This whole thing started like many of my adventures, behind the wheel of an Alfa. As my stroke-weakened left leg responds to physical therapy, I have begun to be able to drive a manual-shift car again, though in a limited fashion. I took our 1965 Giulia Spider Veloce around the block a couple of times. I was even able to double-clutch from third to second. As exciting as that is for me, it’s not what this column is about. Thigh master Among my many feelings driving the GSV for the first time since my stroke was the desire for a smaller […]
This whole thing started like many of my adventures, behind the wheel of an Alfa.
As my stroke-weakened left leg responds to physical therapy, I have begun to be able to drive a manual-shift car again, though in a limited fashion. I took our 1965 Giulia Spider Veloce around the block a couple of times. I was even able to double-clutch from third to second.
As exciting as that is for me, it’s not what this column is about.
Thigh master
Among my many feelings driving the GSV for the first time since my stroke was the desire for a smaller steering wheel. My thigh was hitting the stock 15-inch wheel when I pulled my foot off the clutch pedal.
Neighbor and fellow-Alfista Chris Bright mentioned that I was welcome to sit in his Giulia Super Nuova, which was parked in our same condo garage, and practice pushing in the clutch. The next day I took him up on it. I found that operating the clutch in a car with hanging pedals (as opposed to floor-mounted ones) was easier. But I still had some thigh-to-steering-wheel interference.
I did some research and found smaller aftermarket Alfa steering wheels came in both 13- and 14-inch diameters. The search was on.
What a deal
I landed on a parts house in Italy that had a couple of positive mentions in social media, and a decent website. After half an hour of back-and-forth with this vendor, I decided on a 14-inch wheel at the cheap (way too cheap, as it turned out) price of $220, shipped to Portland. This was half what other vendors wanted.
My internal alarm bells should have sounded when the vendor asked that I use the “friends and family” option for PayPal. Having been previously scammed in this way on a rusty Duetto by a stranger who proved anything but a friend, I insisted I would only use “goods and services.”
The vendor agreed, but the first email address I was given was declined, with a note from PayPal that it might be a scam.
Rather than step back and wonder if I was making a mistake, I pinched my nose and plunged headfirst into the ice-cold waters of “too good to be true.”
An email provided for the second transfer worked, and the money was whisked from my account.
No takeoff
Before I could even savor the anticipation of this smaller wheel and all the joyous shifting it would facilitate, an email from the shipping company popped into my inbox. In addition to the details of my purchase was the following:
“The parcel have to take off soon, but our transport service noticed the lack of vital travel papers such as the insurance license. In order for your parcel to be transported and delivered safely to you, we shall need an insurance license…”
Uh oh.
I was offered three options, but none of them involved travel 30 minutes back in time so I could decide against ordering from these con artists. There was “ordinary insurance” for €249.99, “basic risk” for €399.99 and the €699.99 “all risk” plan. That last description seemed like the only honest thing I’d heard from these folks.
I emailed the vendor, and it was clarified that the wheel would not be shipped until I had purchased insurance. Of course, by now even I had caught on, so I replied that I did not want the wheel, that it was still in the vendor’s possession, and asked to simply cancel the order and have my money refunded through PayPal.
My reasonable and logical request was countered by a string of arrogant, insouciant and offensive emails over the next 72 hours, calling me a cheater and a liar and demanding that I go through with the deal.
Burning man
I explained to them than in all my decades of publishing SCM, I had never complained about a transaction publicly to burn someone who had cheated me. They responded by telling me to stuff myself.
I got pissed off. They still had my money, they refused a refund, and they kept at it, sending me messages demanding that I “pay the insurance.” So I decided to act. I outlined the situation in a Facebook post and put it on their homepage.
The vendor was outraged. “You really did it!” they exclaimed. “We will have you blocked from Facebook. You are showing that you are truly a crook. Just pay the insurance and all will be fine.
“And don’t message us again!”
After posting my story to a few Alfa forums, I got bored and got back to the rest of my life.
My next step is to contact PayPal and contest the charge, but I am also tempted to just walk away. I don’t fancy the aggravation of dealing with this any longer. I’d rather get a root canal.
Yes, I realize this vendor’s “business model” is predicated on its “customers” giving up, but I’ve already taken one for the team here. Sometimes you have to stay focused on what’s truly important.
On that note, local guru Bill Gillham has told me he has an adapter for the steering column to allow it to fit Moto-Lita wheels. If you’ve got a 13- or 14-inch Moto-Lita you’d like to sell me, drop me a note at keith.martin@sportscarmarket.com.
Just don’t ask me to pay with PayPal “friends and family.”