You're right: it's a van, not a pop-top camper.

I bid on this VW van: a hand-built 1:43 model with Ferrari insignia. It sold for over $60.00. Very pretty paint and graphics, but the window frames are still thick like the cheap one.

The VW camper was another of the vehicles I put a lot of hours into. The camping stuff was just snapped in, and could be removed in fifteen minutes. Just exploring, I started taking it out, to see how much of a hassle it would be. Not much, but with the sink out of the way I could see where the water tank or drain had leaked and the floor was beginnig to rust. I took all that stuff out, cleaned the floor thoroughly, primed and painted it. Lots of on-your-knees labor.

I drove this camper to Ensenada to watch the start and some of the racing of a Baja 1000. As we motored south from Rosarito, chatting and smiling, the engine lost power. Dropped to idle and didn't respond to the gas pedal. At the side of the road I determined the throttle cable had broken off very close to the place it connected to the carburetor. I was able to pull in some of the slack and trim some of the housing, and reattach the cable. Took about ten minutes and I felt so very resourceful.

Just as I was cleaning my hands I felt a significant vibration through the air and through the ground, and in a few seconds a southbound spot grew into the Parnelli Jones Bronco race car. What giant thunder it produced as it roared to and past us at 100+ and open exhaust, and what a swirl of silence remained a few seconds after it disappeared.

New story: There were several of us workers at the Kearny Mesa Home For Wayward Boys who were accustomed to stopping by one or another of the local bars for a beer after work on Wednesdays. Or Thursdays. Maybe Tuesdays. Any road, on one of these occasions one of the bunch suggested we get the second beer at a Tijuana bar. We all drove to Chula Vista, where I volunteered Dick and Bill's Autosport as parking lot where the others could leave their cars while I drove them to and from Mexico. The wife of one of these guys asked me to tell her of our adventures. She asked me just a couple of years ago, about 28 years after the fact. I didn't remember enough to tell, I said. Ask your husband. He was there, too. She indicated he had told her all about it, but she'd like to hear my version, anyway. I don't have a version.

Begin my version (mild expurgation has occurred): We went first to "La Coahuila," roughest and most dangerous barrio in town and to the Molino Rojo bar, at that time and for all I know still the location of many drug and alien-smuggling rendezvous and dealings. I didn't explain that before we went in and sat down and ordered our beers. Couple of sips of Dos Equis and I started to orient the guys: everyone you could see was hooked up or seeking a hookup. That guy apparently passed out at the next table could be a Customs or Immigration Officer under cover or a soplón, someone who makes a living eavesdropping or otherwise finding out who is carrying what to the border crossing and selling the information. The passed-out one flinched and opened an eye at me.

One of the guys wanted to have a sexual liaison with an attractive woman who approached him. He wanted me to negotiate with her. I did, but not really. I asked how much, she said $25.00, I chatted with her a bit, and told him how much. Off they went to "the room" (a simple phrase charged with much meaning in this context). In surprisingly few minutes they were back. Now I had to negotiate a refund. She didn't think she was obligated, since it was not her who was unable to complete the contract. I told the guy there was a local no-refund policy. He wanted to pursue it, but there was something in the demeanor of the woman and everyone else that dissuaded him.

We went to another bar, just down the street. It turned out the barman was someone I had known in an earlier life as a derelict living the hand-to-mouth life in another part of town. He was excited to see me and our group got all kinds of good service and special drinks. I was also the object of much attention by a real knockout of a woman working there. She almost wouldn't take "No" for an answer. Very impressive to my friends. I managed to pry myself away without incurring excessive wrath, and returned the guys to their cars at some time near four AM. /End my version. /End New story.

After several months of near-constant full throttle, the van burned the exhaust valve on the number three cylinder. I pulled the engine and did a valve job, all unassisted except for the machine work. These cars really weren't very resistive to do-it-yourselfers. Cut out the rear sides over the wheels so those big tires wouldn't rub. Installed an Empi camber compensator. Developed a transaxle leak that I didn' think I could fix, so I bought one of those oil guns and carried a gallon of grease everywhere I went for a couple of months before I sold the van. The starter quit and I gave a demo drive to a couple of people by rolling out of the driveway and popping the clutch to start it. Eventually sold it to the girlfriend of a co-worker, daughter of a hall-of-fame baseball player. She was a late-blooming Hippie (even later-blooming than me) who intended wandering the world in it. I don't know if she ever had any complaints about the van, which I delivered to her with the rear bumper inside it: the exceptional exhaust system interfered with its mounting.

I sold the camper and bought the '56 Buick to bridge the (purported) six weeks between the order and delivery of the Vega Kammback. Hmph.

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