Captainkirk's Duster project

Rust Never Sleeps

…It’s better to burn out; rust never sleeps…….
Neil Young, Hey Hey, My My

I'’d beaten my friend Dave to the punch; he’'d been working his tail off at the local Ace Hardware to buy a motorcycle. He came running up to me down the halls of Mudville High all full of piss and vinegar to tell me that he was going to the Honda shop that evening to buy a motorcycle; would I like to come along? Of course, being best buds and all, he wanted me to help him out loading it, etc, etc. But part of it (more than a little) was, of course, to rub my nose in it. See, there was this covert, unspoken competition between us each; we were each bound and determined to get a motorcycle before the other one (so we could rub the other’s nose in it, natch, and prove ourselves superior to the other). This is rather on the order of one dog marking a tree in another’s territory. Now, I’'d been busting a gut trying not to tell Dave I had a (slightly bent) motorcycle in the garage already. But I knew that he knew that I didn'’t have enough saved, and I knew that he knew that he did, and was going to try to trump me by getting a bike first, ( he'’d been talking about it for days) so I’'d gone mum the whole week about it, just waiting to blow his Grand Trump…; a trump of a trump, if you will.
It was spectacular; shooting him down in flames! When he told me about getting his bike, with a vicious, cruel gleam in his eye, I told him sure, I’'d go help him. What are buds for? Besides, I needed to order some parts for my bike tonight, anyway.
You’'d think I told him he had polio, or a terminal disease or something, the way his face fell. It was spectacular. Of course, he immediately called me a liar and demanded to know what bike I was talking about. He knew I didn'’t have a bike. How could I, and remain silent? And so the floodgates burst and I spewed forth excitedly everything I'’d been sitting on quietly (and most unbearably) for the last couple of weeks. He promptly reclaimed his place at the top of the heap by reminding me that my bike was not rideable and his was brand new…. Touche’. But I'’d gotten my digs in at least, anyway!

So, I went with him. I must admit, my (slightly bent) 350 didn.’t seem quite as cool next to all those shiny, new bikes, especially in the condition it was in at the present time. Dave was buying a brand-new Honda XL125, red tank with new-style vented fuel cap, upswept black pipe, serrated aluminum enduro pegs, trials-type handlebar crossbrace and semi-knobbies on the wheels, quite an upgrade from the SL125’s we were used to seeing around The Field. Sure, I was green with envy; who wouldn'’t be? But I managed to hide it and stay cool, and found a couple Elsinores (remember them?) to drool over; a 125 and the Mother Of All MX bikes, the Elsinore 250. Tall, silver, slim; I was in love. Oh well, maybe someday!
So Dave got his Honda, we all got to ride it and that really added the fuel to the fire for my winter bike project, which I’'ve all ready covered in avid detail…..which led, of course to the Glorious Summer of Honda...…but we covered that.



Now when we'’d gotten to Uncle Jim'’s, me being all jacked up on coffee and sugar and all, it was pretty late, but we were ravenous. So Uncle Jim went out and bought a box of Church'’s Fried Chicken (which, at the time, I'’d never had before) and we ate until I thought we were gonna puke or pop. Fortunately we did neither. What we did do (well, at least, speaking for myself) was sleep well. Nothing like a half a box of chicken to switch off the lights; despite the sugar/coffee cocktails I’'d had earlier. We all slept in the next morning…, no need to rush this time, as it was a one-way trip. Uncle Jim had a big house with a swimming pool and this huge St. Bernard in the back yard, and a dark metallic blue AMC Matador station wagon in the driveway (presumably to haul this monster-dog around in; Jim had no wife or kids). Jim was a high school teacher; theater his forte, and all the kids just loved him, from all accounts. He was hysterically funny, friendly, with an incredible sense of humor and seemed much younger than the mid-forties he was. He loved Santana and The Beatles, which made him extra cool to the younger nieces and nephews. Jim was a rather large man, who loved to eat as much as he loved life, …and that was a lot. He walked with a very pronounced limp due to a severe accident he’d had in his ’'67 Corvette (see; told you he was cool!) that had left one leg pretty badly mangled. Anyway, back to the Matador: the car was a behemoth, rather like the dog it was chosen to haul around. Full size, big 304 V8 with factory brushed aluminum mag wheels; for a wagon, it looked pretty cool. It fit Jim'’s image and demeanor. Anyway, we bid Uncle Jim goodbye after a huge breakfast of pancakes, sausage, bacon and O.J. and motored on our way, having no clue that, in less than a year, Jim would succumb to a massive heart attack in the parking lot outside his favorite restaurant, following a triumphant celebration after a brilliant rendition of a play his theater class had put on at the high school; with his friends, fellow teachers and students helplessly milling around trying to save him, to no avail. Ahhh, if we only knew some of life'’s dark mysteries. Little did I know that this was the last time I’'d see Jim alive, that I’'d come to own that Matador wagon with the mag wheels, and that I would later christen my firstborn Christopher James after this great guy. Maybe it'’s better that we don'’t know.………

Along with the motorcycles, sophomore year at Mudville High also ushered in new things mechanical; Metal Shop II, in which I learned to use lathes, mills, and do gas and arc welding. After a while, I learned to wear the same old T-shirt under my shirt, so when it came to gas welding, I could doff the regular shirt and have the torch backflashing merrily away, blowing tiny meteors of molten metal onto the same old perforated, holey T-shirt. (we didn'’t have such niceties as flashback arrestors back then; you wore goggles and learned to duck). This way I only ruined one T-shirt at a time, until it was so full of holes it went to the garage for grease rags and I would start on a fresh one. I also took Woods II, where I further learned the mysterious dark secrets and incantations of Power Tools (Watch that; it’'ll take your fingers clean off!). I built a gun rack; it turned out fairly nice, if I do say so myself. Sophomore year also introduced me to Howard (that motor-dropping son-of-a-biscuit maker!) who had a Yamaha DT125 and became one of my best friends through my high school years. I still yearned for auto shop, but you had to be a Junior for that, as I mentioned previously, so I continued my self-educational process on my own.
Dad had bought this car; a ’'68 AMC Javelin with a 290 V8. Now, for those of you who know anything about AMC motors, they are basically all the same; 290 through 401 used the same block; just bigger pie-holes. I knew the 290 was a rather lethargic engine, but I had plans. (This is the way a sixteen year-old thinks; his dad buys a car and HE has plans for it! Go figure.). It was pretty cool; metal-flake blue with buckets and a console shift. I envisioned this car (after I would purchase it from my Dad at some ridiculously low price, of course, like…. free?) with a bored-to-the-max 290, hi-comp pistons, huge roller cam, aluminum hi-rise intake topped off with a big Holley (like a cherry on top!) and a street/strip shift kit in the trans; a true blood-brother to Cousin Steve’'s pink AMX! I did my homework diligently; I researched all the high-perf. info available to me (which at the time, without the use of the not-yet-invented internet, wasn'’t much, frankly) and had all the goodies picked out in my mind'’s eye. This would be a 12-second car; at least- maybe less!

At least, that is, until, my sister Jill (who had just gotten her license), drove it into a farm road ditch and mortally wounded a fence post. We were visiting my aunt downstate and Dad let Jill take it for a spin. The damage wasn'’t that bad; the hood got bent and the grille cracked and the radiator and water pump became kissin'’ cousins; skewered like a cast-iron shish-kabob. Dad got it fixed and runable with a re-cored radiator so we could get it home, but there was still the hood/grille issue. He straightened it out, Bondo'’d and primed it, but it kinda spoiled the looks of the car, which, prior to this, had really been pretty cherry.
So, I’'d been reading my automotive repair books; learning by the day. Dad had to go overseas on a business trip for a month or so, and Jill seized the opportunity to try to right the wrong. She asked me if I could paint the hood if she paid for materials. I was game; I’'d been reading about this kinda stuff. I borrowed a compressor and paint gun from Howard (that motor-droppin'’ son-of-a-gun). Jill bought all the paint and materials. We pulled the hood, sanded and prepped it, and shot it on some plastic sheeting in the driveway one fine afternoon. I followed the instructions to a “T” and consequently used, I believe, too much air pressure at the gun (45psi) so the paint finish came out a bit rough, but I did OK for my first time painting, and with metal flake at that! I took the grille off and glued the broken plastic with 2-part (Holds Two Tons!!!!) epoxy. When it was finished you could barely notice the repairs, even when you knew where to look. When Dad got back, he was surprised to say the least; even a bit moved, I think, that his kids would think to do something like that. I had taken the opportunity to install the optional instrument cluster he’'d bought from a boneyard as well; it replaced the speedo/gas gauge with a sport package cluster with speedo/tach and a much smaller gas gauge. It looked pretty tuff, and now it had a tach so I could really wail on it (after I learned to drive) and I think he was rather pleased.


The trip home gave me plenty of time to think. I figured it was like this; we could wait to get married in the spring, per the original plan, or just jump in, once I’'d found a job. In the end, we just jumped. Surprisingly enough, I found a job on the second week I was back. That was the good news. The bad news was, the job was paying less than the factory job I’'d left over a year earlier to go to school. It also paid less then the last job I had in Tulsa. But I knew I had to pay my dues, and beggars can’t be choosers, so I took it. Right away, I knew this was something I could do for the rest of my career. It had intrigue, romance, and mystique built in. And I happened to be working with several guys who were willing to show me the ropes. I listened, I learned. I also asked a hell of a lot of questions. They say the only stupid question is the one that goes unasked. I won'’t go that far, as some of the questions I asked were stupid whether I asked them or not, but never mind that. Long story short; we got married, found a little apartment, and I went to work each day like a real live working stiff. My job was not quite an hour away; maybe 50 minutes if traffic was decent, and driving to work was a real pleasure when you'’re behind the wheel of The Duke. There was the usual rush-hour congestion in the towns, but there were stretches of highway that were relatively congestion-free where I could open it up if I felt like it. I felt like it a lot. My major budding concern was the salt on the roads. The Illinois D.O.T. must have some kind of a deal worked out with the new car dealers; We'’ll dump tons upon tons of salt on the roads so that any new car will be utterly destroyed within a ten year period, if you'’ll give us a kickback for every new car you sell. Rarely does a car last ten years in the Chicago area without showing major rust damage. I was determined to keep my Okie car as rust-free as possible. Okies don’t use salt; ……they believe salt belongs on pork or on the kitchen table. (I concur…. People around here oughta learn how to freakin'’ drive instead of crying for the Bad White Stuff to go away. People who can'’t drive in snow shouldn'’t). Once a week it was down to the car wash. On days when there was snow, slush or salt on the roads, I tried to drive my wife'’s car as often as possible. I knew the winters would take a toll on my Duster, so I began to plan ahead. Step One would be to prime and undercoat the car over the summer …like the Red Rocket. Step Two would be to repair the tiny rust areas (!!!) that were beginning to show around the taillights. As luck would have it, we found a house for rent 3 miles from the airport at which I worked, which would spare me the salt and highway miles (though I’'d miss my morning romps) with a 2-car garage, no less! Things were falling into place!
The next unexpected (and unwanted) surprise was Uncle Jim'’s untimely death. Dad went to the estate sale (it was his little brother, after all) and wound up with a bunch of furniture and stuff and the Matador wagon, which he gave to us. I promptly pulled the Duster into one side of that two car garage and parked it for the duration of the winter and began working on the rust around the taillights…. To hell with Step One! The car was running fine; no need to mess with the motor. I’'d decided to prep and prime The Duke over the summer and shoot it a candy apple red with white stripes, ever since I'’d seen this gorgeous Camaro on Peoria Street one time…. It had remained stuck in my memory like a chicken bone lodged in my throat. Over the summer, I began the bodywork in earnest. There were several areas where the paint was bubbling with rust underneath. I attacked these with a vengeance and soon had all the trouble areas taken care of. I had to patch a couple of quarter-sized rust holes around the taillights…. Rust Never Sleeps in the Land Of Lincoln…, but I’'d caught it in time and made short work of it. I spent the early part of summer pulling the front fenders off, priming and undercoating them, and reinstalling them.(Fun with Shims And Washers!) I also undercoated the problem areas forward of the doors (where salt likes to hitch-hike and hang out). I planned on taking my weeks’ vacation and shooting the car in August.