Gordon Spence toggles a lever beside the steering wheel that retards the spark and prevents damage to the starter. He presses down the manual throttle control, spins the choke rod one full turn to the left to get a rich fuel mixture, turns on the gas valve, flips the ignition key to on and pulls back on the choke. Then he taps the starter with his foot.
And his 1931 deluxe roadster Model A Ford, the same one his dad had driven to school as a teacher in Springfield, Mass., the same one he had driven with balloon tires as a teenager on the beach at Cape Cod; yes, this lovingly restored gem of a car, roars to life once again.
And we’re off – well, not without more adjustments, but it’s all second nature by now and you hardly notice – rambling through the Chubb Lake neighborhood of Chick’s Beach, the car, lovingly nicknamed “Damn Yankee,” informing Spence, by its engine sound, when to shift from first to second to third gear.
Neighbors wave, workmen on the road stop and gape, drivers honk – and he responds with a tap on the horn. Ah-oo-ga!
Spence is one of 80 members of the Cape Henry Model A Ford Club who are dedicated to the preservation and enjoyment of the once enormously popular automobile. You might have seen them recently at the Veterans’ Day Parade or the Oceanfront Christmas Parade.
These “like-minded fools,” as he affectionately calls his friends, celebrate a car that, even at the dawn of the Great Depression, made a fortune for Henry Ford, with nearly 5 million cars produced from 1928 to 1931. There were over a dozen body styles, from roadsters to sedans to coupes to pickups. They were inexpensive and easy to maintain and so durable that they’ve hung around all these years.
Like so many others here, Spence came here with the Navy. If you didn’t know, you might guess by the Seabee sticker on the rectangular windshield. He did a tour in Vietnam, worked as a civil engineer for the Navy and settled at the Beach. When his father passed away he inherited “Damn Yankee,” brought it here and proudly restored it.
We cruise through the winding, live-oak-draped streets in Chick’s Beach. Spence double clutches as he downshifts, never once grinding gears, tooling along Pleasure House Road, using hand signals for turns.
His father, also Gorden, had as many of five of the Model A’s, so he was surrounded by those cars, their sound and smell, from the time he was 14 on. In fact, the son’s first car was a Model A pickup.
“I think a lot about my dad,” Spence says as we cross Shore Drive. “You had to be a bit of a character, which I guess he enjoyed, always driving with his hat brim up and a cigar in his mouth. Getting in the car, as my wife says, I feel his presence here.”
Some more waves. “You get a little self-conscious, initially, but you get used to it. You get a car like this and all of a sudden you take on a different aura. I’ve thought about making up a sign saying, ‘Don’t laugh, your mother might be in here.’”
We turn onto Thoroughgood Drive and pull over. An admiring Leroy Cason steps from his house and comes over for a look and a chat. “What model is she?” When was she made?” “Boy, she’s a real looker!”
And then the moment I’ve been waiting for.
I have to kind of shoehorn myself into the driver’s seat because the compartment’s tight and there isn’t much legroom. Fortunately, I don’t have to start it. It’s idling nicely and the flat-head, four-cylinder, 40 hp engine is humming contentedly.
OK, adjust the little rear-view, wait for a car to pass, depress the clutch, shift down into first, give it a little gas and the durable, forgiving 82-year- old car moves forward, somewhere between easing and lurching.
I notice right away how stiff the wheel is without power steering. That’s fine. You quickly get used to it. And hand-signaling, too. But grinding gears? Ouch! Sorry.
“So how am I doing?”
“I’m just saying, with the owner of the car sitting beside you, you’re under some pressure,” he says. “You grind the gears you know he’s going to give you the evil eye. But you’re doing… [slight grinding sound as I downshift]. . . fine.”
Like “Damn Yankee,” he’s very, very forgiving.
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