Freewheeling Blog: "This Car is Trying to Kill Me" - The Legend of Air Force Two

A grayish mix of smoke and steam rose into the dark Texas sky above the Dallas North Tollway. It looked like defeat to me. Air Force Two was up to old tricks again as I waited for a tow truck on a very thin shoulder of a very busy highway.

In last month's Freewheeling Blog, I shared the story of my clunker car, Air Force One, my memorable transportation during my high school and college years. Its successor, Air Force Two, only lasted the first year of my professional career until I could afford a brand new car. Good thing, because I was pretty convinced Air Force Two might be trying to kill me.

Air Force Two was a Ford Torino purchased in a Texas Department of Public Safety auction. I would love to say it came from the souped-up patrol fleet, but it was just a staff car with the stenciled "Texas Department of Public Safety" painted over on the driver's door. During the day, you couldn't see the text underneath, but when a headlight shined on it at night, the words would pop through the paint. This led to some fun travels on I-35 south toward Austin (a frequent trip of mine), as cars would start to zoom past me, see the words, smash the brakes, and line up behind me, assuming I was a patrol car without overhead lights. Driving 55 miles per hour, the speed limit in those days, was never more fun. Heh heh.

That was about the only fun I had with Air Force Two. That summer after college was 1980, when the Dallas area suffered 42 consecutive 100 degree days (and 69 overall), Air Force Two's cooling system was challenged. I would be driving, and suddenly but not always, the engine temperature would skyrocket. To avert issues, I would flip from AC to heat and blow hot air full force into the passenger compartment. Yep, driving with the windows down and a furnace blowing at my sweaty legs was the utmost in enjoying triple digit temperatures.

The cooling system issues came to a head when my girlfriend (yes, the same one who would run alongside Air Force One and leap in because it died at under 15 miles per hour) was visiting along with a couple of friends. After attending an event in downtown Dallas, I noticed the temperature gauge was maxed red, and I had only just started the car. After my auto safety club tow driver evaluated it, he claimed he could not tow the car if it started - which it did. I was quite mad but had no alternative but to limp it home.

We only made three miles on the Tollway before the water pump blew, spewing smoke and steam into the night air. That tow driver was lucky a second driver (pictured) came to drag my car homeward. My girlfriend still considered it an upgrade from Air Force One.

Let's see, the car tried to cook me and almost got me rear-ended on a busy turnpike. What else did it do to try to kill me? Oh, yes, the gas tank.

I discovered the gas tank was nicked and was puddling gas under the car. My dad advised me to use putty to seal it. Straddled under the car, I pressed the putty into the gash, but the gas squirted with precision into my eye and my just-acquired contact lenses. I scrambled to my second floor apartment and spent about 30 minutes flushing it before I returned to complete the task.

But the putty wasn't a great solution. There was still a little drip.

Now, picture the 1980s, when it seemed like a majority of the population smoked. I would be driving along the street or highway when the driver in front of me would casually toss a lit cigarette out of the car. Afraid my car would go BOOM, I would swerve all over the place and almost cause accidents while dodging the cigarette's spark.

To this day, I have to fight my instinct to swerve to avoid cigarettes.

I was fortunate to be making a lot of money at my first job. After a year, I was able to trade in Air Force Two for my next adventure, the Maroonmobile, a Mercury Capri knockoff of the Mustang but without the same acceleration. Notably, I intentionally bought a Capri with a manual transmission, although I didn't know how to drive a manual. I learned driving it off the lot. Yes, I was indeed born to be wild in my own way. My best friend followed me and counted 42 times that I killed it at traffic lights on the way home.

I was a man who knew every trick to keep a lousy car moving. Learning to drive a manual on the fly? No problem.