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April 1996 | Volume 47, Issue 2
Butch Cassidy And The Karmann Ghia
Text Complexity Grade Level
9
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had just blasted into our local theater, and it was the most exciting movie I had ever seen. I was seventeen years old, and my horse was a ’59 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia.
It wasn’t an ordinary Karmann Ghia by any standard, and to me it was extra special. Well before the hopped-up Volkswagen craze of the late sixties and seventies hit my native Connecticut, this slim model sported tall, fat rear wheels and tires beneath flared fenders and an aerodynamic tail with spoiler and round red lenses à la Corvette. Inside the crowded rear engine compartment, these body cosmetics were rendered legitimate by a Porsche engine breathing fire through twin Weber carburetors and an independent dual exhaust system. The front wheels would easily jump up from the road when I shifted too hard from first to second gear. Through savings from my job at the Clam Box and a small loan from my father, I had obtained the well-used car in unfinished form. I used my limited mechanical knowledge to “mint it out,” and I did a decent “shive job,” as we called it.
The car became infinitely more attractive when I was informed that “the Butch Cassidy guy” also owned a VW conversion and was an avid racer. I was sure that one day I would also be in auto racing. My interest in Butch Cassidy grew, resulting in several more trips to the movies before the film stopped showing.
Not long afterward, my girlfriend and I drove to Maine, where my father had a camp on the coast. During the trip the car’s starter developed a problem, and on the long ride home the exhaust system leaked. I waited for the weekend to make repairs.
The old guy (probably thirty) from whom I had bought the car had a complete shop in one of his barns and let me use it for repairs. I went there early Saturday morning; every push on the accelerator produced a noise like the ripping of heavy canvas. The “old guy” was already at work on another VW; I was careful not to run over the legs that stuck out from under a car up on jack stands as I backed into one of the bays.
I got out, producing my meager tool kit; I knew that mechanics were not fond of sharing tools and hoped I would have to borrow as little as possible.
“Good morning,” I said to the legs.
“Morning,” I heard over the sound of the workbench radio.
Knowing that the exhaust work would be more complicated than the starter job, I began at the manifold to remove the spaghettilike pipes, the signature of a “tricked-out” VW. Excited about the driving I had done in Maine, I launched into a monologue at my captive audience beneath the other car. The coastal roads were beautiful, I explained,