wanted no part of this! Just when it looked completely hopeless, the car drifted over and the right rear wheel hit the curb. The downward slide halted and I felt that wheel dig in. Somewhere in my mind a voice said, “Go for it!” — so I hit the gas.

Roaring, snarling and bellowing; the mufflerless Mighty Falcoon inched forward. Smoke rolled off the tire and sparks flew as the wheel ground against the curb. The din of unsilenced internal combustion racketed off the walls of nearby buildings. The hitchhiker stared in disbelief at the ragged car waging war with the pavement. His image grew smaller as I pulled away from him. And I made it. The Mighty Falcoon took that hill — a distance of 500 feet — with the wheel screaming against the curb all the way.

In the end, rust prevailed and we had to lay the Mighty Falcoon to rest. We watched in sadness as the junk man came to haul it off. He made the mistake of hooking up to the Falcon’s bumper, which tore loose from its rusty mounts and dumped the car back on the ground.

I hope someone salvaged the engine from that poor car: it still ran like a champ.

THE END