A gorgeous morning made for perfect driving in Motordom’s Masterpiece this morning. Cranking the Brougham is a still a bit of a mystery to me, despite great advice through the years from other Cadillac owners (have a Caddy? Visit the Cadillac and LaSalle Club at www.cadillaclasalleclub.org)
Afraid of flooding the six pack, I just turned the key and she fired right to life, filling my mother-in-law’s garage with the smell of Eisenhower-era idling exhaust. Then it died.
Hmm. So I mashed the gas. She wouldn’t start. Then I pumped the accelerator twice. She wouldn’t start. So I hopped out, opened the hood, and smelled gas. I’d flooded the carbs. There is a fine art to starting an old car, and I’ve evidently not mastered it yet. Of course, every vintage car is different, and it takes driving a car to get to know its quirks, habits, and peculiarities. This old Cadillac, it seems, takes an easy foot on the pedal. So I mashed it to the floor (to clear the system) and she quickly roared to life. Afraid of knocking myself out with the Brougham’s exhaust, I quickly moved out of the garage and got to work.
Mrs. Murphy helped me load the Brougham. We were both a little sad not to see each other for three weeks, but she’s singing in Carnegie Hall on Monday, so there’s no time to tool around in a vintage car with me. Plus I think she’s been around enough old cars to know that the ride will be more fun at the end of the trip after I’ve learned to at least start the old bird properly.
So I pulled out and headed for Hartford, Connecticut. The Long Island Expressway lived up to its reputation as a giant traffic jam, but fortunately it was a cool day and the Cadillac idled along without getting hot. Plenty of stares and thumbs up from daily commuters gave me encouragement as I piloted the car over the Whitestone Bridge ($5 toll–what the hey? That’s lunch money for some people.)
Puttering along into Connecticut, I thought to myself that things were going quite smoothly. About 20 miles from Hartford, I glanced at the gas gauge. Half a tank. Hmm. That seemed like a lot of fuel left for the distance travelled. Maybe I should pull over at the next stop, I thought.
The next stop was a CITGO gas station, so I drove right by it. I’m not buying gas from a communist. No way. And after my petroleum trauma in Philadelphia, I have pledged to only buy good, clean gas from Shell.
Besides, the newly-rebuilt needle said half a tank (10 gallons). And even if that sending unit was somehow wrong, the newly-rebuilt sending unit for the gas tank light had yet to come on. Both couldn’t break, right?
Wrong. The car suddenly coughed and quickly caught again. Oh hell. I pulled off at the next exit, which was uphill. The engine died again. I coasted to a stop, got out, and went and knocked on the gas tank. It sounded like the Japanese Imperial gong. Not a single drop of fuel left.
So, I lingered for an hour while AAA showed up with some gas. Don’t have AAA? You’d be a fool to leave home without them. They quickly came to my rescue, filled the tank with about three gallons, and I was back on the road in 40 minutes.
At Shell, I put in 17 gallons and the fuel needle quickly rose to read “full.” Mike at Mastermind (www.mastermindinc.net) speculated that the sending units may be clogged with, you guessed it, the gas tank sealant.
Arghh!
Hartford, Connecticut
What a gorgeous capital city. Hartford’s streets are full of sculpture and history. I hot-footed it around the city, delayed somewhat by my fuel gauge mishap. Still, I managed to park under a giant pine cone (?) and see the capitol, which was built in 1871. I think I parked in the governor’s parking place. Sorry, Gov.
The Ocean State.
Floating into Rhode Island proved an easy jaunt from Connecticut, taking back roads all the way. The gas gauge came back to life, but I kept a sharp eye on the odometer just in case.
Providence was my first stop, where I met with Peter C.T. Elsworth, the motoring editor of The Providence Journal.
Then I steamed down to Newport, where I tied up for the night at the Hyatt (great parking). There’s nothing quite like a Newport “cottage.” I wonder how many Broughams were here back in 1958?