My 1982 Datsun (by Nissan) 280ZX: Rust Never Sleeps (Part 2)

Rust Never Sleeps is the title to a legendary 1979 album by Neil Young and Crazy Horse, which has been cited by some as the seminal proto-grunge record. I also recall the phrase being a slogan for Rust-Oleum paint back in the ‘70s and ‘80s.  Or so I thought…

While I have vivid memories of Rust-Oleum television and print ads with that slogan, they apparently never existed. My own research has confirmed this.  Yet, others seem to remember it as well, but we are all wrong.  This is an example of the Mandela Effect, a phenomenon whereby there is collective recollection of something that never was.  Other examples include: the Monopoly Man wearing a monocle (he doesn’t and never did); a 1990s movie called Shazam starring actor/comedian Sinbad (likely people misremembering a 1996 movie called Kazaam, which starred Shaquille O’Neal as a genie); and Humphrey Bogart saying, “Play it again, Sam” in his distinctive drawl in Casablanca (he did not – although Ingrid Bergman’s character did say, “Play it, Sam”).  Regardless of the phrase’s origin, it is a great name for a great album.  It’s unfortunate that the album does not have a title track, as it would have been an appropriate theme song to my 280ZX ownership romcom.

In my last installment, I shared how Dad taught me the basics of bodywork and rust repair, and how we got that little Z looking almost as good as new.  This ensured that the car looked good, even as I bucked it through intersections while learning to drive stick.  One thing we neglected to address during that driveway restoration project was the excessively worn tires, an oversight that nearly nullified all of the great bodywork.

During one of my first drives with a buddy, we had the tops off and were enjoying a warm fall day.  As we approached a familiar, tight “S” turn, I downshifted to scrub off speed and then rolled on the accelerator gently as we entered the radius.  I was driving with some spirit, but carefully and well within the car’s limits.  As we hit the apex, the rear of the Z broke loose and tried to come around and meet the front.  A rapid-fire succession of countersteers ensued and I slammed the brake pedal to the floor, causing the car to stall out and lock its rear wheels in the process.  This caused further loss of control, but did manage to scrub off most of our speed as we slid off the blacktop and to a sudden stop on the soft apron of the tree-lined road.

Upon looking to my right and making wordless eye contact with my passenger, I peeled my fingers off the steering wheel rim and exited the car to survey the expected damage. The Z was facing back toward where we came, perfectly parallel parked between two mature, hardwood trees that were no more than 2 feet from the center of each bumper.  It was then I noticed the beige nylon cords that were peeking through the smooth, black crowns of the Vredestein tires.   My present that Christmas was 4 new Goodrich Radial T/As.

The rest of that first year of ownership was relatively uneventful.  I finished my freshman year of community college, while also balancing jobs on a truck loading dock (anyone here remember Roadway Package Service, or RPS, a short-lived competitor to UPS and FedEx?) and at a local amusement park called Dorney Park.  The Z proved to be reliable and fun, with the only concern being that a few paint bubbles started to mar the areas I had repaired about a year prior.  The second year would be a bit more eventful.

While backing out of a friend’s driveway one evening, I hit the quarter panel into a green U-channel signpost that someone had cut off at a height of about 3 feet – just low enough and dark enough to not be visible beyond dusk.  I tried to have a friend fix it before Dad could see it, but he only made it worse.  When Dad finally saw it, he was not angry; he was disappointed I didn’t come to him, as he could have pulled it properly and shown me how to do it myself.  Dad assessed the damage and said it would need to be repaired with filler, and I might as well take the opportunity to revisit the previous rust repair.

The body work took longer than expected, as there was an accent line running through the area that I had damaged.  By now, I was an artist with Bondo and a rattle can, and I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than perfection.  The rust repair was also more extensive than before, as we found that the corrosion had spread significantly beyond its original borders.  Dad made a comment about it being made from steel recycled from sunken warships.  He also noted that it was about the thinnest sheet metal he’d ever seen on a car, a point that was later proven when my friend and his girlfriend decided to make out on the hood, and promptly caved in the raised center ridge.

Later that year, the car failed inspection due to rust holes that had opened in both front subframe rails, large enough to insert a finger.  Luckily, my friend’s uncle owned a shop and would fix it for me cheap.  He braised in a couple of pieces of sheet metal to cover the holes, then applied a textured rubberized rust protection coat to hide the seams. He told me that this repair was meant to be temporary, and that this would be a problem down the road.

After leaving the shop, my friend and I were driving around town, and we approached another familiar “S” turn near his house. Exiting the chicane, we saw a pickup truck approaching us at high speed.  As it got closer it crossed the center line, causing me to swerve onto the soft shoulder and catch my wheel on the edge of the blacktop.  Just like the prior year, I found myself trying to regain control on a narrow two-lane, only this time there were just small gravel shoulders between the road and a stone farm wall on one side and a steep drop into a creek on the other.  We finally came to rest facing south in the northbound lane, having by the hand of God missed all obstacles.  We found out later that night that the truck had just left the same shop, where the driver – high on some mixture of narcotics – had been in a verbal altercation with my friend’s uncle and left in a drug-fueled rage.

By the summer of 1994, I had owned the car for three years and, other than a failed alternator, experienced no mechanical issues.  My life was also on a positive trajectory, as I had transferred in early 1993 from community college to Bloomsburg University, a state school in north central PA, about an hour and a half from home.  Unfortunately, a couple of historically cold and snowy winters on campus had taken a toll on the Z’s bodywork.  The hood had again grown holes, and I had little time to do anything about it as I had been accepted into the Air Force ROTC program and had to attend basic training that summer at Dover AFB in Delaware.  At the conclusion of basic, Dad picked me up in the Z.  He had beautifully repaired the hood while I was gone.

That fall I transferred again, at the request of the Air Force, to little 2000-student Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, PA, near Scranton.  The car continued to serve me well through those two final years of college, but the rust never slept.  The rockers and rear panel were looking rough, and the hood again blistered and began to pop.  I wasn’t terribly concerned at that point, because I planned to buy a new car once I received my Air Force commission and began earning a steady paycheck.  6 months from graduation and commissioning, my best-laid plans were smashed.  The military was experiencing large reductions in force, and the USAF had over-allocated ROTC slots.  Any excuse to disenroll cadets was encouraged by the Air Force secretary, and I gave them such an excuse.  I asked Dad to come up to school so that I could tell him what happened.  He and Mom were broken-hearted, but they supported me nonetheless.

Without a marketable degree (I studied History with the intent of pursuing a JD in the Air Force), and now a mountain of debt as I had to repay my AFROTC scholarship money, I went into a period of depression and disenchantment.  I needed to find my direction, and get as far away as possible from everything that was reminding me of my failures.  My oldest brother was living in our old hometown of Marysville, Washington, and the Seattle market was hot.  Besides, I was a lifelong Seahawks fan, and this would allow me to attend games at the Kingdome.  I broke up with my girlfriend, recruited a friend to make the drive with me, and planned a cross-country trek to the Pacific Northwest.

While preparing the Z for the trip, Dad and I jacked up the front end so that I could flush the fluids and perform a full inspection.  Dad went into the house for an hour or so while I was working on the car, and when he came back out he asked me why I had lowered the car.  I replied that I hadn’t.  Dad always had a keen eye for details and for estimating measurements.  He said that the front of the car was definitely lower than when he had gone in.  Puzzled, we got down on our knees to see if the jack stands were failing.  Instead, we found that the subframe rails, which my friend’s uncle had told me would be a ‘problem’, were collapsing around the jack stands.  We lowered the car, and Dad told me to sell it as soon as I got to Seattle.  That weekend, I packed everything I owned into the hatch of that Z, bottoming out the rear suspension and splaying the rear wheels at a comical camber.  Then two guys set off to cross the country in an overloaded car with the structural integrity of a foam beer cooler.

The trip to Seattle was surprisingly uneventful (unlike the return trip a couple of years later – more on that in a future entry).  After settling in at my brother’s place, I shared that Dad told me to get rid of the car, and that I didn’t have much money for a replacement.  He knew a guy who was selling something I might be interested in, and took me to the local wrecking yard to see if they would give me anything for the Datsun.  The first answer was that they would take it off my hands, but not give me anything in return.  “These are virtually worthless” was the yard operator’s retort.  My brother pleaded for his sympathy, saying the engine was still strong and the wheels and tires must be worth something.  “Not really”, he replied, but offered to give me $100 to make me go away.

As we walked away, I felt a mix of guilt and sadness. That car was a steadfast companion through some of the best and the most challenging times in my life.  It dutifully carried me through school, multiple jobs, and countless road trips while quietly suffering from debilitating body rot and frequently deferred maintenance.  In stark contrast to the body, the drivetrain was truly bulletproof.  In over 100K miles, I never even replaced the clutch.  Besides fluid changes and bodywork supplies, my expenses consisted of tires, brake pads, and a couple of remanufactured alternators.  It never complained and never, ever let me down.  Leaving her at the wrecking yard was like putting down a beloved and loyal dog that I knew was suffering and tired.  I ventured one last glance over my shoulder and caught her headlights staring back at me, conveying a sad yet graceful acceptance of her fate.  I then nodded a final goodbye just as the yard guy grabbed a corner of her hood and peeled back 5 years of bodywork in a single, merciless act.

 

Related CC reading:

Curbside Classic: 1983 Datsun 280ZX – The Cutlass Supreme Brougham Z?

CC Capsule: 1983 Datsun Fairlady Z (S130) T-Top – With Aftermarket Staring Wheel!

Curbside Classic: Datsun 280Z – Seduction Of Forms