By Robert Alescio

So, while I have been waiting for scale versions of the Mustangs from GMP, I’m afraid my focus wandered a bit recently as I cruised the eBay listings. That is how I ended up with the Franklin Mint Volkswagen Beetle Collection, which includes a black 1967 VW, a white 1998 New Beetle and a mirrored display base. I could care less about the New Beetle and the base. It is the black ‘67 that, for me, holds special significance, for it hauntingly represents the VWs of my past.

I often say that my second new car was also my second Mustang, but the ugly truth is that sandwiched between those Fords was a 1968 Volkswagen. There is just no good way to explain why I bought it, but in my defense I swear I only owned it for a short time. It was a new 1968, green Beetle with optional whitewalls and a cigarette lighter. Total price, out the door, was $2,010. After having a ’67 Mustang with a longish hood (motor properly located under it), driving the Beetle proved quite different and disturbing. The road disappeared just under the windshield; you felt vulnerable in such close quarters with the car in front of you. This model had a rather clever feature with the washer bottle mounted on the spare tire. Power to squirt the fluid came from the pressure in the spare. The problem came when you most needed the washer. This was January 1968, and that means snow. The streets were covered with slush which found its way directly onto the front window. However, the vibration of the car caused the spare tire to rotate, tilting the bottle, and making it impossible for the pickup tube to reach the fluid. Result? No way to clean the stupid windshield other than pull over and do it by hand - repeatedly.

The Midwest in January, a very inadequate heater, and the threat of asphyxiation do not make for pleasant winter driving. On a couple of successive, particularly sub-zero, mornings more tribulations surfaced. After pulling away from the curb, I could not get the car out of first gear; the shifter linkage was frozen. I had to drive slowly around the block before it managed to thaw out. The very next day, it would not even crank over – the starter was frozen, requiring a push start. Talk about a tight new car! This was ridiculous. Finally, after the bone-headed maneuver of rear-ending a Dodge, punching out both headlights in the process, I had had enough. It was a brief marriage, and an even quicker divorce; I sold it after only seven weeks.

My next three cars were Detroit hot rods: a ’64 Fairlane Sports Coupe (289 HiPo), ’68 Cobra Jet, ’69 Dodge Charger R/T. During this two year period insurance rates shot up and the police cracked down, so I dropped out, in a manner of speaking. Having over-dosed on horsepower and speed, my automotive pendulum swung the opposite direction. It was autumn 1969, the dawn of the Ecological Age, the first Earth Day was just around the corner, and the responsible, prudent person might drive a used Volkswagen Thankfully it was not a Microbus that caught my eye!

A clean, black 1964 VW was sitting on a used car lot that I passed every day. It was a tight, good running, well-maintained car. I do not know how rare 6 volt FM radios were, but this car had one. Tuned to Detroit’s ground-breaking, progressive FM rock station, WABX, I would have heard the Beatles’ “Abby Road”, The Stones’ “Let It Bleed”, and “The Soft Parade” by The Doors. This was a transitional time for me, also. I rented an upstairs room (shared bath down the hall) for $40 a month, and within that first month, I wrecked the car. On Halloween night, a Dodge Dart made a left turn in front of me, and I hit it straight on, knocking out the windshield with my head – still bear the scar. Not knowing what else to do with it, I had it towed to the VW dealership where it sat over the winter.

Early the following spring, my friend, Larry, need a co-signer to buy a stereo and, in exchange, gave me his ’65 VW with a blown engine. In one evening, and for a mere $50, the dealer grafted my good ’64 engine onto the ’65, and Bob’s your uncle. After going through the winter without a car, I had regained freedom of mobility. This car was not as clean as the ’64 VW. The king pins were loose like a goose, the front lid did not always latch, it had only an AM radio, no sun roof, but it was cheap. I only had to chase Larry down a couple of times to make the stereo payment.

A feature of simple cars is that, although they can often break, they are easy to fix. Late one night, the throttle cable snapped leaving the engine stuck at idle and me quite a distance from home with no tools. No problem; just turn the idle screw up all the way and trundle on home. Then, the brake master cylinder crapped out just as I turned onto a freeway entrance ramp. Easy, just down shift and use the emergency brake until it’s convenient to get it repaired.

One aspect that disturbed me most about driving these Volkswagens was the infrequent dates one could land. You did not necessarily have to be the high school quarterback to woo the young ladies. A nice car could help cut through the dating red tape, but these Beetles were cramping my style. It was partly the reason I bought a Triumph Bonneville to help even the playing field. Of course I had to keep the VW, for winters are not compatible with motorcycles. By the following spring in 1970, the old Beetle was dying, choking on a soon-to-blow engine. And what should be offered to me at a reasonable price, but a ’68 Karmann Ghia. What a collection! Now I had three vehicles with a total of 10 wheels, 10 cylinders and 130 horsepower, maybe, from 2 ½ engines, no radiators and no effective heaters. This had to stop.

To tell the truth, I don’t think I have been in a Beetle since then, and now enough time has past to purge my automotive ownership record. So it is with feelings of humor and fondness that I can look at this diecast black VW and remember what they were like and what cute, endearing, horrible little bastards they were.