Factors were going wonderful . . . till a tire blew, an oil pump failed, a tree fell on the auto, and I was hit by a runaway Ferrari.
If you haven’t driven an antique vehicle to the Monterey weekend, you’ve missed half the fun of going. Parking rules look to unwind as valets stand aside for vintage automobiles. The cops normally just give you a wave. You can park on lawns and sidewalks and drip oil onto Venetian tile and no one will yell at you. Thousands of people you’ve by no means met will see your automobile and feel its owner is cool, even if at that extremely moment you are someplace else dribbling shrimp cocktail down a silk shirt.
The last time I drove my 1970 Lamborghini Espada to Monterey, I had to replace all 6 Weber carburetors on the lawn at the Concorso Italiano. After I got house, I had to pull out the engine and rebuild it. I also rebuilt the suspension and brakes and replaced the radiator and rewired the cooling fans and replaced the exhaust system. I rebuilt some other stuff, as well, that I can’t even bear in mind the particulars of now.
3 years later, the green Espada was prepared to return. A group of 3 Espadas and a single 1967 400GT were to join me in a huge, merry, 60-cylinder convoy. 4 automobiles met on Wednesday morning, which was lost to a final-minute job replacing the 2 power brake boosters on my car, which were leaking hydraulic fluid profusely. Luckily, my pal Bob Huber, a fellow Espada owner who rebuilt his blue Series III Espada from a full wreck, had a spare pair. The only problem, he said, was that they didn’t work extremely effectively. And as soon as the brakes have been applied, at times they didn’t release. But otherwise, they had been fantastic. And they didn’t leak, so in they went.
We departed Los Angeles in standard L.A. targeted traffic about 2:00 pm on Wednesday, headed north. Things had been going swimmingly and we created a fabulous sight, buzzing the left lane as 4 spaceships from Planet Awesome. Then, just north of the seaside city of Oxnard, it all started to fall apart. Very first, the white Espada S1 of Mike Trivich blew a tire. The group got broken up in visitors trying to circle back in answer to his distress call. As we assisted Mike (he lucked out and was capable to get a replacement tube and tire in an hour), Jack Riddell in his 260,000-mile-plus 400GT called. It was both overheating and spewing oil.
(Final year, you need to know, Jack rebuilt the engine right after it dropped a valve seat and blew a fist-sized hole in the cylinder head and piston. He has owned the automobile since 1972 and driven it to the Pebble Beach weekend 34 instances.)
We mustered our 3 Espadas and drove up the road to meet Jack, who had landed in a gas station parking lot near Santa Barbara. It looked as if the Exxon Valdez had run aground in his parking space. Right after an hour of diagnosis, it was determined that the oil-pump pulley seal had failed catastrophically, and there was no way to continue on. 4 hours later, the tow truck dropped the automobile nearby at a friend’s house, Jack and his gear piled into one particular of the spacious, wagonlike Espadas (which is THE Italian exotic to have in such situations), and we continued on in the encroaching darkness. At our Pismo Beach layover, we realized it had taken 9 hours to cover about 200 miles.
The subsequent morning we arose and the (now-4) Espadas continued on with out difficulty. I was proud of the green gal. The rebuilt V-12 ran strong and flawlessly and—except for a noisy, poor bearing in the transmission—was each and every bit the smooth, comfy touring automobile that in 1970 price the equivalent of 4 Corvettes.
Then we got to Monterey. If you can picture Beijing traffic, but with Benzes, Bentleys, and Bugattis, you have Monterey during Pebble Beach weekend. Even though we waited in a line of vehicles on a narrow side street in Carmel, exactly where I’m fairly positive 18-wheelers are banned from narrow side streets by about 17 laws, such a massive rig suddenly appeared, going about 50 mph. It sheared off the reduced third of the canopy of the tree directly overhanging my vehicle, and all of a sudden my poor Espada was in a monsoon of pine cones, moss, twigs, and numerous massive branches, which crashed onto the roof and hood and poured via my open windows.
In my rage and misery, I yelled out of the window, “Thanks, you (delete) (delete) (delete) hole (delete) (delete) (oh, boy, delete) you mother (delete)!” It took 10 minutes to clean off the car and survey the damage, which, thankfully, was restricted to a couple of new scratches in the original Verde Pallido paint.
Later, following I parked my Espada at the hotel, a silver Ferrari 575M parked straight across from me. How good, I believed. I’ve often liked the 575, drove 1 when they have been new. Quick and comfortable, it was type of a 2-seat Espada. When I came out later, the 575 had rolled down the incline into my car, at which point I realized that the 575M is a miserable steaming pile owned exclusively by douchebags who do not use their parking brakes. The harm was a mark on my irreplaceable stainless-steel bumper, which is now also slightly bent. I took a image of the scene and the license plate, stuck a big rock beneath the Fazz’s tire, rolled the Espada back so its transmission and rather weak parking brake wasn’t also holding back 2 tons of Maranello scrap steel, and left a tersely worded note asking the owner to please be a stand-up guy and contact me.
I’m still waiting . . .
Perilous Journey: Taking the Lambo Caravan to Pebble Beach
