Heading out in a rumbling beast
Couple hits American roadways in old Ford Meteor to revel in glamour, grit of New England car show
The mythology of the American highway, the raw smell of gas from the carburetor and a back seat full of luggage had me nostalgic for the heyday of road trips I’m far too young to remember.
In my mind, there is nothing more American than setting out on the open road in a classic car. It’s been on my bucket list for as long as I can remember.
The plan was to drive down to Sturbridge, Mass., for a weekend of rockabilly music and hotrods at the New England Shake-Up car show.
My boyfriend Dan Bartley and I would be making this voyage in his 1953 Ford Meteor Customline V8. Beautiful? Yes. Reliable? We’ll find out.
As we rumbled out of Toronto in the early Ford we were met on the streets with nods of approval. Before we turned onto Lake Shore Blvd. to hit the Gardiner, a man hopped out of his car at a red light and shouted “Ford or Chev?”
This is par when taking the classic car out for a spin.
We bounced on the vinyl bench seat as we roared over Toronto’s crumbling roads and onto the westbound QEW.
After descending the Burlington Skyway with Hamilton’s smokestacks ahead, there was a loud clang from the front-right corner of the car. I looked back to see a hubcap rolling along with traffic. Anticipating that the loss might happen, Dan had thrown a few replacement hubcaps in the trunk. I thought, if this is the only thing that goes wrong while driving a 62-yearold car on a road trip, then we’re doing well.
The rusted guardrails and weeds poking through cracks in the blacktop soon gave way to the shining lights of the Lewiston- Queenston border bridge. Once we wound our way through Buffalo and hit the toll-heavy I-90, the roads turned from urban decay to the real American motor experience. It was smooth sailing with a lot of engine-revving fun.
Again, you could see looks of approval from other motorists. Some seemed quite surprised that an antique car could not only keep up with traffic, but race past them.
Near Rochester, on the only bad patch of road we experienced, Dan noticed that the rim around the left headlight was shaking loose. Having al- ready lost a hubcap, we pulled off the highway to make a quick fix. We were only three hours in, so having two parts shake off the old girl made Dan a little stressed out.
Secretly a believer in fate, Dan was worried that the car had been running so well for so long that disaster was imminent. We made fuel stops every two hours with the gas gauge on the fritz.
Although Google Maps had us on a steady course, I spotted an alternate route on a paper map that would take us through more scenic roads. And thus began my epic navigation fail.
We hoped to arrive at the Tiki Resort in Lake George, N.Y., in time to meet friends, catch the nightly Polynesian fire show and take pictures of the kitschy ’50s motel in the gold evening light.
But my poor navigation skills along with the shuttering of Lake George for the season left us staying at the Tiki resort doing nothing but having some beer in front of our rooms looking at the drained pool.
The view from the hotel the next morning was beautiful. Since we drove in at night, this was our first glance of the tree-lined mountains.
We regrouped for breakfast at the Prospect Mountain Diner across the road. It’s the kind of joint you imagine when you think of a ’50s eatery, but it
had a panoramic view from inside the boxcar-shaped diner.
“Not a bad view from the office,” said our waitress.
We sorted out our route to Sturbridge, and since one of our friends was smart enough to bring a GPS, we caravanned behind him.
Rather than jumping back onto the crowded and less scenic I-90, we drove through the bucolic back roads of the Berkshires.
Once we reached the outer limits of the charming region, the road thinned down to a ribbon that wound through majestic trees, sharp mountain faces and crisp blue skies.
We pulled over in a small town called Nassau. When we hopped out to check out an antique shop, grab a snack and have a poke around, Dan fielded more questions about his car. Once we were back on the road we blasted along in the rumbling beast. The engine noise made it a little difficult to talk at times, but there is really no need to chat when there is so much poetry whizzing by your window.
We crossed the state line into Massachusetts and hopped onto the eponymous turnpike. Naturally, we hit a bit of rush hour traffic, but within a halfhour we arrived at the Sturbridge Host Hotel on Cedar Lake.
We parked the Meteor among the other pre-1964 hot rods at the New England Shake-Up car show. As we registered at the front desk, there was a sign that read “It’s a party! Noise complaints will be ignored! Sorry in advance for all the fun everyone is having!”
With the best driving behind us, we now had nothing to dread but the long haul home. At least I had lots of legroom.
Once we wound our way through Buffalo and hit the toll-heavy I-90, the roads turned from urban decay to the real American motor experience