A tribute
I have officially parted ways with the Oldsmobile. for those of you who have not had the pleasure of knowing this beautiful beast, let me explain:
I got the car, a 1986 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with a 3.8 liter V6 engine, the summer of 2006. Getting it back home was an adventure in itself. My grandmother, as she was (and still is) not an incredibly safe person to have behind the wheel, granted me the opportunity to take this set of wheels. Grandma lives in Marquette, and at the time, I was about 5 hours away. I hitched a ride up with a former teacher, spent the night with Grandma, and left the next day.
There was about a quart and a half (about third of what was required) of oil in the machine, the coolant was low, the tires were underinflated and there was little gas left in the tank. Upon remedying this situation at the local gas station, I began my trip from Marquette to beautiful Manton, Michigan.
I was comfortable. It was warm, I drove with the windows cracked and the radio up. The crushed red velvet seats were beautiful and cozy. Upon stopping just north of the great Mackinac Bridge, I fueled myself with sunflower seeds, water, and a monster. This is when I noticed the lack of cup holders. This baffled me as Oldsmobile, who included power seats, power windows, power locks, air conditioning and a tape deck in a car built in 1986, failed to see the need for people to store their methods of hydration.
Upon arriving in Manton, I gave the flat-black beauty a tune up. After changing all the spark plugs (and cutting my hands quite a bit in the process), flushing the radiator, changing the oil and filter, and changing the air filter, it was a new machine.
Aside from a few quick fixes (a stuck thermostat that cost me seven dollars and 20 minutes in the sub-zero winds of Kalkaska, a loose connection that left Daniel stranded on Lake Lansing Road, the occasional stalling that always seemed to be a problem for everyone but me, and a blown power steering line) the car was a beauty for 2 years.
Things started to get dicy in late 2008. The power steering pump found itself a new way to leak fluid, and a constant supply was kept in the trunk. Finally, in early 2009, things got shaky. Really shaky. Idling became an issue for the Olds. It felt like the engine was surging to leap through the hood of the car. I limped the car into my favorite repair shop. While I waited across the street enjoying a Heartland Scramble at Denny's, the mechanic ran some diagnostics. He called me forty minutes later with the news. The diagnostics, he said, would be free. The car, he also noted, would probably need to head to that big scrapyard in the sky. He said I could pour a few hundred dollars in it to know for sure that the engine was shot (compression, cam, and lifters on top of the power steering and engine mounts that I already knew about) or look for a new car.
That said, If you have ever experienced the Oldsmobile--commented on the red velvet, noted how it was "murdered out" because of the lack of clear coat, jumped when the brake light chimed and turned on, piled in the back, flew over the hills of Camp Daggett road, pushed it into or out of the garage with me, pooped on it and filled it with newspaper (John Paul and Cullen), or merely saw it and laughed--rest easy knowing that when I traded it in at the dealer, the salesman laughed at it as well.
I got the car, a 1986 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with a 3.8 liter V6 engine, the summer of 2006. Getting it back home was an adventure in itself. My grandmother, as she was (and still is) not an incredibly safe person to have behind the wheel, granted me the opportunity to take this set of wheels. Grandma lives in Marquette, and at the time, I was about 5 hours away. I hitched a ride up with a former teacher, spent the night with Grandma, and left the next day.
There was about a quart and a half (about third of what was required) of oil in the machine, the coolant was low, the tires were underinflated and there was little gas left in the tank. Upon remedying this situation at the local gas station, I began my trip from Marquette to beautiful Manton, Michigan.
I was comfortable. It was warm, I drove with the windows cracked and the radio up. The crushed red velvet seats were beautiful and cozy. Upon stopping just north of the great Mackinac Bridge, I fueled myself with sunflower seeds, water, and a monster. This is when I noticed the lack of cup holders. This baffled me as Oldsmobile, who included power seats, power windows, power locks, air conditioning and a tape deck in a car built in 1986, failed to see the need for people to store their methods of hydration.
Upon arriving in Manton, I gave the flat-black beauty a tune up. After changing all the spark plugs (and cutting my hands quite a bit in the process), flushing the radiator, changing the oil and filter, and changing the air filter, it was a new machine.
Aside from a few quick fixes (a stuck thermostat that cost me seven dollars and 20 minutes in the sub-zero winds of Kalkaska, a loose connection that left Daniel stranded on Lake Lansing Road, the occasional stalling that always seemed to be a problem for everyone but me, and a blown power steering line) the car was a beauty for 2 years.
Things started to get dicy in late 2008. The power steering pump found itself a new way to leak fluid, and a constant supply was kept in the trunk. Finally, in early 2009, things got shaky. Really shaky. Idling became an issue for the Olds. It felt like the engine was surging to leap through the hood of the car. I limped the car into my favorite repair shop. While I waited across the street enjoying a Heartland Scramble at Denny's, the mechanic ran some diagnostics. He called me forty minutes later with the news. The diagnostics, he said, would be free. The car, he also noted, would probably need to head to that big scrapyard in the sky. He said I could pour a few hundred dollars in it to know for sure that the engine was shot (compression, cam, and lifters on top of the power steering and engine mounts that I already knew about) or look for a new car.
That said, If you have ever experienced the Oldsmobile--commented on the red velvet, noted how it was "murdered out" because of the lack of clear coat, jumped when the brake light chimed and turned on, piled in the back, flew over the hills of Camp Daggett road, pushed it into or out of the garage with me, pooped on it and filled it with newspaper (John Paul and Cullen), or merely saw it and laughed--rest easy knowing that when I traded it in at the dealer, the salesman laughed at it as well.