Deliverance on the Road to Astoria

There was no one home at the farmhouse; I knocked on all the doors.

I had seen a rototiller in the nearby shed, with one-gallon gas cans next to it.

“Anyone here?” I called out again. There was no answer, so I picked up a can and poured the contents into the empty tank of my 1960 Bugeye Sprite.

Solving an old-car problem

A couple of months ago, I recalled the story of my 1958 MGA that threw a rod outside Twin Falls, ID. I was 16 years old.

Now, 51 years later, I once again found myself behind the wheel of a British car that had failed to proceed. There might be a pattern here.

I had set out early in the morning from Portland, looking for a scenic route to the Oregon Coast. Good friend Doug Hartman suggested I take Highway 30 to Scappoose, followed by Oregon 47 to Jewell, and then Highway 22 from Mist to Astoria.

No one mentioned that after Scappoose there were no gas stations for 70 miles. The Smith’s gas gauge in the Sprite offered various alternative realities when it came to the actual contents of the tank.

But with such a small engine — just 1,275 cc — I figured it would be impossible to run out. Surely the Bugeye could run on fumes.

When I felt the first stutter from the engine, I knew exactly what I was in for. I dropped the rpm to 3,000 and kept partial throttle, coaxing that last mile out of the tank.

It ran on fumes, and then ran completely out. Highway 22 was curvy and with no shoulders. There was no cell service.

I was able to coast into the driveway of a house with a sign out front: “Daffodils for sale, $5.” There were no cars in the driveway.

Road-trip flashbacks

Visions of homeowners with cocked shotguns danced through my head as I looked for gas. I could hear the dueling banjos from “Deliverance.”

After I poured the pilfered gallon into the Bugeye, I wrapped a note that said “Thank you” around a $10 bill and left it on their stoop. I decided not to leave my name and phone number. I wasn’t looking to make new friends.

The gas gauge jumped to half-full.

That weekend, I put 400 miles on the Bugeye. It was the farthest I have driven one since I was 16 years old, when I was a high-school senior in San Francisco. My girlfriend at the time was a freshman at UC Santa Barbara, and I drove the Bugeye 325 miles each way to see her.

I lied about my age as we checked into a “No-Tell Motel” for $19.99. As I recall, it was worth the investment.

I don’t remember much else about the trip except for the glorious feeling of being on the road. The tired 948-cc engine burned oil, and the worn-out front shocks meant the front kept bouncing up and down on the highway. First and reverse gear were barely functional due to a chipped cluster gear — one that I had not been able to afford replacing when I had overhauled the transmission.

But I was in a sports car, MY sports car, and I was on a road trip.

Back to the present

A few miles down the road towards Astoria, I came to the Olney Saloon. The waitress there told me about a small fish house on the pier in Astoria, where I had the best fried razor clams ever. If I hadn’t taken the primitive Bugeye instead of our more luxurious 911, I would never have learned about the café — or how quickly I could run from a shed to my car and back carrying a gas can.

The next day it was off to Newport, 133 miles away.

My goal was Sweet Home, OR, where I was going to run the last section of the SCM 30th Anniversary Tour to test the route instructions.

I stopped for a chocolate-chip-cookie-dough Blizzard at the Dairy Queen — and came back to a car with a dead battery.

I’m still not sure what happened, but my guess is that running with the headlights on, the auxiliary cooling fan working, the heater fan going and the cellphones charging may have slowly depleted the battery.

But just as running out of gas didn’t stop me, running out of electricity didn’t halt my expedition, either. I got a push from some very kind strangers, and the Bugeye fired up.

It was 5 p.m. and I was 75 miles from home. Rather than risk being stalled at night on the side of Interstate 5, I decided to head directly to Portland. Perhaps the battery would miraculously heal itself. In any event, it takes very little voltage to keep an engine running if your lights aren’t on. Each mile I got closer to home was one mile less to be towed.

Driving the Bugeye took me back in time. I was the non-autonomous driver, in my non-autonomous car. My imperfect car needed me to set the choke, to double-clutch just right to get into the non-synchro first gear at a stop — and to make sure I turned on the extra cooling fan as the water temperature began to rise.

I was totally engaged, clipping apexes on back roads at 40 mph and squealing my tiny tires just a little. For a moment, I was Moss in the ’56 Mille Miglia and Fangio in the ’55 Argentine GP.

It’s all about the motoring. The Bugeye exists for no other reason. Even when it fails to proceed, it’s creating an adventure.

Still time to nominate a restorer

Do you have a favorite specialist who helps you restore your cars and keep them on the road?

Tell us about them.

Go to www.sportscarmarket.com/restore20. The nomination form is quite short.

We will choose 20 to highlight in our October issue. They can include upholsters, engine builders, panel beaters, painters and more. We are looking for the people (not the shops) that keep our hobby going.

Nominations close July 23. ♦