Busted Tie Rod

See that car? I loved that car, and still do. I may have loved other cars that I have owned more, but I don't hold title to those cars anymore, I happen to still own this one. I don't drive it and it doesn't even start, but I still have it tucked in the back of my garage sleeping under several blankets.


It is a rare 1992 Chevrolet Caprice Classic LTZ. The LTZ specified that it had beefed up suspension and interior amenities that ordinary Caprice's did not have. This car was the first car purchased all on my own, no borrowing money, no co-signing and I didn't even need a ride to the car dealer to pick it up. I saw it in the dealer's used car lot, changed into my big boy pants and took if for a test drive even though I knew I would buy it regardless.


It was 1996 and I had a job working for Hewlett-Packard as an on-sight computer field technician. My job required me to drive over a thousand miles a week and my ride at the time, a maroon 1986 Caprice Classic, was not up to the task. I was not proud of my 86' Caprice, it was purchased a couple of years earlier out of desperation. Don't misunderstand, I liked the car, but it was purchased via a loan from my future mother in-law during a time when I wasn't quite sure what the fuck I was doing with my life and all other automobile prospects had evaporated. Up until I saw my 92' Caprice on the dealer lot, I had always relied on the generosity of friends and family when it came to my automobiles. I somehow found myself happily or unhappily falling into ownership of these cars and never fully appreciated them and for the most part I had abused, neglected and taken them for granted.

The very day I traded her in.

My life was changing, taking direction, and evolving in a way that outpaced my 86' Caprice. It ran well, but while on a service call the rear end had been bashed in by an uninsured driver and my no-fault would not cover such a massive repair. Without trunk space, my new job would not work out as I needed the secure space for boxes of printer parts and my tools. The last straw came as I was taking a late night trip to the Leland City Club. While in the left lane, I quickly came upon a fallen construction sign. Traffic made swerving into the neighboring lane to avoid the sign an impossibility. Swerving as much as possible, I nicked a corner. I felt the hit, it was not that bad. But then came the driving on ice feeling and the all too familiar 'thump thump thump' that began to emanate from the driver's front tire. SHIT...

I made the Michigan Ave. exit, put on my flashers and started to do the dance. The spare was not a full spare, it was one of those little crappy doughnut spares. The car had a goddam full sized trunk that would fit at least three dead hookers, why GM chose a space saving doughnut spare is beyond me. I blame myself for not swapping the spare out months before. But, hindsight is 20/20.

The flat had what looked like a perfect triangle of meat taken out of its side wall and the spare went on quickly. So quickly that I had time to ponder what to do with the rest of my late night. It quickly flashed into my mind that I should return home, wash the hairspray out of my six inch pompadour and turn in for the night. But just as quickly, the idea that my car is whole, the night is young and Pep Boys will be open in the morning entertained me like a drunken prom date. When life gives you a drunken prom date, you have to take it; rules to live by indeed.

OK, open confession. I have never had the pleasure of entertaining a drunk prom date. All of my prom dates were, if anything, very vanilla. Regardless of prom night entertainment, I finished my work by throwing the flat into the back seat of the Caprice and re-entered the freeway towards an evening's night of fun. Fixing any problems could wait till late morning or more likely early mid-afternoon. Driving carefully and at the posted speed limit I did my best to avoid the many potholes and arrived in a timely manner at my destination. I even saw an epic curbside spot available, almost waiting for me. The usual empty lot half a block away called to me, but you can't pass up a front row seat, so I moved my car right in to the parking spot. There was ample space, no backing up and making love to the steering wheel, I could drive right into the space. So I did just that. And then it happened. I nicked the curb with my doughnut spare. There was no rubber bump, it was a metallic scrape that equated to the possibility of a bent rim. Knowing that the night was not going well and believing it could only get better, I parked, pocketed the keys, observed the fresh scrape on the rim of the spare but did not hear any hiss of air. The tire felt plump and solid, it would appear that a second bullet had been dodged and I headed for the bar.

The Leland City Club was one of those bars that stopped serving at 2 but was open till 4 a.m. At a time when my life was heading in directions that I felt I had no control over, the City Club was a point of unchanging singularity. It was my lodestone. As much as I could, I enjoyed myself . The prior events of the evening were washed away by a team of cold Rolling Rocks and I was ready to leave by 3 a.m. (only hardcore desperate people stayed till 4). Besides, the cool summer air felt good on my face and I had a good job and made good money. Life at this point was pretty good. I was hammered, but if I could make it to the freeway, I would be home free and place this weekend night behind me. Then my car came to view. I could immediately see the tilt. It was as if it was sinking. SHIT....

Three in the morning, center of Detroit, no cell phone, no one to call and no spare. SHIT. Think dammit, think. The only thought was that GM was the leading seller of automobiles in Detroit and that the wheels on my Caprice were pretty common. With the thousands of abandoned vehicles in Detroit, the odds of finding one with wheels that fit mine had to be pretty good. So the open road called and I sure as hell wasn't going to walk. The flat would have to carry me on my journey of adventure. Southwest Detroit is a pretty rough area with a plethora of abandoned industrial areas, just the kind of areas that if I were a thief I would abandon a stolen car. 3 a.m. became 4 a.m and the Rolling Rocks I had imbibed were slowly releasing their suffocating grasp on my sobriety. Although I figured I was still drunk because it never occurred to me at the time that I could have probably made it home in the time it was taking driving the darkened streets of Delray looking for abandoned cars. My guess is that after a couple hours, it became a conquest. I felt that I needed to succeed or never return home (something I had tried several times in my past).

You know that part of the night when you start to hear the birds singing and the sky starts to turn funky colors in anticipation for the sun to rise? That is when I passed a junk yard slash scrap metal recycling center. My adventure was looking up as junk yards were notorious for having cars dropped off outside their locked and angry canine guarded chain link fences. A mid eighties Buick would have to do. Park, wait 5 minutes to see if anyone is around, get out and get started. The light from the street lamps illuminated a set of locked wire rim spokes adorning the Buick's wheel covers. Two of its four tires were flat but two were golden. I just had to work a bit to get the wheel covers off to gain access to the lug nuts. I now know why they make locks for chrome wheel covers. These babies were not coming off with the limited tools I had available. A new plan had to be hatched. What were the odds that this Buick had a plump spare waiting in its trunk? A trunk that could easily be popped with crow bar and a few ounces of sweat. The locked trunk surrendered faster than I thought and inside was a plump little doughnut spare....for the win. The pit crews at Indianapolis would be envious at the speed I swapped spares. The night was coming to an end and my journey home could begin. Home and sleep came quickly and around noon I asked if my roommate could drop me off at Pep Boys to buy two new tires. I was going to replace that fucking doughnut spare with a real steel rimmed tire. Hindsight was beginning to become forethought. That next week, while on a service call in Utica,  I traded the vehicle of my misadventure in, purchased my future love and my life changed. It changed for the better. My two toned Caprice LTZ still stands as a reminder that life can be pretty good, that's why my LTZ stays with me in my garage.