It was July 1990 and we were driving along in Beluga, our 1970 Chevy Impala, headed for a week’s vacation in Vermont. We’d been contemplating a change in our automotive stable, as our three children were outgrowing the Impala and our other vehicles comprised a Peugeot 504 Diesel and a rusty Dodge Club Cab pickup. “What’s that?” said Jill, referring to a large station wagon towing an immense camper that passed us easily on the Interstate. “That,” said I, “is a Chevrolet Suburban.” Instantly I had the answer to our dilemma.
I’d had a long succession of pickup trucks, the Club Cab a concession to the growing family, but increasingly a compromise one. Our friends were all buying minivans, a solution that was entirely practical yet unappealing. A Suburban, I reasoned, would replace both the Impala and the pickup, while forgoing only the ability to haul a load of manure for the garden.
A couple of weeks later I was perusing the Washington Post over breakfast while on a business trip to the nation’s capital, when a classified item jumped out at me: 1980 Chevy Suburban, 454, towing package, low miles. With time to spare before my return flight that afternoon , I went to take a look. It was a ’79, not an ’80, but nearly indistinguishable since last redesign in 1973. The “low miles” were in the high 80s, but the price was negotiable. The seller took my offer, so I went to a bank and took a cash advance on my credit card so I could close the deal and go home with the title.
With temporary plates in hand, my son Edward and I (he the railfan) took the train to DC, then a taxi to Hyattsville, Maryland, where the Suburban awaited us. I had not driven the ‘burb before purchase, as it was neither registered nor insured. Setting out on a 400 mile trip with no shakedown was a bit of a gamble, but the truck ran strong, if a bit rough, and displayed 45 psi oil pressure at idle.
I had bought a half-ton, two-wheel drive Suburban with Chevy’s tough 454 cubic inch Mk IV engine. It had the all-important Class III hitch receiver and low-line mirrors. While not as sure-footed as a 4×4, its limited slip differential enabled it to cope easily with snow drifts. The upscale Silverado interior was state of the art in the day before power windows and leather had become de rigeur, it had the stylish Rally Wheels. While cargo doors were standard on Suburbans this one had been ordered with an electric window tailgate. It had its foibles. The air conditioning didn’t hold a charge for long, and the cruise control had a vacuum leak that caused it to cruise in fits and starts. The roughness in the engine was traced to a missing pushrod. Someone had disabled both valves on one cylinder, perhaps as an economy measure. In any case, reconverting the V7 to a V8 made a world of difference. We named it “Strawberry Shortcake” after its color scheme of Cardinal Red and Santa Fe Tan.
Strawberry Shortcake took us far and wide, to Cape Cod, to Nova Scotia and easily towed my vintage Shasta camper to Hershey each October. The 454 pulled like a locomotive, so towing Angus, my 1925 Hudson was an easy task. After four years and about 60,000 miles I aspired to something different, so I sold Strawberry Shortcake to a classmate of my son Nick and treated myself to….another Suburban.
