We all dream about an ad like this, an old car with minimal mileage, purchased new by an elderly person and driven only to church. Well, be careful what you wish for; you might get it. I did!
In the autumn of 1984, my mostly-faithful Rover was getting worn out, and we’d had good luck with the 21-year-old Falcon wagon that had been our family car for four years. When a friend came up with a 33,000-mile 1969 Buick, I eagerly bought it. With very minimal fender rust and an immaculate interior it seemed like an incredible buy at used car money.
The car was a bit of an enigma. A bottom-feeder Special Deluxe, in a year when most small Buicks were Skylarks, it had been ordered by a 75-year-old gent, and equipped with few power options. It had the 350 cid V8, not, as you probably know, related to the Chevy, Pontiac or Olds small blocks. Instead it was basically a Buick V6 with two extra pots. He treated himself to a Hydra-Matic, but brakes and steering were manual, and although the car had a speed minder and various courtesy lights it was nearly devoid of trim and sported dog-dish hub caps. Still, it was unusual, drove decently (once I got some radial tires on it), and had been well maintained. Its last oil change had been 300 miles (and one year) earlier.
There was evidence of a Florida trip or two, but mostly it had gone to the store and back, less than ten miles each time. One day, to solve a minor oil leak, I changed the valve cover gaskets. Big shock! I found an engine almost totally gummed with sludge. Taking care to keep it out of the sump, I removed as much as I could. More ominous than the sludge was a puddle of antifreeze in the right cylinder head where coolant shouldn’t be. I said a prayer or two and put the valve covers back on.
That explained a slow loss of coolant, but the source of the leak was not evident. Eventually, fate intervened, in the form of a Dodge Omni that rear-ended it while parked at the curb, shortening it by a full twelve inches. It took forever to squeeze a decent settlement out of the perp’s insurance company, because they insisted the car was not collectible, despite its pristine condition.
In the end, I parted it out. Its nose restored a Skylark convertible in Michigan, and many of its parts went to upstate New York. I gave the carcase to our local fire department for rescue training, and I’ve still got some pieces left, like the sweet-shifting Turbo 350 that cured my aversion to slush boxes. The short block awaits a trip to the scrap yard.
I replaced it with a 1970 Chevy Impala, another one-owner car, this time with over 100,000 miles. I changed valve cover gaskets on its 350, too. It was so clean inside you could eat off them. I don’t buy cars with less than 100,000 miles any more. You can’t tell if they’re going to last.
