The Field Car was a beater. It was a 1971 Maverick, which I bought in 1980 while in college. It wasn't really a beater then, but it didn't take me long to turn it into one. With dedication and determination, any car can be turned into a beater in a matter of months.
The transformation on the Maverick began when my room mate Tim came home with me for the weekend, and I had to repair the fences around the horse pasture. My parents left for the day, and we didn't want to carry fence wire, tools, and extra posts around a 200 acre pasture, so we put it all in my car and headed out. All was well for the most part, until we got bored and decided to see how well the Maverick would take the hills. The educational opportunities in this type of excercise cannot be overstated. Not only did we get most of the fences fixed that weekend, but we learned how to replace shock absorbers, too! We could have learned to do some body and paint work as well, but we decided that the little scratches and dings just added character to the car. Tim dubbed it the “Field Car,” a name that has stuck with the Maverick ever since.
Beatership wasn't bestowed upon the Field Car all at once. Sometimes days or even weeks would go by without it acquiring a single new distinguishing feature. Then just when it seemed like progress had stalled, an opportunity for further customization would present itself, although I seldom recognized it as such until after the fact. The distinctive markings on the roof of the car for example came about when Tim and I were on our way to meet some friends and didn't want to wait for a train. When we saw the lights start flashing at a crossing up ahead, we were sure we could safely beat the on-coming train. Indeed, we beat the train with a hundred yards to spare. It was the descending barrier that proved to be the real challenge. We actually did beat it... mostly.
As with most Fords in those days, the Maverick's starter solenoid was mounted on the inside of the fender, next to the battery. These solenoids were a common point of failure. This wasn't too much of a problem, because one can bypass the solenoid by positioning a screwdriver across two contact points on these devices, thereby starting the car. This was a great source of amusement for those of us who know how to take advantage of the situation. If for example my friend Mike and I were leaving a convenience store and noticed several people milling around, we would dash out like we were being pursued by the devil himself.
“Hey! where's Tom with the get-away car?!”
“That dip-stick must have gotten scared and ran!”
“We'll have to steal one of these cars! Quick - jump in that Maverick and get behind the wheel - I'll hotwire it from under the hood!”
Mike would get in the car, put the key in the ignition and turn it on. The car wouldn't start that way, but with the key in the “on” position I could start it from under the hood with my Buck knife. Then I'd slam the hood, jump in the car, and we'd squeal away. The looks of dumb-struck amazement on the faces of the passers-by were priceless. It's a good thing cell phones were not yet in use, or we'd have been arrested for stealing my own car.
One of the advantages to driving a beater is the fact that you have less to lose in a collision than someone with a newer car. This fact hadn't dawned on the driver of a Mustang one evening when Tim and I and two red-heads were driving down the highway. After he cut us off, the “ladies” let fly with a few choice words and some non-verbal hand gestures. I guess he took offense, because he started swerving into my lane, trying to force me into on-coming traffic. He was driving what appeared to be a brand new Mustang with a shiny, silver metallic paint job. I was driving the Field Car. I said, “If he swerves into this lane again, everyone hang on!”
Tim said, “Um... Joe? What exactly are you going to do?”
I didn't have time to answer him because just then the Mustang swerved into our lane again, farther than he had before. He was half a car length ahead of me, traveling down a 4 lane highway at 50 miles per hour. I merely jerked the wheel a little to the right, and my front right fender completely smashed his driver side door. My fender had already been dented in, from a spin-out into a snow drift. He immediately quit playing games, got in the lane behind me, and followed us to the pizzeria. He and his buddy jumped out of the Mustang. Tim and I jumped out of the Maverick. He started yelling about how the Mustang wasn't even his car, he had borrowed it from his buddy. I told him he should have thought of that before he started playing “Jim Rockford.” I knew a fight was imminent, and it scared me nearly out of my wits. Then again, there were two girls watching. Fortunately a police cruiser pulled in before we ever really engaged, and we all scrambled back into our cars and squealed out in opposite directions. OK, by this time the only squealing the Field Car could do was caused by a slipping alternator belt, but you get the idea.
