A Supra Tale

The realization struck me like a sudden jolt: My BMW 325is was gone and other than my old gsxr I had to rely upon a twelve year old Jetta with no reverse.  I don’t know if you have ever driven a car with no reverse but it offers many challenging situations; finding the “right” spot becomes critical as pushing a 3000 lb car any distance is not conducive to anyone’s well-being.  The truth is the lack of reverse stems from me popping the clutch one time too many with its old tech 2.0 four cylinder and five speed. The clutch mechanism simply stopped working because the lever inside the trans had cracked. I rectified this problem only to cause another when I accidently allowed a rod to pop out of the transmission which aligned the shift rods. Ignorant of this fact I reinstalled the transmission and then found out afterwards that reverse was no longer an option: that was a bad day! 

             I knew I wanted the coolest, sportiest ride I could get with my meager wages from Autozone.  I had just graduated with my MBA and had hopes of crossing the chasm to the hallowed ivory tower of Corporate.  At first I located an ’87 Merkur XR4Ti nearby that an enthusiast had owned. He had put an intercooler, had some headwork done and installed a hotter cam on the 2.3 turbo four those cars came with.  Unable to agree to a price I continued to look and stumbled upon an ’84 Supra for sale on Ebay located in Ohio; nearly 800 miles away from me.  My uncle had owned one of these cars and I had always liked them though thought they sat up too high on their tiny 14” stock wheels.  This car had a rare set of three piece Epsilon 15” x 8.5 aluminum wheels and a motor and trans out of an ’85.  I got the car for a low $2000 and as soon as I could I drove 800 miles on a Sunday morning nearly entering Pennsylvania. I awoke the next day in my hotel and discovered the temperature was a bone numbing 0 degrees with snow everywhere.  I was going to tow the car back with a dolly hitched to the back of my father’s Pontiac Torrent.  I met with the seller and disconnected the driveshaft of the car and got it hooked up to the dolly and set off back to Mississippi.  The car was gorgeous and with an amazingly straight body and started right up. I felt a sense of victory with my new prize as I started back on the 800 mile trek.  The trip was long and I felt like I was hallucinating near the end as I drove down the two lane highway from Jackson, Tn into North Mississippi. The road rolled up and down and was immersed in a smothering fog which exasperated my anxiety and exhaustion; but I persevered and made it back to Oxford in one piece at around 12:30 that night. I woke up in the morning and after an eight-mile run I took the car off the dolly and admired its lines.

Over the next month I took the entire intake manifold apart when the injectors began to leak. I replaced them all and detailed the manifold with silver brake caliper paint and detailed the cam covers with crinkle black paint.  The Mk.2 Supra has a 2.8 dohc straight six that is smooth with great power and possesses a fabulous sound.  A high performance inline six has a magical sound quality that I had experienced in several BMWs I had owned over the years. I took the wheels apart and painted the centers a semi-gloss black and installed new Yokohama high performance summer tires.  After installing a Momo wheel, Sony stereo and numerous other items I drove it a while until one day at Autozone it failed me in the parking lot. I only had to be there for a one hour meeting and the car refused to start. I pushed the car into a different spot in the parking lot and remained there for the next 8 hours trying to figure out what was wrong. I decided it was the fuel pump so started to remove the gas tank which I had just filled! In the Mk2 supra the gas tank has to be removed in order to replace the fuel pump which I found out as gallons of fresh gasoline poured out all over me saturating my clothing and forming a lake of gas in the Autozone parking lot. It was dark now and nearly 9 pm and my good friend Tommy came out of the store to smoke; I warned him that he had better move down or I was going to be consumed in a giant fireball in the Autozone lot. I began envisioning it; it would be a memorable death I thought. As the night progressed I succeeded in removing the tank and getting it home. I had to return the next day.

        Upon day two of this challenge I worked at the store attempting to assuage the ceaseless throng of manic, desperate customers. I occasionally glanced out of the window at my poor supra immobilized in the parking lot with a sense of emasculation and defeat. After work I went out and installed the tank with the fresh pump and went to start the car; nothing!  It would make sounds like it wanted to start and then would stop!  It wasn’t the fuel pump after all. “Now what?” I thought as a sinking feeling came over me and time was marching on. I changed the fuel filter which was quite challenging on this car as it’s located directly under the engine on the driver’s side, no good. I swapped out the air flow meter, coil and igniter with spares I had all to no avail. The very last thing I thought to check was the throttle position sensor; everyone told me that could not be the problem but I was adamant. As my friends Brandon and Joey closed the store after 10pm they came out to check on my progress. “This is it” I told them, “I’m not leaving here till this car drives home”. Indeed to me this challenge was the seminal event of my life; it was the world attempting to deprive me of my magic machine and the life I envisioned for myself of endless drives down undulating roads leading to Nirvana, Art, Truth and beauty. Hell, I could probably write an Ode to the car with what it meant to me. When behind the wheel, all was right with the world, nothing could harm me, the magic was alive; I imagined driving down the Corniche leading into Nice listening to Dalida. As they pulled away and the bright neon lights of the store shut off the parking lot became so peaceful, it was just me, the car and a sky filled with stars above. Gathering my thoughts  I swapped out the TPS and tried again: the car started right up!  It was after eleven now and though I was exhausted a surge of pride shot through me like a surge of electricity; suddenly I was victorious, the world had failed to relegate me to the mediocrity that I fear. As I drove through the square all the college kids were hanging out in the streets after a night of partying. I drove through with a triumphant aura and made it back home in glory!

        As the next months progressed I finally got my interview with Autozone and made it into the vaunted halls of their shiny corporate edifice located directly overlooking the Mississippi in downtown Memphis. This was the culmination of my life so far: all the cars I had owned, worked on, obsessed over, my MBA, my frantic devotion to exceeding all of the expectations Autozone had for me. I had been a man on a mission, focused, obsessed, ready. I would wake at 5am and go for my five mile run just so I could be at work at 7. I would accept the insane schedules with me having to work from 5 to 10 pm on a Friday night. And show up the next morning at 7. I even accepted the slave wages they compensated me with and viewed it as some form of an internship. The future was all that mattered. I interviewed for the position of ecommerce specialist on a Friday the 13^th and three weeks later learned that they were going to take a pass. The news hit me like a tidal wave as all my dreams had been hitched to this wagon: my career with Autozone and their empire of 4,600 stores, my new life on Mud Island in downtown Memphis, The red M3 I wanted, hanging out with my two sons and playing Ms. Pacman at the Pizzeria, All this was gone now. I drove back to the store and quit on the spot. That dream was dead.

I had decided to rebuild the entire front end of the Supra as I had noticed the struts were going; particularly on the driver’s side. I disassembled the suspension and began ordering parts: struts, balljoints, tie rod ends, rebuilt steering rack, energy suspension sway bar bushings. I also bought an OBX R stainless steel header that I had been searching for on the internet for over six months. I took my boys to see the motorcycle races and the fabulous museum at Barber Motorsports Park in Birmingham and then returned to my work. I got it all reassembled and to the alignment shop when I was told one of the balljoints popped out! I was stunned and shocked. Turns out that my control arms must have gotten worn out and I subsequently tried three different brands of balljoints and none of them fit. Finally I found a set of NOS Toyota control arms with the balljoints and bushings from a seller on Ebay who literally saved my life. Meanwhile, I had decided to install the header thinking that it would be a straightforward job; wrong!!

I removed the stock manifold with no difficulty and ventured to put the header in place from below the car; it would not get into place; no matter how I maneuvered it nothing would work. It was July and the Mississippi heat was sweltering as I labored on with my task. My boys were in Chicago, the dream of a corporate career for me now dead; all that remained for me was the car. This was it. I finally decided that the power steering bracket was obstructing the header and removed it. I had to grind away at a section of it with my trusty cut off wheel. After numerous attempts I finally got it just right and was able to install the header. The sound was fantastic, like an old jag e-type or even a Ferrari I thought. All was right with the world.

I finally put the entire front end back together and then was able to enjoy the fruits of my labor: solid, sensitive steering feel, Great cornering with absolute control, the sonorous wail of the exhaust and the new found power of the silky smooth straight six. Now I had just one more problem. My life was in complete chaos and time was running out.  I had accomplished my goals for the car in my continuing “Car Ministry” as my father deems it. I took a car that had old, cracked tires, leaking injectors and the effects of a sedentary existence and turned it into a machine capable of driving anywhere. In fact, after all the work I performed I drove it several thousand miles; enjoying every minute of it. Though I love the car; it is the process, the experience I value more. Nothing comes closer to my heart than the gathering of parts, the fastidious pursuit of mechanical perfection, leaving my individual stamp on the car; to make it the way it should be. I have owned many cars in my life so far from a black ’49 Ford two door sedan with a flathead V8, a ’72 Pantera resplendent in orange and black and a supercharged M3; but somehow this car has encapsulated my fascination of cars, it is my best work thus. I went to see a production of Tennessee William’s iconic Play “Streetcar Named Desire” the other day and have always been affected strongly by Blanche Dubois and her frantic cry that she wants “Magic, yes, yes, Magic”. I have always felt the same way and I search for it every single day whether it is in a vehicle, building or in the eyes of a beautiful woman.

Notes from an American car nut in Exile.

Christian Slater Knox

San Jose, Costa Rica -    

         Approximately two months ago I found myself in San Jose, Costa Rica for reasons far too numerous to list here. Let´s just say that one thing I have never been accused of is being “normal.” Keeping that in mind, I was hired as an English professor at a private college in Costa Rica. Being a life-long car nut/maniac/enthusiast of the first order, I had my priorities straight. I had to assess the vehicular situation.

Motorcycles.  I noticed the swarm of motorcycles immediately: Tiny 125cc single cylinder machines of mostly Chinese origin that sport names like Formula and AJM. They weave indiscriminately through traffic in between buses, bright red taxis and old dilapidated diesel trucks. Sometimes, I spot the riders performing this suicidal motorized ballet with cellphone firmly in hand checking texts or changing their playlists…Their “exhausts” generally consist of a small chrome canister unimpeded by any actual decibel suppression.  As hordes of these machines whiz past they emanate an egregiously loud cacophony that assaults your very being with a syncopated thrumming.  I went into a dealer of these Chinese wonders near where I work.  Branded “Formula” and sporting bright colors and single cylinder ohv or ohc engines, they are cheap at $1400.00 brand new. I attempted to speak with a salesman but eventually gave up after I found myself pointing and repeating every other word. Did I mention that I arrived speaking essentially no Spanish at all?  Every once in a while I see a full-size Japanese sport bike or a Ducati Monster pass by but with lamentable irregularity.

Buses.  I had not ridden a bus with any regularity since I was a Freshman in High School. I have a vivid recollection of waiting for the bus after school one day when it passed me by, and I swear I could see the driver smiling. Without a car here, I have been relegated to being one of the many others subjected to the whims and caprices of the bus. Unlike in America, the buses here come in all colors and makes. They don’t have numbers, just small red signs taped to the front window.  In San Jose, there must be five or six variations at least. Even the fare varies from 200-500 Colones (about 25 cents to a dollar).  Costa Rica has almost no street signs or zip codes and most directions are in reference to something else. My current address literally states that I live at a three story grey house under construction fifty meters from the nearby grocery store.  Then there is the post office, but I´ll save that rant for another time. This systematic lack of uniformity and consistency adds to the general whimsy and sense of mystery that accompanies the bus riding experience. You don’t ever really know. Sometimes when waiting for over a half hour, I will spot my bus and stand up with anticipation and then watch it pass by at full throttle. Perhaps the driver was not impressed with my sincerity?  Some female friends of mine will literally step out into the street directly in the path of the speeding bus and force them to stop. I haven’t gotten to that point yet and besides, I don´t think it would work.  I guess it depends on what turns on that particular bus driver but, I don’t want to know.

             Several weeks ago I rode a bus to the gorgeous Pacific beach town of Manuel Antonio. The bus there was “directo” and made few stops. One of the few it made was at a small roadside stop sheltered from the elements but wide open otherwise. There was an array of snacks, freshly squeezed juices from various exotic (to me anyway) fruits, and an old man cooking skewers loaded with spiced meat over an open flame. I grabbed a slice of watermelon and a bag of caramel-covered peanuts and felt like the foreigner I was and loved it.

         The bus ride there was muy bien though devoid of air conditioning. It was hard to complain though as it only cost eight dollars (one of the few bargains to be had in Costa Rica).  On the way back, however, I learned the meaning of the dreaded “collectivo” moniker on the front of the bus. Instead of traversing the highway, this bus meandered through every switchback high into the scenic mountains and made stops in every “town” between the ocean and San Jose. At one point after I was already coated with sweat and fatigue, the bus picked up a whole roving band of young Tico riders who had been enjoying a little too much Pura Vida (Pura Vida is the national motto and literally means “pure life”).  They were wasted and proceeded to sing, talk, yell, gyrate and swerve all over the bus. The joy that I had been previously deriving from the majestic mountains and lazy herds of cattle out the window was now seriously diminished.  At one point, a cooler filled with ice opened from the luggage rack above me and poured a stream of cold water on my head. One of the girls in the group looked at me nervously. I was having doubts now about this whole Costa Rica thing. But it was the drunken kid on the cellphone that got to me the most.  He was standing in the aisle and frequently brushed against me. I was under siege and felt a wave of panic and claustrophobia. I thought of the late, great Southern comedian Jerry Clower and his hunting tale that ended with a man stuck in a tree with a raccoon and a wildcat. Concerned, his friend below asks “hey, are you allright?” and the man responds, “just shoot up in here amongst us because one of us gotta have some relief!” I was at that point. His voice was slurred, and the inebriated cadence of it was driving me insane.  My girlfriend saw the rising fury within me and casually remarked, “ Chris, why don’t you sit next to the window.” I moved and attempted to appease my overwhelming desire to start an international incident on this voyage of the damned.

        Cars. Most of the cars I see are patched together, worn, beaten and old. Sometimes I get to the point where a brand new Toyota Corolla starts to look really good. I never thought that would be possible, and it scares the hell out of me. Luckily, some finer example of automobile eventually appears to save me from a fate worse than death. Please, oh please not another twenty year old Hyundai with a chrome garbage can hanging below the rear bumper and a bright green fifty dollar paint job! Sometimes the savior will arrive in the form of a BMW, usually a three series ranging from a mid-eighties E30 to an E36 and even to a bright silver E46 M3 that I had the good fortune to see twice. Yes, it was a magical moment when I saw it again. A splash of rain in the automotive wasteland to keep me going.

           The other day while I was walking back from the gym, I saw a garage door open. To my complete astonishment, a mid-nineties Mustang stuck its prow out of the door. It had a tasteful Saleen body kit, 18” five spoke rims and a tantalizing authentic V8 burble. One of the great accomplishments of man so far to be ranked amidst the contributions of such luminaries as Beethoven and Mozart has to be the sound of a high-performance, old school, cast-iron, pushrod equipped V8 straight from the good old Estados Unidos.  It had 5.0 badges on its fenders, and I estimated it to be a ´95. I saw that car again at the repair shop near my house later the same day. The owner got out and I dared death by crossing a street packed with buses and bikes just to take a look. It was a worthy cause. The hood was propped open, and I spotted an MSD distributor, but otherwise the venerable 302 appeared stock. This would do. I asked the guy “Cuanto Cuesta” and I learned that he wanted $14,000. If I could just take it around the block; a very long block… and yes I was correct; it was a ´95.

        I stumbled upon a speed shop near downtown San Jose. There was a bright red Porsche 944 Turbo parked out front. Walking along the sidewalk a block away, I could only glimpse the tail, but my car-saturated brain had enough data to form a complete image.  Yes.  A 2.5 litre turbocharged intercooled 247 BHP four cylinder, rear drive, transaxle-equipped Teutonic driving machine. I remembered the TV ad from the eighties: “Imagine If you were a car….. you would be a sportscar, you´d be agile, you´d be turbocharged, and of course….. you would be a Porsche.” Inside I spotted a white last gen RX-7 with a carbon fiber spoiler with a wild-looking Nissan 240 SX parked next to it.

       Another shop nearer home contains three Corvettes, a Camaro, and several mid-fifties Jeepsters. I saw this site from the window of my bus on the way to work. Somehow the curvaceous audacity of the red Corvettes called to me with such profound intensity that I had to get off the bus, thus forcing me to once more dare fate by crossing the street. Did I mention how dangerous it is to cross the street here? The game Frogger is the closest approximation to this reality. It definitely forces you to pay attention.  There is a corner near my house that I call the “corner of death,” and every day it lives up to the name. The cars fly down the street, and as they approach the right hand turn, the drivers floor the throttle with special emphasis. This usually occurs at the exact same moment that I step out from the crumbling sidewalk. I stood outside the shop in a paralyzed state of grace for several minutes like a junkie let loose in a pharmacy after dark. I snapped several shots and quickly ascertained what I was looking at. There was a bright red ´85 Vette with factory rims, spoiler, Greenwood body kit and a huge subwoofer below the glass hatch. It was stick shift and was parked alongside an´82 Vette with a coat of dust. I recalled the ´76 I once drove as I studied those flamboyant, gaudy lines. It looked good to me now in spite of its being an automatic.  Next was a mid-nineties Camaro in black with chrome rims. I asked an employee, “Is that a Z28?” He said “No, V6,” and I responded, “no Bueno!”  Hiding in back was a C5 Vette in need of a paint job and missing its hood. There were also two Jeepsters. One had an LT1 V8 residing under its freshly painted hood. I asked for the owner and he introduced himself and his brother. I asked him if there were any car shows in San Jose, and he pointed at me “you make show!” Maybe I was taking this journalist thing too far…Mario and his crew at Centro Automotriz Valverde specialize in American cars, and with his limited English and my extremely limited Spanish, we managed to discuss Corvettes, Costa Rica and our mutual love of American muscle.

      As a car enthusiast in exile in Costa Rica, I have noticed some makes and brands that have long since abandoned the USA. As soon as I arrived, I began to notice the forgotten (by the USA) trinity of Renault, Peugeot and Citroen. I have a soft spot for Renaults as my first car was an ´83 Renault 5 complete with the massive folding sunroof and a penchant for devouring starters. I know the negative image that the Renault name conveys in the states, but I loved that little car.  I must add that when I was growing up, my father was a martyr to Renaults and their various, shall we say, eccentricities. I have added to this legacy and once owned two (yes two)´ 78 Renault 17 Gordinis simultaneously. I can also lay claim to owning an A310 Renault Alpine, even if it was for only two months. So when I stumbled upon the massive ten story Citroen headquarters with an array of their finest parked out front, I was amazed at the attractive and finished quality of the cars. I found a small red coupe called a DS3 very appealing.  The Peugeot Dealer down the street has a gorgeous retractable hardtop turbo coupe that I look at longingly from the window of my bus.  I have spotted several Renault SUVs with very pleasant lines that equal or surpass anything available in the states. How ironic that with these great products the French manufacturers are unable to sell in the most lucrative market in the world.

At times, I feel devoid of hope in this vast sea of automotive mediocrity.   However, with tantalizing irregularity, I will catch a glimpse of automotive Nirvana.   A gleaming white Mark IV Supra replete with polished aluminum rims, spoiler and tinted windows greeted me one evening as I left work. There I was shuffling along, staring at the stars, and quoting Shakespeare to myself in the darkness while inhaling the ubiquitous unadulterated diesel fumes of San Jose when I saw it across the street. It was stopped at an impromptu police checkpoint, and I saw several machine gun equipped cops step out from the side of the road to check it out.  Back in Mississippi, I once drove sixty miles out of my way to circumnavigate a dreaded Highway Patrol checkpoint. And no, it was not due to any intoxicating agents flowing in my bloodstream. I had no car insurance and knew they would give me a ticket.  Now I looked at the Costa Rican Supra. I thought of the pristine Mark 2 Supra I sold last year. This was the only time in my life that I have ever been grateful for a police checkpoint. For a moment, nothing else mattered but the mere fact of the existence of that white sparkling perfection on wheels.  I was tantalizingly close, and for a brief transcendental minute or two, I basked in its full, wicked-fast glory. I watched with the same fanatical devotion as either a devout Muslim at Mecca or an Elvis Fan at the gates of Graceland. I turned my head as the driver sped off into the distance with the rapturous melody of its potent turbocharged inline six reverberating off every surface. This was music, fine art worthy of the Louvre or the Uffizi. This was a mechanical symphony. I envisioned driving it full throttle all the way to the coast at night blasting Led Zeppelin or AC/DC.  I was in heaven and yet was cognizant that since I could still feel this way that I was still very much alive. There was hope yet.

            For the last month, I have tried in vain to buy a car. I have narrowed my search to an E30 BMW as it is a car I am very familiar with. I owned an ´89 325is and rebuilt its front suspension, replaced the gas tank, and installed a set of 17 inch wheels. They are fabulous driver´s cars. I have found several, but the language barrier on the telephone and various cultural ones have impeded my progress so far. I called one Sunday about a clean ´85 318i nearby for $1700.00, and the owner told me “family today. Call back Thursday.” Okay, I thought, “does he want to sell or what?”  I called back later in the week to discover that he had sold it. I have called about several other cars and attempted my half-baked Spanish. It starts out well until they reply with rapid-fire sentences leaving me completely lost.  No matter, I have a used car dealer across the street from my house where I was looking at a ´97 eclipse just today.  It was beaten up and had the grievous look of neglect. There was a chunk of rubber missing from one of its 18 inch tires. I looked at its 2.0 DOHC 16 valve four and could recall when these cars came out. I seem to mark my life by the cars I see, both old and new. They take me back to simpler distant times long since vanished. They arouse my deepest sentiment, desire, ambition and admiration. They make me feel glad to be alive. They guide me along to some unknown destination….I spoke with the owner for a while, and he handed me his card. “l’ll be back,” I told him as I walked up the hill to my three-story grey house under construction fifty meters from the grocery store. My search continues, and as I make my way through the machinery of Costa Rica, I am making new friends, picking up a little Spanish (with the emphasis on little) and continuing with a fascination that has defined or consumed (or ruined if you ask my ex-wife) much of my life since I was four years old and was officially dubbed “Car Man.”   Stay tuned….

San Jose, Costa Rica

I have been in Costa Rica for the past three months and exploring the car scene.