The carburetor wasn’t much of a problem the power valve was loose, which caused fuel to leak from the float bowl into the intake manifold. My first job upon getting the car situated was to get it running well. Knowing my car count and storage situation, I offered a dollar amount I wasn’t sure the owner would take, mentally prepared for either eventuality, and ended up driving the car two hours home with my wife following in her car. It had old tires, it wouldn’t idle without surging, the idle mixture screws were unresponsive, none of the power windows worked correctly, the shifter and swing-away steering wheel were in desperate need of help, and the power seat didn’t work. It had a completely rebuilt engine and transmission (as settled by my borescope’s images of freshly finished cylinder bores), a nice interior, older paint, a rust-free undercarriage, and an entirely new brake system.Ī few problems, of course, were immediately obvious as well. Therefore, when I spotted this ’63 in Hemmings, and it was a mere two hours away, and it was painted in a nice ’62 color (Acapulco Blue), and it seemed so ready made for a guy like me, how could I NOT call about it? A nice ex-schoolteacher lady was selling it to settle her late uncle’s estate, and this was the last car to go. I didn’t buy that one, but I didn’t forget it either. As a 19-year-old college student, I daydreamed of a silver 1961 Hardtop, but over the years that aspiration grew a few hashmarks on the doors and changed into a 1963 model, and a 1963 model it has remained for about six years, ever since my wife caught me looking over a ’63 for sale in Escanaba, Michigan. In this case, I’ve actually wanted a Bullet Bird for 23 years. Of course, that manifestation was almost always the direct result of my actively looking for them, but why split hairs when there is a Thunderbird to introduce? In truth, most of the cars I have bought had been part of the plan months or years in advance, manifesting themselves at the exact moment when I was least inclined to resist them. Owning seven old cars has painted me as a man with no impulse control, but that’s a little unfair.
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