(first posted 10/21/2013) My neighbor Bob asked me if I wanted to buy a 1967 Buick Gran Sport. He had a friend in upstate New York who had been planning to restore the car, but needed money and was ready to sell. For $900, I could drive it away.
I wasn’t well informed about the Gran Sport. Pretty much a clone of a GTO, wasn’t it? That sounded fun, and the price was right.
The year was 1981, my marriage had just fallen apart, and I was entering the first of several midlife crises. A beat-up sixties muscle car could be just the thing for me.
Polaroid photograph by the author: West 10th Street in Manhattan, 1981.
We rented a vehicle and drove into the northern segment of the state, where Bob had spent his childhood. Soon I found myself in a suburban garage where the Gran Sport was parked alongside a gleaming, immaculate 1970 Chevelle SS. Bob’s friend had pimped the SS, but the Gran Sport was still waiting for beauty treatment. Its exterior was about 50 percent original paint, 30 percent primer, and 20 percent rust. “It can all be fixed,” the guy assured me.
Actually I enjoyed the paint/primer/rust mix on the Gran Sport. It gave the car a backwoods, badass look, like something that a juvenile delinquent would use as the getaway vehicle on a 7-11 stickup.
“See, to get a car like this in good condition, you really have to buy it in Arizona and drive it back,” Bob’s friend told me.
“Where’s this one from?” I asked.
“I bought it in Phoenix.” He hesitated. “It does need a couple of things. Like, a new exhaust system. But Meineke has a special right now, here in town. Flat rate, any vehicle, $49. But there is one other thing.” He jacked up the car, and we crawled under it. “See, the brake line. I replaced it, but that isn’t, like, quite the right part. I think it’s okay, though.”
The next day, I gave him his $900 (he refused to settle for less), did the title transfer, and headed for Meineke, with the remains of the original exhaust system dragging on the road behind me. They replaced all the pipes by welding stock tubing together in sections. Quite a deal for $49.
Bob said he was going to stay locally with his family, so I headed back to New York. I had to buy some little yellow plastic bottles of ether additive from an auto parts store, to raise unleaded premium up to 100 octane. This was not cheap, but the expense didn’t dim my excitement over my acquisition. The Gran Sport handled like a truck, but with the pedal to the metal, it went charging forward like a drunken bull. I felt myself falling in love.
Polaroid photograph by the author. Note the lack of a rear bumper.
I stopped to see a friend in Syracuse. He recoiled in horror. “You _bought_ that?”
“It can all be fixed,” I said.
My friend shook his head. “There’s a guy near here who specializes in body work. I’m going to call him. Don’t go anywhere.”
An hour later, the body-work expert was surveying my prize.
“It’s been stored for a while,” I told him.
“What was it stored in?” he said. “Brine?”
I laughed uncertainly, but he did not crack a smile. “No offense,” he said, “but this is beyond help. See the rust above the windshield, there? I think it’s gone through in places. There’s really no easy way to fix that. You see?”
Well, I did see, but it didn’t matter. I was like a teenager infatuated with a biker chick who is wasted on drugs, has bad tattoos, and doesn’t bathe regularly–but she’s sooo sexy, it’s hard to care.
As the sun set, I found that the right-hand low-beam headlight didn’t work, but when I got out and kicked the fender, it came to life. No big deal.
My main problem was with teenage drivers who felt a need to prove that the Gran Sport was not so hot. On the New York State Thruway that night, one car overtook me, then slowed in front of me–slower, and slower–till I had to overtake him. I resumed chugging along at a cautious 65, mindful of the replaced brake line that was not exactly a GM-authorized part. The other vehicle overtook me again, and slowed in front of me again. This seemed to be some boy-racer ritual that I didn’t quite understand. I overtook him again, and resumed my 65. For a third time he came up alongside me–and there was a sudden crack, like a rifle shot, from the passenger window.
The other car disappeared into the night while I pulled over to see what had happened. The window was spattered with beer where the driver had thrown a bottle at my car. Fortunately the glass on the Gran Sport had been tougher than the bottle.
Back in Manhattan, my girlfriend wrinkled her nose at the condition of the car, but as the days passed, she developed a sneaking affection for it. When we took it out cruising, if the right-hand headlamp flickered, she would get out and kick it for me.
The rear bumper fell off, so I stowed it in the trunk. Several pieces of trim were already in there, having fallen off previously. Sometimes one of them would rattle around and poke through the rust holes, and I would hear it scraping along the road. Stopping and pulling it back into the trunk became part of my ownership experience.
Finding a mechanic to work on the Gran Sport was a challenge. Mechanics in the New York area tend to be not just crooked, but incompetent. Eventually I got a referral to a guy out on Long Island.
I was driving to his location when the brakes failed. The emergency brake was no help, as the cable snapped with a dull twang when I stepped on the pedal. I put the transmission into low, and when I had reduced my speed to around 10 miles an hour, I managed to stop by rubbing the front tire against the curb. From there I proceeded very, very cautiously to the garage, where I rolled onto a level area of concrete, threw the transmission into neutral, opened the driver’s door, jumped out, and arrested the car by restraining it physically.
The mechanic didn’t bother to lecture me on my foolishness. I guess he could see in my eyes that I was too far gone.
Automobile repair minimall in the greater New York metropolitan area.
My friend Bob called. “How are you liking the car?” he asked.
“I love it,” I said. “Except, it does seem to be surprisingly rusty, for a car that came from Arizona.”
“It didn’t come from Arizona,” Bob said.
“What? But your friend said, Phoenix!”
“That’s Phoenix, New York.”
I consulted a map and discovered a town named Phoenix not far from where Bob’s friend lived. I wondered if it had been an entirely innocent misunderstanding.
Despite being blinded by love, I always knew that my affair with the Gran Sport was doomed. It was only a matter of time, and that time came just a few weeks later. My girlfriend and I were motoring down the Bruckner Expressway, past rows of arsonized tenements in a derelict section of the Bronx. Suddenly I heard a scraping noise from the rear. “It’s just another of those chrome strips, falling through a hole and rubbing along the road,” I said. “No problem.”
I stopped on the shoulder, got out, and was puzzled to see that the highway was wet. Other vehicles were splashing through puddles on the road. Then I looked under the car and saw that the two steel straps which supported the gas tank had separated. We had been dragging the tank behind us by its the fuel line. The tank had ruptured, and the road was covered in gasoline.
“Um, I think you should get out of the car, now,” I said to my girlfriend.
We retreated down the road to a safe distance and stood for more than an hour, trying to hitch a ride. People driving past were laughing and making obscene gestures as if this was the biggest joke, seeing us sticking our thumbs out in one of the highest-crime neighborhoods in New York City, near my disabled Gran Sport and a highway covered in 100-octane fuel.
Finally someone picked us up and took us to the nearest subway station.
Twas on a stretch of the Bruckner Expressway very like this, where the Gran Sport died.
Back at my apartment, I called a towing company in the Bronx. “You say it’s on the Bruckner Expressway?” the guy asked. “Is it all there?”
That seemed an odd question. “It’s all there except for the gas tank,” I said.
“How long ago?”
“Four hours, maybe.”
The man laughed. “By the time I get to it, the wheels will be gone. And the battery, most likely.”
Welcome to Bronx, NY.
As I hung up the phone, I realized that circumstances were forcing me to suspend my state of denial. The facts had been clear to everyone else, and now they were becoming inescapable to me. The Gran Sport had been cruelly ravaged by salt and snow. It had been heartlessly abandoned to spend its twilight years in that upstate garage, until I’d brought it out of retirement, urging it to have one last joy ride for old time’s sake. Gamely, it had responded–but now it had drunk its last sip of ether-laced gasoline.
I like to think that its spirit lives on in that special place where the seriously badass cars go. To whomever is the custodian up there, I would just like to say … kick its headlight one time for me.
Postscript:
My friend Bob is unable to check any of my facts because, sadly, he died of pancreatic cancer about 10 years ago. He was a country boy who doubled as an avant-garde conceptual artist in New York City. His friend who sold me the Gran Sport felt such a loss after he got rid of it, he went and bought himself another one of the same vintage–perhaps with less rust. Me, I went to Phoenix (the Phoenix that is located in Arizona), bought a 1972 Camaro, and drove it back to New York, replacing the U-joints along the way. But that’s another story.
(Charles Platt is a former senior writer for Wired magazine who now writes technical books, such as “Make:Electronics.”)
Delightful story. Looking forward to the Camaro tale.
I had a “cool” Aunt who had one of these when I was a kid…and I would just stand there staring at that car, enthralled, when she would come over to visit.
And the Bronx has not resembled that b&w photo for 40 years, when said Bruckner and Cross Bronx expressways were littered with the shells of stolen, abandoned vehicles.
Title transfer on a 1967, Charles? Respectfully, do you mean transferring the registration/owner’s card?
I thought NY began titling vehicles in 1972 and everything built before then still relied on the latest owner’s card as proof of ownership. I lived in Northern Westchester 1977-81 and Syracuse/Cortland area 1982-86. Owned both pre and post 1972 vehicles during that period…
I think the guy who sold you that Gran Sport really took advantage of you. And the fact that Bob knew which Phoenix his friend was talking about and didn’t disclose it before the sale, is despicable.
BTW, for anyone reading this not from the Finger Lakes region, Phoenix (shown above on the map) is just a few miles from Mexico…New York, also near Lake Ontario and some of the WORST conditions on earth for auto bodies. It can literally snow and stick from October 1 to Mother’s Day.
There’s also a Florida, NY but it’s much closer to the city.
In contrast, as I recall, NYC cars don’t rust as much simply because life comes to a halt when a bad snow arrives. If they did that Upstate, nothing would get done except in summer.
Having lived in idyllic Brattleboro VT prior to Westchester, it was a shock the first time I drove into NYC and saw the abandoned, stripped-out cars along the Major Deegan and West Side Highway…like automotive vultures descended the moment the owner disappeared from sight.
You’re probably right about the title. I don’t remember the actual formalities. I was too obsessed with the car!
Ah, yes. The lure of an old car that was beautiful back when it was new, and “just needs a little work.” I know it well.
On my way home from work the other day, I saw a white 1967 GS ahead of me in traffic, and I’ll try to get some photos if I ever see it again. I’m hoping it wasn’t just visiting the neighborhood. The closest I got to it was about a quarter of a mile, but it didn’t look modified to any great extent, and it didn’t look restored. In other words, it had the Curbside Classic look to it.
Another great read,thank you Charles.I like these cars,I see a lot of Vauxhall Victor FD(my first car) in the Buick.Like your Buick my Victor had terminal rust.
> The year was 1981, my marriage had just fallen apart, and I was entering the first of several midlife crises. A beat-up sixties muscle car could be just the thing for me.
Naturally. When a relationship falls apart, the answer is always to buy an old car. 🙂 Not necessarily that particular car though. You must’ve been wearing blinders when checking it out. I’ve been guilty of that, but not to such a degree. It makes for a good story after the fact though.
On a related note, it seems my dad is about ready to “throw in the towel” on his big old Chrysler, so I may be getting that. Poor timing, as the body is pretty rough (another former daily driver in the rustbelt), I’m right in the middle of restoring one of my own, and have no space to keep another vehicle unless I pay for storage.
Another great story. This reminds me of the saying I once saw on a plaque on someone’s wall: “Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.”
I got plenty of experience in my younger years, and at least once when I was old enough to have known better. Replace 67 Buick with 61 Thunderbird and our stories have a fairly similar arc.
In high school I had a friend with a 66 Impala wagon. GM must not have spent any too much money on those gas tank straps, as he had the same experience. Only the fuel line/gauge wires did not hold and he looked in his rear view mirror to see the fuel tank skittering along the road behind him. A bad day.
Stories like this help me understand why some states have annual safety inspections and others don’t. You are lucky to have survived the Gran Sport Charles, and so are we. Great story, keep up the good work.
A great story. Sometimes you know that you’ll be the final owner and are able to give a once grand car a final hurray. Sure beats the scrapyard.
“Naturally. When a relationship falls apart, the answer is always to buy an old car.”
Yes, absolutely! Or how about a new car? Most recently it was a 2013 Mitsubishi Lancer Ralliart. I swore off American brands about 10 years ago, with much regret. I have a suspicion that the Ralliart could have given the Gran Sport a run for its money. It certainly feels safer at high speed. Doing 120 in the Gran Sport would have been a nightmare, even with reliable brakes. The Ralliart feels designed for it. Yet I still miss the noise of that old V8….
I owned the same type of car: a gold 1967 GS400 with black vinyl top and black interior. The original owner lived in Birmingham, AL and was up in his years. He hit an icy patch, slid out of control, and an oncoming car mashed up the entire passenger side of the car.
Another older friend of mine bought the car with intents to restore it. He changed his mind & I ended up with it. Other than the damage, the car was in near perfect condition with about 80K on it. Bucket seats, console, road wheels and that cool Star Wars air cleaner.
As long as I didn’t make a hard right (the wheel would catch the front bumper), all was well. I drove it to work and a coworker went nuts over it because the ’67 GS was his dream car since childhood — “sell me that car!”. He had “money” and loved old Buicks but I wanted to keep it because it was just so cool.
I parked it in my father’s barn and while I was away, he got pissed off & decided to remove it with his Bobcat. He pulled up to the back of it, tilted the forks back, and picked it up, completely puncturing the gas tank and trunk floor. Keep in mind this car ran perfectly well and the keys were dangling from the ignition switch.
I called up my coworker friend, told him the story and offered it to him for $800. He called a wrecker & had it in his garage the same day. I haven’t spoken to him in several years but the last time I spoke, he said it’s still in his garage…he’s waiting on locating some body part (I forgot what it was).
The great news was that he had the engine, transmission, rear axle, and all the suspension completely overhauled. The report back was that everything was in excellent shape — he just wanted everything gone through in case there was an issue. I imagine it’s probably perfect by now. Thankfully it had never been exposed to road salt.
Salt sucks.
Yep rusty old dungers can be fun as long as you dont expect to be able to fix them and just drive them to death Ive had several see thru cars one quite a rare Morris Isis I put a thick carpet in so things didnt fall through the floor it even had a 20 litre drum on the passengers floor with a mechanical fuel pump from a sidevalve Hillman fitted in place of the fuel tank for a week or two untill a 60 litre drum could be installed in the boot and the original high pressure pump revived, it did keep going reliably but it was disintegrating rapidly as it drove, I got just over 5 months out of that rust bucket before it fell apart the 2,5L 6 was a good oilburner and was installed in an A90 Westminster when the Morris clapped out completely.
My aunts “across” the hall neighbor had a 65 “G/S”. As I recall, was quite optioned. Sparkly gold, red stripe tires, bucket seats,console, a/c.Smelled of cigarettes. Fay was a big smoker and it was the “60’s”
This Gran Sport is one of the contenders for my least favorite of the ’66-67 intermediates, arguably one of the best domestic model cycles in auto history. The other two are the Olds 442 and Mercury Cyclone.
On the other end at the top would be the Chevelle SS396 or GTO, with the the middle rungs being held by the Fairlane GT and the square Mopars with enough creases to make them look like the boxes they came in were at least ‘nice’ looking boxes. And, of course, they got the 440 engine in 1967, too.
Great story. That stretch of 95 in the 70s was worse than Fallujah. I always spotted abandoned cars in various states of stripped down hulks as I drove north to Boston. Instead of taking the Tappan Zee I saw it as an adventure to drive through the Bronx. . Even a Rambler couldn’t escape the vultures.
The first thing is to look under the car for rust.
One of greatest lines here at CC, “The rear bumper fell off, so I stowed it in the trunk.” Lol! That’s when you know your a true North or Midwesterner. Baffling me is the Buicks 100 octane gasoline requirement. That’s pretty much racing or aviation fuel. Perhaps that’s just what the seller said it required. I mean where is the owner supposed to fill her up? The local airport or racetrack? Even with today’s multiple gasoline options, the only stations I can think of that might have 100 octane gas on tap would be in Beverly Hills or a similar area with lots of money and high-end cars.
I don’t know that it needed 100 octane fuel, but the fact it had a compression ratio of 10.25 to 1 meant that the regular unleaded gas of the early 1980s would be exactly “health food” for the engine and the engine would have horrible spark knock.
It’s a shame that car should meet its end like that, and as I read the piece, I was thinking “You’re going to have a vehicle like that…in Manhattan?”. That thing would have a better life living in the country, and if garaged, would facilitate being worked on/restored, even if slowly.
The engine looked like the best part of the car. That, what came to be called the “star wars” air cleaner assembly in Buick fan circles, came to be a very hard item to find for those seeking to restore or replace a missing one. If the owner knew this then, and if in the same position he was, I’d have taken the thing off and carried it with me under my arm before I left that car at the roadside along “The Bruckner”. It would fetch a good amount of cash today.
Too late to notice and to subsequently edit, but in the first paragraph I meant to say that the fuels of the early 1980s _wouldn’t_ exactly be “health food” for an an engine such as in the GS 400.
Another great story well told .
These cars came with a Power Glide slush box and ‘switch pitch’ torque converter and bone stock they tore up the local drag races when new .
100 octane gasoline was easy to find when this was a new car .
My son had one of these and loved how quickly it took off from a dead stop but hated the lousy fuel economy and poor handling not to mention drum brakes….
-Nate
Yes, but at that time advertised and posted octane ratings were RON, the Research Octane Number. That’s what’s still used in many other parts of the world, but in the US and Canada we’ve used AKI, the antiknock index, which is the average of the RON and the always-lower MON (Motor Octane Number). Roughly speaking, 91 RON = 87 AKI (sea level regular); 95 RON = 89 AKI (sea level mid-test); 98 RON = 92 AKI (sea level high-test), and 100 RON = 94 AKI (sea level super premium).