Some years later I tripped on an inconveniently placed rock and fell on the motor, finding the piston's exit wound with my 8-year-old arm. My mother managed, despite traffic, to get her Volare wagon cruising at 75 en route to the hospital, while my father held the gaping tear closed with his hand. (24 stitches)
The first Dart I ever drove was a '67 GT owned by a family friend. While it was definitely cool and had a V8, the "relaxed" power steering and brakes were a little unnerving at 15. Later, I became used to these Mopar traits. His mother had a '70 Custom. It was a 4-door, slant 6, AM-mono granny car. It was an interesting shade of green--all Mopar fans are familiar with that "Metallic Puke" light green, but this one was a darker shade... "Forest Puke"? The bench seat interior was typical baby-you-know-what brown.
After mooning over her for 5 years, $500 got me an senior-owned former Florida car with under 70k--talk about your Dart folklore, huh? I was 17. She was 24. After the elimination of some carbon, she traveled with me for the next 3 years. The biggest problem was a blown heater core. My mechanical advisor said it wasn't worth the time and effort, so I scraped frost off BOTH sides of the windshield for three winters. I had to avoid touching the horn ring, too. (ouch)
The first time I drove her to school (in freezing rain), I climbed onto a stone wall. The local sheriff came down and pulled her off with his truck. Other than a lecture from my mom and the look of wry amusement on the cop's face, no problem. Weeks later I slid on a patch of ice in the school lot, right into a Blazer. One of the crappy little ones. It was pretty well totalled. Other than stratospheric insurance bills (and another lecture), my total cost was about $7--$5 headlight, $2 blinker bulb.
One day during the February thaw, a friend and I were looking for a place to smoke. "Turn down here, man, I know a spot," he said, pointing at a seasonally-maintained dirt road. This was not the season. So I turned, butting through a snowbank. After fording a couple of small creeks, we pulled into a driveway that wouldn't be used again till June. And we smoked. A lot. Enough so instead of leaving, we decided to continue down the camp road. I crested a small hill and started down the other side. The gravel at the bottom turned out to be a crunchy topping on a nice thick mud pudding. 35 to zero in ten feet!
We walked out of the woods to a friend's house a couple miles away. He insisted on attempting a rescue with his (no kidding) Ford Escort. Realising from our discussion his rustiness on the rules of physics, I gave up my protests and prepared to find something funny in all this. He tied the vehicles together. He might as well have tried to pull a tree, of course, and his little crapmobile almost disappeared in the mud. Later, his old man pulled us both out with his Jeep. The Dodge drove us out of the woods and I washed the guys Jeep as payment.
Thanks again for the tow! See ya later! ...My beloved wouldn't start. I got my cables outta the trunk and locked my keys in it. (I was glad to read here that I'm not the only one.) She was towed to my second cousin's house, another Mopar guy. His Plum Crazy '70 Swinger 340 was a different kind of animal from my faithful bomber! Later, my tail lenses and other knickknacks were donated to his cause. Anyway, the battery wasn't the problem. An exhaust manifold doused in icy water and cracked in half was. $250 later I was a little wiser.
My second Dart was a $100 '73 Custom I bought for parts.She was goldish yellow with a black vinyl top. The body was rough, essentially nonexistent behind the back wheels. But the black interior was nice and it had a strong 225. She was named "Eye." Don't ask me--I came out one day to find my car had been "tagged" by some miscreant with a Sharpie. Fifteen minutes after I made the deal, though, I was nervous. The temp gauge, which had never moved in my '70, was climbing fast. I remembered the seller's cheerfully ominous advice to carry water because she "ran a little warm." In another 15 minutes, as I neared my destination, it appeared terminal, although she never complained. It turned out the previous owner had not replaced the faulty thermostat. And apparently didn't have any cardboard to wedge in front of the radiator. They used a square of foam pad. Really. Add a little engine heat, and it sealed the radiator tight. My green lady, who was barnridden due to an acute case of blown gaskets, temporarily became a parts car for my parts car.
Later, Eye served my girlfriend during a license test. At this time, it was having starter and alternator problems. It also had sticky-throttle syndrome, so I was a little nervous. I left her with the keys and went in to wait. She came in 5 minutes later.
"It won't start," she said. I figured she was sunk and followed her outside.
"Tell ya what," the instructor said, "I'm gonna have a smoke around the corner. If this thing is running when I get back, I won't ask." So I popped the hood and did the double-screwdriver trick--one across the solenoid, one down the carb. Eye (last name: Sore, according to one wag) started with little fuss and performed like a princess for my girlfriend's test. It was the last time they got along.
A couple months later, my girlfriend and her best friend had the car for the evening when it stalled on some RR tracks at the top of a hill. Unable to start it, and finding the Dodge's trim ton and a half daunting, they both got out to push. Once it was off the tracks, physical laws again took over and the car went solo down the hill. The Dart didn't like her, but I guess it liked me OK--only feet before it would've smashed a parked car, it swerved into a phonepole instead, sacrificing a fender for the greater good.
Eye Sore eventually blew her tranny seal, and donated the 225 and other parts to the resurrection of the 1970. Unfortunately, only weeks after the transplant, I let my girlfriend drive on a trip to her mother's. The sun was intense and low in the sky. Crossing an intersection, she hesitated (something about the Darts always intimidated her, I think; her parents were -snicker- Toyota people) and we got T-boned by a tiny something that looked like a Nissan. It was not a Nissan, it was some kind of $60k British "sports car." It was so small that its front bumper folded my hubcap in half! Aside from the damage to the rear quarter--it got folded behind the tire somehow--the unibody was bent to hell, and I was forced to give her up. My girlfriend's driving was on a growing list of our relationship problems, so I became single shortly after.
It took a few months to get over the girl, but ten years later I still treasure all the good times my Darts and I shared.