My least favorite car that I own, well, at the
moment, is my 1974 Super Beetle. It was modified a few owners ago into
something akin to a Baja bug. It has all of the right qualities for one, at
least, with its raised ride height, chopped/exposed rear section, along with
cheap nerf bars and front brushguard. However, there are quite a few issues
that need to be addressed with this, let’s be kind here, “work in progress”.
Unfortunately for me, I purchased what is known as a “Super” Beetle. This
sounds great, right? With an adjective like "Super", it should be plush and well-equipped when compared to the plebian standard
Beetle. It must be simply better to drive in every way! As it turns out....No. Absolutely not. If I had known that buying a Super over a normal Bug had consequences, I would have skipped on by this Super and gone right for a regular one. Let’s start with the big issue. The front suspensions of Super Beetles are a whole different affair than the regular Bug. While it is indeed more advanced and thus modestly more comfortable, maintenance and modifications require that I buy completely different parts than the regular Beetle. Now, I understand this doesn’t sound so terrible, but the parts are not only relatively hard to come by, but in comparison with many classic VW components, rather expensive. Since one of the previous owners wanted a Baja-style Beetle, they opted to install stiffer and longer springs in the front. Fantastic! What they neglected to do, unfortunately, is to install different struts accordingly. As a result, turning and stopping render the front end unmanageable. It suddenly turns from a Teutonic sluggard into a small, jumping, obnoxious little dog that refuses to acknowledge any frantic inputs from the hapless driver. If the brakes become locked up, the front bucks so wildly it nearly throws itself into an accompanying lane, as if to punish me for treating it so harshly. The engine, which was, ahem, “recently rebuilt”, was fantastic when I first bought it. However, upon parking it at the shop I worked at for the summer, I soon discovered that there was twice the amount of oil in the engine than the maximum, as indicated by the dipstick. I figured it was simply a botched oil change by the previous owner, so I changed the thin and diluted oil with the hardier Brad Penn Green Oil (That’s a damn lie, its blue) that fellow Porsche airbreathers completely swear by. I then reluctantly turned the keys over to my mechanic coworker to keep at his house while I attended my first transfer year at OU. He’s a retired Ford mechanic with 25 years experience under his belt, two Beetles, and a gorgeous ’67 Mustang in the garage.
As the semester progressed, he would keep me updated on the various tweaks and fixes he would perform on the MudBug. He completely fixed the insufferable toe-in, replaced an air filter, new wiper blades, adjusted engine timing, and a few odds and ends here and there. Eventually, I stopped hearing from him. Finally, a month later, he texted me out of the blue, informing me that he has not driven it in well over a month. The engine had begun to overheat slightly, so he checked the fluid levels. Guess what? Twice the amount of oil in the engine, smelling heavily of gas. Great. We deduced that the diaphragm in the fuel pump had either disintegrated, gone on vacation, or just simply quit, and was leaking preposterous amounts of fuel into the sump. By now, I was back in town for winter break, and replaced the fuel pump with a newer, shinier model. We changed the oil, made sure all connections and leads were in the proper place, cautiously cranked the engine, and promptly discovered no fuel being pumped through the brand new pump, filter, or fuel lines. After a quick examination, the mechanic became adamantly convinced that it was a defective part. So, as per the ritual of the backyard wrencher, I began the pilgrimage to exchange the part for a new one. Because, you know, it was a defective part, dammnit, and not a shoddy installation. After “discussing” the apparent defective nature of the fuel pump with the proprietor of The Bug Stop, I took the second pump and hunkered down in my grandmother’s garage, working fervently into the night.
After about 3 hours of non-stop wrenching, she was ready. With a few prods of the starter button, the mighty Mudbug coughed to life with a cacophony of booms and crackles. I drove the Mudbug over to my garage and promptly parked it in the driveway, proudly displaying my jalopy to the newly-awoken neighborhood. She was home. Along with a “Just needs TLC” interior, slightly faulty wiring, spotty primer-black paint job, and a spot of rust that extends an unknown distance down the length of the car, it’s beautiful. This heap is not without its positives, however. As it turns out, it’s a blast to drive on city/non highway streets, and the transmission is an absolute dream to shift. I’m sure there will be a multitude of crazy and inane stories to come as a result of the derelict state of the bug, but hey, experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want, right?
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