This is a helluva way to break in a new engine rebuild, but I’m thankful not to have had car trouble since Boston. I have stopped holding my breath while listening to the faint hum of the motor or laying hands on the hood like it’s the altar of Cadillac. I’m not exactly “just driving,” but I’m close.
Outside the Ritz Carlton in Cleveland
I was excited to pull into Cleveland because the amazing Catherine had booked a room at the Ritz Carlton for $110. Feather bedding, a quiet space, splendid service–the promise of it all was nearly too much.
Following the Google GPS on my iPhone, I wound my way around to a very industrial side of town that didn’t seem too, er, ritzy. I passed a burned-out car, perhaps an unlucky Brougham owner with tri-power trouble from 1958. A group of thugs gestured at the Cadillac from a corner. (If you wear your pants below your ankles and your hat sideways, mon frere, you are a thug.) The blue dot on my iPhone said, voila, I was at the Ritz.
Tragically, unless the Ritz had relocated to a concrete plant, I’d been led astray by my GPS. So I phoned the hotel. With a quick “my pleasure,” I was connected to someone who could help with directions.
“I’m lost,” I told Monique.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“I have no clue, but I’m on the other side of the river,” I replied.
“Well, you don’t want to be there!” Monique said.
“You’re right. How do you get to the hotel?”
“Where are you now?” Monique asked. Persistent woman, that Monique.
“Still lost. But I can see the lights of the stadium ahead. Let’s say I’m at the stadium. How do you get to the hotel from there?”
“What street are you on?” Monique asked. Evidently, I wasn’t quite getting through to her.
“I’m right in front of the stadium,” I lied, “Which way do I go?”
“Look for LeBron James on the wall,” Monique said, “then make a left on the street next to the river. There’s a big neon guitar there. Go down a few blocks and you’ll see Morton’s Steakhouse. We’re a block away.”
This was the first time I’ve ever been given instructions to a hotel based on a basketball star. I don’t follow basketball. I don’t know what LeBron looks like. Nor was I familiar with the 110-foot billboard that Nike has posted downtown for some years.
“Um, Monique. I don’t mean to offend you, but is there someone there at the hotel that knows their way around Cleveland?” I said.
“My pleasure,” she said, and connected me to a doorman. Roy navigated me to the Ritz in a matter of 90 seconds using street names.
Once ensconced at the Ritz Carlton, my spacious room, marble bath, and “Shh” sign made me smile. I slept well, with visions of a working radio and good gas mileage dancing in my head.
Sleep tight, all night.
Making for Motown
Antique Auto Battery is just South of Cleveland, so I motored over to return my defective unit. Their shop is a testament to what makes the old-car hobby work. A team of what appears to be seven or eight people take orders, assemble, and ship batteries from behind a residential house in Hudson, Ohio.
I stopped in, returned the battery, and was on my way again in the span of ten minutes. They graciously took back the defective part and refunded my credit card with the full amount, plus taxes and shipping. I didn’t even have to ask, which was refreshing.
Visibility near zero: time to pull off
Heading towards Detroit, the sky opened up again and absolutely bucketed rain down on the 1958 Brougham. I moved over into the right lane and kept a steady speed of 55 mph. Big rigs passed me like I was in reverse. Other drivers, who evidently thought I was driving 2009 Ferrari, subtly disguised as an ancient Caddy, tailgated in hopes I’d speed up.
Tailgaters: what gives you the impression that crawling into my trunk will make me go faster?
Getting frustrated and angry (no way to drive), I pulled off for a bit and waited for the rain to pass. It did, and presently I was back on the road, steaming at 60 knots for the home of Motorpool user, David King.
David owns 1958 Brougham number 615, plus two others, which absolutely puts him into a rarefied class among collectors. An engineer and former GM guy, David knows cars and in particular, the 704 spectacular Eldorado Broughams built between 1957 and 1958.
David King and Brougham 615
David’s Brougham is on air ride and will shortly be a masterpiece of Motordom. He’s rebuilt almost every mechanical component to the exact Cadillac specs. His lights all light up. His Brougham’s rebuilt radio plays with surprising bass and power on the original speakers. Even his clock works.
With incredible patience, David spent 9 hours with me and my Cadillac, looking at my various issues. My inoperative horn? A short in the steering column. Trunk light? Dead bulb. Low fuel light? Dead bulb. Glove box lights? You guessed it, dead bulb. We cleaned and sharpened the cars body grounds, which I think will help tremendously with my charging issues. We also spent a lot of time comparing one car to another.
My “Low Air” light was not responding to the new sending unit I had rebuilt by Mastermind. I called Mike a few weeks ago and said, “You know, I can’t even see where it’s supposed to say ‘AIR’ on the dash.” Mike told me the location, but try as I might, I really couldn’t make it out. So I looked at David’s for comparison. As you can see in this admittedly blurry photo, David has the Holy Grail of Brougham lights–they all work. Low oil pressure, high temperature, low generator power, and low fuel all come on at startup in David’s car. It looks like Christmas in there!
Look closely–all the lights are on in this startup picture
Look right at about the 60 mph mark and you’ll see a red glow. That says “AIR” on David’s car, which means that the air suspension system needs to pump up to the right pressure before you yank the car in gear and speed off for the country club, martinis with the Rat Pack, or down to the Jitney Jungle.
Maybe just a bulb in my car was blown?
Unfortunately, to change the dash bulbs in a Brougham requires one to be a contortionist. Two hours later, we’d pulled the instrument panel partially out and I found out why my bulb didn’t light. There was no bulb. The socket was covered in masking tape and adhered to the high beam socket wire. No problem, I thought, I’ll just un-tape this sucker, pop in a bulb, and push it into the socket . . . hey, where’s the socket?
The low-air light socket, wrapped in masking tape
To my utter disappointment, there was no socket, no place to insert the bulb. GM had deleted the AIR light in 702. I guess they got tired of all the customers calling that that light was always on, so they fixed the problem by deleting the light. Hmm. Then they wrapped the bulb in masking tape and fixed it to the high beam wire so it wouldn’t rattle. Those rats. Unbelievably, they didn’t even punch out the AIR light on the dash. I felt all around 60 mph back there–not a single indention that would hint of a special AIR light.
Crud. I looked at David’s red and cheerful AIR light with jealousy.
Then I made a vow to put in an AIR light someday when I had the instrument panel totally out of the car. Until then, I guess I’ll have to keep up with my own hot air.
Top 10 Signs of a Seedy Motel
Last night, I decided to stay at the nearby Worst Western. One word: mistake. It broke all of my top 10 rules about hotels, plus gave me some new ones. For instance, you know you’re walking into a seedy motel when:
Each motel door comes with its very own florescent bug light in a charming shade of Nuclear-Fallout-Shelter yellow.
The night clerk greets you with “Hey,” and gives you a creepy once-over as a cigarette dangles from her lips.
There is 4 inches of bulletproof glass between you and that cigarette.
You have to pay for your room before you get a room key.
The tap water in the bathroom comes out looking like pale GatorAid.
You’re excited there’s a chair in the room that you can lodge under the door handle.
Seedy motel security system.
You examine the window in your room with hopes that it’s made out of the same bulletproof glass as the night clerks’s.
The night clerk calls you to tell you that there’s a breakfast bar, “with biscuits and sausage gravy,” the next morning. Note to self: check chair barricade.
There is no soap in the room and all the towels are a bad shade of shag-carpet brown.
The night clerk calls to ask if you want a wake-up call. Add sofa to barricade.
I found myself pining for Monique and her bad directions. Where’s LeBron when you need him?
Thankfully, I didn’t get any visitors that evening and managed to sleep pretty well. And I did try those sausage-gravy biscuits, which weren’t half bad. While there, the night clerk and morning receptionist discussed American Idol,
“That Adam Lambert. I like his haircut.”
“It looks like a girl’s haircut, but I like it.”
“He has pretty green eyes, it looks like”
“They’re supposed to all ten of them be going on tour.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sounded like it was going to be a long, long day at the Best Western.