The End of the Escort

“Ha ha, wow. That's awesome,” my son Cam laughed when I told him about how my car met her death at the hands of the Crusher. “At least she had an adventurous last day.”

My ’95 Ford Escort had been living on its last legs for most of the year-and-a-half that I owned it. When I bought it the rear struts were nearly gone and they gave up the ghost soon after. The tie rod ends – especially on the driver’s side – were toast a few months later, causing a great deal of concern with my tire guy, who I saw far too often.

“This is about to go,” he would say worriedly, as he wrenched on the wheel and shook it from side to side. “You really need to do something about this.”

I’ll get right on that, I would mumble, knowing full well I would do no such thing. I did add it to the list of Things That Need To Be Fixed on my car, however.

It was a long list. In addition to the struts and tie rod ends, the rest of the suspension was done in, making for a truly epic rough ride. I got used to it and got pretty skilled on avoiding big bumps, but my passengers always seemed ... a little nervous whenever they rode in my car. I also had a small oil leak – nothing major – and my radiator leaked as well, prompting my landlord to lay a car mat down on the driveway for me to park on.

It didn’t bother me much, but I know ol’ Bessie didn’t appreciate the gesture. Like wearing Depends, you know?

I put up with grinding brakes for a while as well, before the noise drove me to finally fix the front set, though a seized calliper on the passenger side (the pads were fine on that side, damnit!) meant we just did a three-quarter job.

Whatever.

For an $800 outlay I wasn’t going to stress myself out. I got 18 months out of that investment, so I considered myself lucky.

But all good things must come to an end, and deathtraps on wheels must as well. And so it was last week on Highway 2 in Ajax – not five minutes after I left work – when I lost all power and had to get it towed to my guy to assess the damage.

No compression, said Jerry. Timing belt, probably. Could be heads as well.

The bottom line is it would cost me a couple hundred dollars just to confirm that it would cost me at least a thousand bucks – probably much more – to fix it.

Not going to happen.

So the scrapper and a date with the crusher it is. The fact that Jerry only offered me the $90 I owed him for the car made that decision an easy one.

I arranged with a couple of buddies to help me get the car to the scrap yard – saves a ton of money that way – but when we arrived at Jerry’s shop on Wentworth Street we realized I may be able to get Bessie to the scrapper without a tow. Close, anyway. Worth a shot, says pal Steve.

I climbed in the driver’s seat (for the last time) and – when the way was clear on busy Wentworth – Steve and Adrian gave me a push and away I went.

It was 80 metres or so downhill to Nelson Street and I coasted there easy enough before turning right. Nelson was pretty flat but I had enough momentum to just make the crest in the middle of the 100 metre stretch to Waterloo before the stop sign loomed. A quick glance to my right and with no dangers (like oncoming cars - it was not a four-way) to contend with I was through the stop sign and turning left, down the slope towards the Gerdau Ameristeel Metals Recycling yard.

Now I’m picking up speed, and it’s about 150 metres to go, with Steve standing outside his pal’s truck, urging me to turn left into the scrap yard.

So I did. And I rolled right onto the damn scales. Just like I knew what I was doing.

Awesome!

With scrap prices at 8.5 cents a pound I wasn’t going to get rich selling Bessie to the crusher, but 2,800 pounds - minus 160 pounds to compensate for my sorry ass behind the wheel (don’t roll your eyes – I got the paper that says 160) – is still a lot of ’95 Ford Escort. That’s $224.50, to be exact, which is a damn sight better than the $90 Jerry offered me. Jeez, Jerry.

I’m picking up my next car today. A 2000 Chrysler Intrepid with 212,000 clicks on it for the bargain price of $800. (What else.) I`ve owned two Intrepids in the past and both experiences ended spectacularly bad, so I might be pushing my luck on this one.

At least I know I`ll have a few adventurous days with this car as well.

*

I remember, shortly before I bought my Escort, telling a former co-worker a few tales of woe about my lack of success with the ladies. Don`t you worry `bout that, Pizza Dude, said Pat. ``I’ll buy you an escort. ``

You still owe me $800, Pat.