Chicago sits just a few hours from Fort Wayne, and the Cadillac ate up the miles like Rosanne Barr at a Chinese buffet. Bucolic farms and barns soon turned to smokestacks and heavy industry. A paper mill puffed great belches of pure stank (“the smell of money!” as any resident near a mill will tell you). U.S. Steel’s giant complex loomed at one point.
Chicago wins the prize for the glitziest tollbooth so far
Traffic began picking up as I neared Chicago, but for the most part, drivers here are far friendlier than in New York. A silver BMW 5 series did come up on my blind spot and linger there for a while. Had I not been a compulsive mirror-checker, I might have creamed the guy with one unfortunate lane change. Luckily, I knew better, so I slowed down to let him pass.
He slowed down, too.
So I sped up a tad, to maybe 55 mph, to give him the shake. He sped up, too. Shoot, this is getting annoying, I thought, the guy is right in my blind spot. Oh well, it had been a good day–why not blow a little carbon out of the old girl? I’ve travelled nearly 4,000 miles thus far and hadn’t goosed the Caddy.
I glanced at the little BWM in my side view mirror. The guy was talking on his cell phone, oblivious. Detroit has had a bad week, so just for the folks back in Michigan I decided to score one for the home team. I planted my foot on the chrome accelerator, driving it firmly into the Brougham’s lush mouton carpeting.
The engine took a giant gulp and let out a sucking sound, the whoosh of all six barrels opening up to swallow a pint or more of gasoline. That noise was immediately followed by a deep bass roar. The Cadillac’s nose went up slightly, the rear dug in and 5,000 pounds of Detroit iron rocketed from 55 mph to about 75 mph in the span of two seconds. Blammmmmm!
One Bimmer down, millions to go.
Chicago’s skyline, slightly crooked because I was doing 60 mph
Chicago glistened in the afternoon light like the Emerald City of Oz. Huge buildings towered over the interstate, and I couldn’t resist taking a few shots from the Skyway.
CLC president Glenn Brown, who is one of the few people that makes your 6’2″ writer feel short
My dinner companion was the president of the Cadillac and LaSalle Club, Glenn Brown, and his lovely wife Valerie. Glenn owns Brougham 342 (if memory serves me), a pale green beauty that shimmers in his garage with much promise of soon being on the road. What a color–I’d call it “seafoam,” but Cadillac didn’t ask me.
Glenn’s gorgeous 1957 Brougham, formerly owned by Bill Buckingham, Sr.
I asked Glenn to drive 702 to dinner, and was happy to relinquish the wheel for a few miles. A seasoned Cadillac driver, Glenn confidently wheeled us around the Oak Park area. Like me, Glenn and Valerie are fans of Frank Lloyd Wright and we oozed past his studio, church, and a few other local homes designed by the famous architect. Their neighborhood is simply an amazing treasure trove of architectural gems.
My first true Chicago pizza
Deep dish or thin crust seems to be a raging debate between Chicago and New York, so we opted to go Windy City and go for a stuffed pizza. Glenn ordered a medium, which I thought sounded a tad small for three people. Uh, no. We couldn’t finish it, despite a Herculean effort on my part. I hoovered three pieces and then gave out (the chili dogs were haunting me).
What a great day–Broughams, pizza, and the camaraderie of car friends.
A Day of Rare Classic Cars
I awoke this morning and went in search of a Starbucks. The rules in my house are: no talking until after I’ve gotten through at least one cup of coffee. Quite reasonable, I think.
Wish I’d packed that Smart Car in the trunk.
At the Starbucks, I parked next to this Smart “car.” It would make a good spare car–in my trunk. If this is the future, I’m going to stay lodged in the past. At least until they make electric cars that don’t look like toaster ovens.
Glenn gave me the name of another Brougham owner in Chicago (there are evidently 25 of these rare cars locally). Ron Schweitzer has owned Brougham 683 for more than 30 years, which means he was a visionary and bought his car when it was simply “used,” before it had the near-mythical status it holds today.
Ron’s gorgeous 1958 Eldorado Brougham
Ron is a Cadillac man, with a garage loaded with everything from an Allante to a 1965 Sixty Special. We had a great time comparing cars (boy, is his whisper quiet) and driving one another’s vehicles. While piloting mine, Ron noticed a grinding noise that I’ve become accustomed to. “What the heck is that?” he asked.
Like mine, Ron’s interior is two tone with white leather.
Original paint straight from Cadillac
Minutes later we had a wheel off, examining front wheel bearings. The front bearings were lacking enough wheel grease, but otherwise fine. The drum made a faint scraping noise, which turned out to be a high spot on one side, which causes it to come in contact with the brake pad at a regular interval as one spins the wheel. That wasn’t the source of my grinding noise, however.
Added a little more grease, but otherwise the wheel checked out okay.
We concluded the rear bearings (which I didn’t replace) are to blame, so I ordered a new set from USA Parts Supply (goodbye $300). I’m hopeful the old ones will make it another 500 miles. Unfortunately, they’re moaning at 30 mph, which is apparently not a good sign . . . .
More rare Broughams
Little did I know, but Chicago turns out to the the Holy Land of rare Cadillacs. Ron casually asked if I’d like to meet Bill Buckingham, Jr., another passionate fan of the wreath and crest. Why sure, I thought, it would be neat to see another Brougham.
Um, try three. Three fabulous, low mileage Broughams, 245, 337, and 356. Great spinning whitewalls, batwing. Each of them is prettier and more perfect than the last. The odometer on 245 currently reads 9,999 miles. No, that’s not a misprint. And the carpet is white, the only known Brougham with blanc moutons. Bill let me drive 337, (approximately 35,000 miles on the clock) which was smooth and powerful. He drove 702, which seemed to have just a tad less power–probably because she’s running off of a center two-barrel as opposed to the ’57 configuration of running primarily off a four barrel. Both cars are on air, and Bill and I had a few dark laughs about the temptation of blowtorches and springs.
Later, we shot a few glamourous bullet-to-bullet pictures and then were off to a fantastic Italian dinner full of tales from the road.
At this point, I’d delayed my departure to Wisconsin. Shoot, how often do you see six Broughams in 24 hours? The cheeseheads could wait. So when Bill asked if I’d like to see his 9,000 mile 1976 convertible or a 1957 Series 75 fire commissioner’s car with the plates “FIRE 1,” I lingered. Aside: only in Chicago would the fire chief get chauffeured to a burning building “Hoke! I smell smoke!”
Bill’s secret garage bears a treasure trove of Cadillacs and related parts, a collection started by his father. What an amazing stash. My jaw kept hitting the floor as Bill showed pulled back the cover on one gorgeous machine after another. Chicago was freezing cold, windy, and raining–but did I care? No way, I was in heaven.
The most wonderful thing about meeting Bill, Ron, Frank, Glenn, and Karl is that it is immediately clear to even the most casual observer that these guys are truly committed friends. Need a lift? I’ll be right there. Break down? Here’s the part you need. Yet it goes way beyond automobiles. I listened to them talk to each other–the relationships spanned not just years and decades–but generations.
The camaraderie of other enthusiasts is the true joy of collecting vintage cars.
The Paperweight Returns
Though I’d seriously considered pushing on to Milwaukee, Prudence (that old shrew) weighed on my mind and I decided to bunk down another night at the Hampton Inn in Chicago. Ron and Karl guided me to the Hampton, where I shut off 702 under the canopy to go inside to check in.
After receiving a room and stowing a few bags, I sauntered out to the Cadillac, looking forward to putting her away and catching you, the reader, up on my excellent motoring adventures of the day. The car immediately started.
Then died.
Hmm. I fired her up again. She croaked. Fire. Croak. Crank. Wheeze. Spark. Fizzle. What the devil? I thought. The automatic start relay had been working beautifully earlier that day, but then began to get temperamental. Sometimes it would automatically start and sometimes I’d have to resort to the pedestrian method of actually turning the key.
Yet now I turned the key and the engine cranked, caught, and died. Was it that blasted fuel pump? With a sigh, I shifted the car into neutral and for the second time on this trip, buried my loafers into the asphalt and HEAVED the ho into a parking spot. She was cattywompus and in a handicapped space, but I was tired, sweaty, and fairly debilitated myself from pushing a 5,000 pound car.
The paperweight strikes back, round 2.
At 4:30, I awoke with a starter on the brain. David King and I had brought the automatic starter back to life, so I reasoned that was the first place to investigate when the sun rose. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so instead I plotted all the ways I could fix my blue paperweight.
Who done it? The automatic starter solenoid?
As dawn broke over Chicago, I busied myself sending out the Merlet Distress Symbol to Brougham experts. At the top of that list was Vic Brincat, who restored Brougham 402. Vic has painstakingly recreated the wiring diagrams for these cars (in color, no less) which you can see on his website. Vic and I pondered a few theories, and then I was out to the car with a test light.
I also called Pat of Racing Carburetors in Sicklerville, NJ and asked him the model number of the fuel pump, anticipating the worst. He gave me the number, yet fortunately, a test light showed the pump had 12 volts. So little by little, I traced the problem forward until I was fairly certain my issue was either a short in the wiring or a bad ignition switch.
Until this morning, I hadn’t experienced the pleasure of lying in a hotel parking lot with a test light, a spare battery, and a dead Cadillac. Yet I tried to be cordial to all the business folk on their way to morning meetings. Many would walk right up to the car, unaware that I was under the damned thing, my Brooks Brothers feet sticking out like the Wicked Witch of the East’s under Dorothy’s house. I’m not a mechanic. I don’t even play one on TV. I’m an English major, who, until 7 years ago, didn’t know a lug nut from a cashew.
But don’t let cap-toed Oxfords fool you. Perfectly mild-mannered businessmen on their way to a meeting in Chicago gave great automotive tips. “Oh, the ignition switch comes out with a paperclip on these cars” or “You might just jump a hotwire to the coil.” Others had numbers of stellar mechanics on speed dial. Everyone asked about Motorpool.com. Even the manager of the Hampton is a car buff, and offered to drive me to the local parts store. Now that’s service.
Fortunately, my new Chicago friends put a siren atop their Fleetwoods and arrived on the at about 11:30. Frank Janecek, a mechanic who makes housecalls, helped me get the bezel off the ignition. Karl York drove us to the parts store in his 1988 Fleetwood Brougham, puffing a giant cigar the whole way (it would be rude not to).
My kind of parts store: stuff lying around from 1962.
Brookfield Auto Supply didn’t have a 1957-1961 Cadillac ignition switch. But they did have a NOS (new old stock) 1962 switch, which looked like it would fit.
The NOS switch, still in its original box!
We took the gamble, motored back to the Hampton, installed the switch in 15 mintues, and voila! The old blue bird fired right to life and kept firing.
The wrong connectors indicated someone’s been here before
The old switch had evidently been fried by too much current and a loose terminal. That caused the whole assembly to get Paris Hilton “HOT” and even heat up the key while it was in the ignition.
Can you spot the old connector?
I started the old Cadillac and as I we said my goodbyes, I really felt I’d miss Chicago.