“Thou shalt not covet,” says Moses in Exodus. But probably more American men have coveted someone else’s Corvette than numbers close to the commandment’s original intent.
Jealousy, envy, and a host of other deadly sins multiply if the ‘Vette is labeled “Yenko,” and even more so if it only has 427 cubic inches and triple carburetors.
So it seemed only logical that my nephew would be rewarded for nearly 18 years of schooling and a new assignment as a professor of plastics technology at a major university. His incredible choice was a new yellow 1969 land missile on wheels.
When my nephew, seven years my youngest and as a younger brother informed me, a “car guy”, who was going to buy a Corvette, I felt very proud.
But when it rolled into my garage driveway with its asphalt-melting cannon-sized exhaust and concrete-joint-shaking vibration, I thought maybe it had over-anticipated its needs for “work car”.
Making frequent trips between Dickerson Run and Trenton NJ might have worked out well when the highway rates were tolerable. But even at high test prices then, the operating cost lent itself better to a drag racing conglomerate than to a young teacher’s salary.
To be fair, the mustard-colored coupe did attract attention. In fact, it caught the attention of every trooper on the highway, from every trip. But the car was impressive and fully loaded with removable roof panels, black leather interior, modified suspension and racing gauges.
There were some minor mechanical issues, such as oil pressure. I had none.
In my 60+ years of automotive experience, I’ve only witnessed a couple of automotive conundrums. One was a 1957 Ford that no one could start. I had everything I needed to get started. No. Ford trained technicians attempted to diagnose the problem, but the engine never started.
The other conundrum was my nephew’s Corvette. When the engine warmed up, the oil pressure reading was zero. Several trips back to the dealership yielded only temporary results. GM Training Center in Monroeville installed a high efficiency oil pump. No oil pressure. While the car was running fine, no engine knocking, the oil pressure gauge would slowly sink to zero.
My nephew became increasingly annoyed and uncomfortable with the “Vette”. He left it with me to try to find and cure the problem. I drove the car in various conditions to analyze the malfunction.
In one experiment, I attached a mechanical indicator from a flexible hose to the engine, wrapped the indicator in a towel and held it under the rear edge of the hood. I drove the car to Connellsville on a parts run, and on the return trip I sped up the hill on Route 201 past Attea’s hotel at a speed of… well, ahem!
In any case, the wind lifted the edge of the hood and the oil dipstick fell over the edge of the fender. Instinctively, I looked to see where I was going, a foolish decision in a short-steer vehicle traveling at near warp speed.
The Corvette did a 90 degree slide to the left and then a 180 to the right. I quickly saw terrified drivers trying to find a way to get out of the way of the cars.
In a couple of seconds, which felt like minutes, I had the ‘Vette under control. The rest of the trip back to Vanderbilt was much more uneventful.
In an act of desperation, my nephew took the car back to Yenko’s to try and locate the problem, and it was promptly stolen from the lot.
Found a few days later parked on a street in Pittsburgh, it was undamaged except for several cigar butts in the ashtray.
But that was the last straw for my nephew. Not long after, completely disappointed, he put the Corvette in my garage.
It remained there until he sold it.
