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So, last weekend I purchased a 1984 Volvo 244 GL. It was about 90 miles from home, and I told the guy I'd be back the following weekend to pick it up. I had enlisted the help of a coworker who is a former VW technician. He showed up in his red 2nd gen Miata, and we were off. It rained on us all the way up, making me slightly nervous, as the Volvo's wipers don't work, luckily the rain had let up by the time we arrived.
I went to fire up the Volvo, and the battery was dead. For the first, but not the last time that day, we enlisted the Miata's services. We jump started the Volvo, and headed down the highway. Five miles into tearing up the interstate in rural Michigan, the exhaust fell off the Volvo. We ripped it off, and set out again for a loud ride back to Dearborn.
Before we had covered another quarter mile, the Volvo's engine died, and would not crank over. Having left the jumper cable's back with the car's previous owner, we hooked the tow rope to the Miata, and hauled the once mighty Norse lead sled to a safe spot at the nearest exit, which was located in an infamous region of Egypt.
We removed the tow rope, and I climbed in the trusty Miata in search of an auto parts store. Twenty miles down the road, we found an Auto Zone, and picked up a battery and a can of fix a flat to take care of a leaking right rear tire.
We threw in the battery, fixed a vaccum hose that had come loose, and the Volvo fired right up. We set off down the highway again, and Inga the Flying Brick performed admirably. We made it all the way to the outskirts of Detroit without incident.
By the time we had reached the 12 Mile Road exit on I-94, the rain had begun again, I was fighting heavy traffic praying to Uncle Olaf, patron diety of Volvos for visibility and for my Rain X to hold out, when suddenly I lost speed, and while engine speed increased, vehicle speed would not. I was certain the transmission had taken a sizeable poop. I came to a grinding hault in the center lane of I-94 which was very heavily traveled this afternoon. I pushed the car to the shoulder while my friend and a passing tow truck driver blocked traffic.
Luckily, the transmission was still intact, but the right rear tire was in shreds. The tow truck driver loaned us a jack and lug wrench, and we put the spare on in weather more befitting an ark moreso than a Volvo with purely decorative windshield wipers.
Electing to take the backroads from then on, we finally limped the Volvo back home where it rests next to my Festiva.
Despite all the problems, I still love that car. Will be great once i get a decent set of tires, a wiper motor, and a speedometer cable on it, after which I will attach the Cherry Bomb glasspack that came with the car directly to the downpipe, and paint a Swedish flag on the roof General Lee Style.
Uncle Olaf be praised!
All hail Inga, the Flying Brick!
I went to fire up the Volvo, and the battery was dead. For the first, but not the last time that day, we enlisted the Miata's services. We jump started the Volvo, and headed down the highway. Five miles into tearing up the interstate in rural Michigan, the exhaust fell off the Volvo. We ripped it off, and set out again for a loud ride back to Dearborn.
Before we had covered another quarter mile, the Volvo's engine died, and would not crank over. Having left the jumper cable's back with the car's previous owner, we hooked the tow rope to the Miata, and hauled the once mighty Norse lead sled to a safe spot at the nearest exit, which was located in an infamous region of Egypt.
We removed the tow rope, and I climbed in the trusty Miata in search of an auto parts store. Twenty miles down the road, we found an Auto Zone, and picked up a battery and a can of fix a flat to take care of a leaking right rear tire.
We threw in the battery, fixed a vaccum hose that had come loose, and the Volvo fired right up. We set off down the highway again, and Inga the Flying Brick performed admirably. We made it all the way to the outskirts of Detroit without incident.
By the time we had reached the 12 Mile Road exit on I-94, the rain had begun again, I was fighting heavy traffic praying to Uncle Olaf, patron diety of Volvos for visibility and for my Rain X to hold out, when suddenly I lost speed, and while engine speed increased, vehicle speed would not. I was certain the transmission had taken a sizeable poop. I came to a grinding hault in the center lane of I-94 which was very heavily traveled this afternoon. I pushed the car to the shoulder while my friend and a passing tow truck driver blocked traffic.
Luckily, the transmission was still intact, but the right rear tire was in shreds. The tow truck driver loaned us a jack and lug wrench, and we put the spare on in weather more befitting an ark moreso than a Volvo with purely decorative windshield wipers.
Electing to take the backroads from then on, we finally limped the Volvo back home where it rests next to my Festiva.
Despite all the problems, I still love that car. Will be great once i get a decent set of tires, a wiper motor, and a speedometer cable on it, after which I will attach the Cherry Bomb glasspack that came with the car directly to the downpipe, and paint a Swedish flag on the roof General Lee Style.
Uncle Olaf be praised!
All hail Inga, the Flying Brick!
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