(1) The Back Page_docx

Old Bus Review
#116
Winter, Friendship, and Farewell
In this issue:
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Pluto, Flash qFiasco
VW Bus Snowmobile Soundwagen
Flip This Bus!
A 1960 Kombi, Roger Lozier
Dub Box Retro-styled Trailers
John Lago, Raw & Unfiltered
. . . and more!
The LAST Old Bus Review
Old Bus Review #116
This is issue #116 of Old Bus Review,
published by NEATO (Northeast Association
of Transporter Owners, Inc.)
NEATO/Membership Coordinator
c/o George Bossarte
353 Broadway
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02139
Phone: (617) 876-0390
Email: [email protected]
Back issues of Old Bus Review are available
at $5.00 per copy. (Some will need to be
photocopies). Send requests to above
Membership Coordinator address.
The views and opinions expressed in Old Bus
Review are those of individual contributors
and not necessarily those of the Officers,
Directors, or Editors unless otherwise stated.
Although care has been taken to make the
information contained herein as complete and
accurate as possible, NO NEATO CLUB
OFFICER, NOR CLUB MEMBER, PAST
OR PRESENT, SHALL BE LIABLE FOR
ANY DAMAGE RESULTING FROM THE
USE OR MISUSE OF INFORMATION
CONTAINED HEREIN.
Observe proper safety precautions when
working around a vehicle, especially an older
vehicle. Pay strict attention to a
manufacturer’s directions, wear safety
goggles, gloves, respirators and proper
clothing. With proper care, the old car hobby
can be accident-free and fun
© 2013 NEATO, Inc.
Wha’ happened?
NEATO began 27 years ago (February, 1986), with an informal
meeting in the home of Mike Motta in Somerset, Massachusetts.
Back then we called ourselves the Northeast Chapter of the Society of
Transporter Owners (those of us with long memories may recall that
organization). Soon we were a fully independent club and publishing
this newsletter. Over the years NEATO grew, and sprouted many
chapters of our own. We now find ourselves in the Age of the Internet,
with a dwindling membership and dwindling newsletter contributions.
Those of us who remain involved with the club are no less enthusiastic
about Old Buses, but the club coordinators have come to the
conclusion that it’s time to lay our burdens down.
The combination of lack of original newsletter material and lack of
time of yours truly (the editor) is most of the reason we’re folding.
Although putting the newsletter together has always been one of my
most favorite things to do, I haven’t had time to pursue story leads for
a good many months. Without the time and material to lovingly craft
each issue, OBR comes out way too infrequently.
Sigh.
NEATO and Old Bus Review have a glorious history, though! With the
support of the thousands of members and writers, we have been the
one of the most active VW clubs with arguably the best VW newsletter
ever published, with a succession of great editors over the years (a
shout out to Dave Easterwood, Rob Laffoon, and John Foley).
It’s been lots of fun and we all have wonderful memories!
Folks who’ve paid for memberships will get refunds based on
newsletters they have paid for, and not received. Checks will be issued
by our most excellent treasurer, Jim Bryant. If there are any
questions, please contact George Bossarte (our membership
Coordinator since the beginning!) (See column to the left.)
Also, chapters who have relied on NEATO to provide liability
insurance for events should know that we deeply regret that we are not
renewing our policy. We know that this was a large benefit to member
chapters around the country, but there is no longer an organization to
manage this. We would like to interest another club to take on
coordination of this coverage. Please contact us with questions.
Until we meet again, here’s a last “toot” of the old horn!
Rev. Mike Robus (club chaplain, retired)
P.O. Box 56277; Philadelphia, PA 19130
(215) 939-7510
(Email: [email protected])
P.S. NEATO on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/neatoclub. Feel
free to contribute!
P.P.S. My next project is to finish the anthology of the best of OBR:
Bus Love: Stories of Life and Adventure with the VW Bus. I’ll send out info
when it’s done.
P.P.P.S. Let me know if you’d like a color version of this issue of OBR. I can
send a pdf file to you. It really is pretty in color!
Front cover art: Tim Doyle. Back cover photo: Flash.
2
Excerpt from
Yellowhammer Farm
John Hamilton Farr
The cockpit of the early model split windshield buses
(up to around 1967) was a marvelous place that
always made me think I was piloting a B-17. The
aircraft analogy was supported by a painted steel
dashboard; sliding windows; ridiculously thin, tinny
doors; and a view, if you hunched low over the flat
steering wheel with your head up close to the
windshield, that wasn’t much different from what a
bombardier would see from his Plexiglas nose
position — assuming the bomber was driving down
the highway, that is. The engine throbbing away in
the rear reminded me of a pusher prop, and the
floating, bouncing motion experienced as a result of
sitting directly over the front wheels added
considerably to the illusion of flight. Bouncing up and
down in the lightly-loaded front end of a Volkswagen
bus, weaving in the crosswinds and barely connected
to the road, was probably as close to actual flight as
one could hope to achieve without an airplane.
It was the late ’70s. My future wife and I were
living in Maryland behind a real estate office, and I
owned a dark green ’66 model. One fateful winter (!),
we drove it to Iowa and back, so we could load up a
couple items of furniture her grandmother wanted to
give us. It was seven degrees Fahrenheit in the middle
of Illinois, and I had a single-burner propane camp
cooker rigged inside an oversized coffee can hanging
from the dashboard for heat. That’s right, open
flames inside the cab, but inside the can, you see. It
worked rather well, so long as you didn’t bump it with
your knee. My sweetie did burn a bit of her antique
raccoon coat, which until we hit the Freezing Slush of
Death on the Pennsylvania Turnpike coming home
was pretty much the main primal experience of the
trip. That bus had a cruise control, too: a hand
throttle I’d wired up beside the steering wheel. You
had to manually disengage it in order to brake, so of
course you tried to never have to.
Talk about following your heart… There was more
soul in that machine than in anything I’ve driven
since. Of course, what we drive today mostly works. I
could never drive a VW bus cross-country without at
least a minor disaster or an engine swap, and that is
why you should never own one. On the other hand,
what about this?
The spirit of invention and risk from all those
years ago is notable and useful to recall. Wherever
the hell it went, I’d like to get it back.
John Hamilton Farr, author of Buffalo Lights and Taos
Soul, writes from 7,000 feet in Taos, New Mexico,
U.S.A.
3
Artwork: Spencer Reynolds
Men Are From Mars,
Women Are From Pluto
By Flash qFiasco
I have made an astounding discovery: women are different
from men.
What I think women probably mean when they ask “how
do you feel?” is “what do you feel?” Lonely, bored, fed up,
hungry, etc., that sort of “how do you feel.”
A man can eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner standing up in
front of the stove out of a skillet—the same skillet for all
three meals without washing, either it or himself. A woman
can spend all day in a workshop sorting screws by color.
I have made another astounding discovery. When you can’t
say what you feel before the green light goes out, women
assume that you don’t feel anything at all. And then you
don’t get a food pellet.
Men and women look at different magazines. Women’s
magazines have names like Elle, Marie Clare, Young
Miss, Anna Marie, and so on. Men’s magazines do not
have names like “Frank,” “George,” “Rupert,” or “Old
Curmudgeon.” Men’s magazines have names like Road &
Track, Hunting Dog, Mountain Biking, Architectural
Design, Guns & Ammo, or Old Bus Review. Women’s
magazines do not have names like “Vacuum Cleaner &
Household Appliance,” “Minutes of the International
Society of Reciprocating Industrial Sewing Machines,” or
“Detergent Weekly.”
“Don’t you feel ANY thing?” Now that’s a woman-question
I can answer without having to mull it over for three days.
“Yes, I think so,” or “Yes, I must have felt something at
some time or other.”
I mean, am I supposed to go through life with a sort of
continuous voice-over in my head “at the sound of the tone
you will be feeling parental responsibility” Bing!, “at the
sound of the tone you will be feeling negligent” Bing!, “at
the sound of the tone you will be feeling self-indulgent to a
fault” Gong! etc., just so I can always have an answer ready
for a potentially devastating woman-question!? I’d never
get on with my life if I did that. Besides, if I did do that all
the time, I would have to answer that I was feeling
neurotically self-conscious all the time. I’d be chattering
away in my mind like in a Kafka novel.
This is a typical woman-question: “How do you feel?”
A typical man-answer is to reply with three man-questions:
“Why?”, “Are you my doctor?” and “Do I look like I’m in
pain, or what?”
“How do I feel?” I mean, what useful purpose could
possibly be served by answering this question? Would it
help you to adjust the carburetor? No. Will it get cash out
of an ATM? No.
Just because you can’t say what you feel right off the top of
your head, why do women jump to the conclusion that you
don’t have any feelings at all? “Don’t you love me?” is a
typical woman-question. “Of course I do in a general sort
of way, just not right this instant while I’m trying to put
the snow chains on before the bus slides down into that
ravine,” is a typical man-feeling.
“How do I feel?” I mean, why can’t you ask me something I
can answer with a straightforward “yes” or “no”? Like,
“Does that hurt?” or “Can I have 350 dollars?”
Let me tell you something else about the difference
between women and men. A man can live in an apartment
for six months and not clean the bathroom. A woman can
drive a car for six months and not check the oil. Each one
thinks the other is impossible to live with on account of
that. OK, so each one has his or her little fixation: cars or
bathrooms. Yeah. So what, right? Wrong. There is a world
of difference between checking the oil and cleaning
bathrooms.
“How do you feel?” the question is riddled with ambiguity.
I mean, do you mean HOW do I feel? By means of what
psycho-physiological mechanism does one register precognitive emotive intuitions: that sort of how do you feel?
Well, I suppose it’s got something to do with chemicals in
the brain and stuff like that. Doesn’t it? How the hell
should I know how I feel? Why do you want to know that
anyway? Am I a rat in a scientific experiment? Do I get a
food pellet if I answer the question correctly before the
green light goes out, or what?
Suppose you say to your female helpmate, “I saw the cutest
little outfit today in the H&M window downtown. I think
it would look really great on you.” I mean, just suppose. Of
4
course, it would be totally out of character for any normal
man to take a good look in a downtown store window, but
just suppose... The conversation might take the following
course:
within walking distance of a clean toilet, she realizes that
she cannot possibly go there, but rather than tell HIM the
truth and risk seeming to be ridiculous or insane, she
makes up an excuse. Hence, a real life conversation goes
more like this:
She: “Yes, I know. I saw it last week.”
He: “I saw a cute outfit at H&M; I think it would look
really great on you.”
He: “Well why don’t you go try it on? I could let you drive
the Bus tomorrow.”
She: “Yes, I know. I saw it last week.”
She: “Oh no, I can’t.”
He: “Why not? I just checked the oil.”
He: “Well, why don’t you go try it on? I could let you drive
the Bus tomorrow.”
She: “Because the nearest Pizza Hut is five blocks away.”
She: “Oh no, I can’t.”
He: “Huh? You don’t have to go there for lunch.”
He: “Why not? I just checked the oil.”
She: “I know. But they have clean restrooms.”
She: “Because I have to do something else tomorrow.”
Men do not plan their day around checking the oil.
They simply do it as a matter of habit whenever it
should happen to be convenient because it is less
trouble than taking the engine apart if you don’t
check the oil.
He: “So what do clean restrooms have to do with the cute
outfit at H&M?”
He: “What?”
She: “Oh, ...something....”
She: “H&M doesn’t have clean restrooms. I’d have to run
five blocks to the Pizza Hut to go to the toilet, and I might
not make it.”
He: “Well what??”
She: “I, uh, have to go to Barbara’s...”
Now, I know perfectly well that no couple ever had such a
conversation. I have distilled this hypothetical
conversation from decades of experience and observation.
Women plan their day around where the toilets are. Try to
get your mind around this. Try real hard.
Of course, the suggestion that she and Barbara go
together, or that she go some other day, is bound to be
rejected for equally vague and incomprehensible reasons.
Men do not plan their day around checking the oil. There
is nothing vague or incomprehensible about this. They
simply do it as a matter of habit whenever it should happen
to be convenient because it is less trouble than taking the
engine apart if you don’t check the oil.
Women know where all the clean toilets in town are, and
they plan their daily routes and routines around this
intimate knowledge of the terrain. They will shop in stores
which have clean toilets, even if the wares and the service
are second rate compared to another store which has firstrate wares but second-rate toilets. They will shop for
bargains or “really cute outfits” at stores with second-rate
toilets only if some other store with clean toilets is within
walking distance and “walking distance” for a woman
means “walking distance when you have to go to the
toilet.” Because men find this ridiculous, or insane, women
are loathe to admit it. If asked about it directly, they deny
it. But ask her where the nearest toilet is when you are
with her anywhere in town, and she will astound you. That
is why the above conversation is merely hypothetical in
real life, as soon as SHE realizes that the cute outfit is not
There is a world of difference between cars and toilets:
women plan their days around them, men do not.
Supposing men and women were to grasp this simple
principle, we could imagine another hypothetical
conversation:
He: “I saw a cute outfit at H&M; I think it would look
really great on you.”
She: “Yes, I know. I saw it last week.”
5
He: “Well, why don’t you go try it on? I could drive you
there tomorrow and wait outside with the motor running.”
She: “Oh no, I can’t.”
He: “Why not? I just checked the oil.”
She: “I couldn’t put you to all that trouble.”
He: “It’s no trouble, really.”
She: “But how would you feel about sitting there in a noparking zone? I could be hours.”
Asking HIM how he feels about a thing which has never
occurred to him is, of course, merely a device to end a
conversation which was becoming untenable anyway. It is
evident that men and women mis-communicate
fundamentally. Men are from Mars and women are from
Pluto. A man simply does not plan his day around where
he might, conceivably, have to empty his bladder, and a
woman does. And, somehow, that makes a world of a
difference.
We resurrect the abandoned.
For years we have been
wrenching on our own
Volkswagens, from Buses to
Bugs, Ghias to Things, then going
to work the next morning for
someone else and wishing we
were still in our shop. We decided
the time had come to combine
our resources and experience and
take the necessary steps to be
the best VW restoration shop in
the Carolinas.
All this is due to millions of years of evolution. Men went
hunting and peed standing up wherever the urge struck
them; women went gathering and had to squat down in the
bushes. There were potentially nasty things in the bushes
they did not like squatting into. So women came to know
which bushes were safe to squat into. And you know what?
They still know! They are biologically programmed never
to forget which bushes are safe. If they had forgotten, the
daughters of Eve would have squatted on an asp or
something and we wouldn’t be here.
We shall continue with a further hypothetical man-woman
conversation in which each takes account of the fact that
the other is fixated on cars or asps, respectively:
We see them out there, the mint
'67 Deluxe in the garage, the '61
rag top project in the backyard
and no local shop you can depend
on to get the job done right - now
it's here! From basic maintenance
to all out restos, we can do it all!
Contact Jake or Bryan at...
She: “Why can’t you just validate my feelings?”
He: “Why? Am I your therapist? What useful purpose
could it possibly serve?”
She: “It could help ensure that you get a food pellet the
next time the green light comes on.”
He: “Oh! Well then! If you put it that way, I hereby
validate your feelings.”
(704) 373-2745
She: “Thanx. Now, could you do that with feeling, please?”
1512 Southwood Avenue
Charlotte, NC 28203
But somehow I fear that this discussion has gone horribly
wrong and I can smell a food pellet burning in the skillet.
Where is that woman when I need her to validate my
feeling of helpless hunger!? I think I’ll go check the oil.
[email protected]
www.monkeynutvw.com
6
1966 VW Bus Retrofitted With Snowmobile
Tracks and Sound System Takes the Party to the Slopes
by Timon Singh
Après-ski party anyone?
A handy engineer has converted a
fully functioning 1966 VW Bus into
a snow-bound DJ machine complete
with 1000 watt subwoofer and 2 x
300 watt speakers. Of course, a
normal VW bus would never be able
to get on the slopes, so the wheels
have been removed and replaced
with rubber snowmobile tracks,
allowing this cool retro vehicle to
plow through the snow at 15 kph.
The retrofitted VW Bus is decked
out with an impressive sound
system that includes a Behringer 5
channel mixer, two Technics 1210
turntables, a wireless microphone,
and a spot to plug an iPod into. This
makes this snow-bound VW Bus
ideal for outdoor parties, events and promotions. Of course, the
VW can also be driven on snowy roads.
Many more photos and mechanical specifications at: “VW T1
Pistenbulli, Making of” http://www.bb-support.at/projekte/
7
FLIP THIS BUS!
Confessions of a Bus Flipper
The following is an OBR exclusive anonymous interview
Flip: That’s all they really are8just toys. I wouldn’t drive
Coast. We spent a few minutes with him (just about all we
me my Volvo for driving any day.
with a buyer/seller (aka “flipper) of VW Buses on the West
far in them, they’re dangerous and uncomfortable! Give
could stand) at the OCTO Vintage Meet last June.
OBR: What changes have you seen in the buying and
selling of Buses over the past 20 years?
OBR: So, what was your occupation before you became
involved with vintage VWs?
Flip: It used to be a lot more fun.
Before the internet, you could still
Flip: I was an aerospace
find parts stashes and cheap buses
engineer at Lockheed. That was
hidden away at old dealerships
about 20 years ago.
and in barns. Now, everybody
OBR: What got you into VWs?
knows everything, and it’s a lot
more competitive. I like to place
Flip: I saw that there was a
ads on Craigslist now saying I’m
rising interest in them back in
looking for VW buses, and people
the ‘90s, and I used to buy and
come to me. Also I like selling
sell Mustangs as a sideline
buses to the UK and Japan. It’s
when I was at Lockheed. I
always been true, but money talks,
bought my first Bus in ’96 for $1500 and turned it around
for $5000 a week later. You know, I’ve never sold a VW
b.s. walks. My method is to be first on the spot with the
That got me hooked.
OBR: How many buses would you say you’ve bought and
money: fresh hundreds impress sellers.
for less than I paid for it. After that first sale, I was hooked.
sold?
OBR: Some people would say you’re a speculator, and
drive up the prices of Buses with all your buying and
Flip: I’ve lost count. Back in the ‘90s I sometimes got ‘em
selling. What do you say to that?
for free. I turned them around pretty quick.
Flip: That’s a lot of B.S. I’m a businessman. I offer a service.
OBR: What’ll you do when you can’t find enough Buses to
The price of something is all between the buyer and seller.
support yourself?
I’m not forcing people to buy these things. If I find ‘em and
Flip: I don’t need VW’s to support myself8this is just
sell ‘em for more, what’s the harm of that? That’s business.
something I do in my spare time. It’s already getting pretty
There’s no gouging going on, and nobody needs these toys.
thin there with the old buses. I buy and sell a lot of Bay
OBR: Toys?
Window Buses now. I also buy and sell Vanagon
Westfalias, and I still flip the occasional Mustang now and
then.
8
Flip’s Tips
On Getting an Old Bus Before Somebody Else Does
•
•
Drive around, vary your route, look behind trees and houses. Winter is a good time when the trees drop their
leaves—you can see so much more!
Advertise on Craigslist that you’re looking for a VW bus. Lots of people won’t feel comfortable advertising their
Bus, but will respond to your ad. Here’s an example of what I use:
Serious and authentic interest in finding a solid and basically original '67 or earlier VW Bus, Camper or Crew
Cab. Need not run or be currently registered. VW related Camping equipment or other spare bus parts would
also be great. Thanks and generous finder's fee offered - Email or phone: (XXX) XXX-XXXX
•
•
Get a magnetic sign for your car that says something like: “Old VWs Wanted! Serious collector interested in any
and all old VWs.” Make sure your phone number or email address is on there.
When visiting the owner, make sure to have cash-in-hand. Towing equipment and a friend to help is a big plus!
25th Anniversary Parade Single Cab
Dave Phillips
I received this photo
from my employer
(The Hanover
Consumer
Cooperative Society).
We are located in
Hanover, New
Hampshire and are
the second largest
cooperative grocery
store in the U.S. with
over 30,000 members.
This photo was taken
on Main Street in
Hanover for our 25st
anniversary. We have
since moved to a
larger location in
town and now have
three grocery stores, a
convenience store and
a service station in
the surrounding area.
Coincidently I
recently (last
summer) purchased a
1960 single cab.
9
A 1960 Kombi
Roger Lozier
I mentioned wanting a motorcycle and his face
became serious while tears formed at the corners of his
eyes. He told me of his friend who had been a wizard
mechanic at Estes-Zipper. A year prior he had been
involved in a serious accident while riding his motor
cycle. After sufficiently recovering from his injuries he
returned to work with some debilitation. He was
encouraged to give up the bike, but a few months later
he went for a ride and was killed. Our salesman said I
reminded him of his deceased friend. I took his
admonition about 2-wheeled commuting to heart at
the time. I did not project a few years forward when I
would be lying on an emergency room table with
doctors administering to injuries sustained in a close
encounter between my motorcycle and a Jeepster.
They marveled at my lack of brain or spinal injury and
common sense. To paraphrase an old song: I fought
the car and the car won.
My first Volkswagen Microbus was a 1960 Kombi.
I purchased it in the spring of 1968 at an unlikely
place. It was at the used car lot of Estes-Zipper, a
Porsche and Ferrari dealership in Los Angeles. My
wife and I were living in Westwood Village. I was
working in Hawthorne at an aluminum
manufacturing plant, a dismal job, trying to save up
money to attend UCLA. I wanted to buy a new
Triumph motorcycle and frequently ogled them at a
local showroom. The model I wanted was about $1100
which represented more than our net worth at the
time. We had purchased our 1967 Karmann-Ghia on
credit the previous year and could not afford more
debt.
One weekend while exploring we saw some used
sports cars at Estes-Zipper and stopped in to lust and
fondle (the cars, not each other). The salesman was
nice and friendly unlike the condescending snots I
usually encountered at auto dealerships. They seemed
to view me as a hippie freak with no money that
would probably scare off the legitimate clientele.
After circumnavigating the extensive Estes-Zipper
used car lot and having the salesman graciously
admire our new Ghia we were about to leave. Behind
the sales office I spied a row of VW Microbuses. I
asked about them and was told they were trades from
a child care facility. It caused me to conjure an image
of the wealthy little Beverly Hills rascals now being
chauffeured around in a fleet of stretched Porsches
painted national school bus yellow. There were five
buses and they ranged in age from 1960 to 1965. The
cheapest was the 1960 at $675. It was Dove Blue and I
fell in love with it. We offered $500 and bought it for
$600. After writing a check I drove it away. It was the
easiest and friendliest experience with a car dealership
I have ever had.
I did not view myself this way. In beard, boots and
jeans carrying a huge Samsonite hard case I favored
the image of a Massey-Ferguson tractor representative.
In retrospect, I concede my reactive anger and hostility
when confronted with real or imagined social
prejudice undoubtedly contributed to others
perception of me.
The salesman at Estes-Zipper was an Irishman. He
was compact and wiry with movements that were
athletic and graceful. At the turn of the 19th Century he
could have been a champion bare fisted boxer. He had
a mop of red hair and a face full of freckles. He
greeted us with a charming smile and no hint of
underlying suspicion or the prospect of time wasted. I
responded in kind. We wandered the lot while
conversing enthusiastically about sports cars and the
specific merits of those represented on the lot. He let
us sit in the seats and smell the leather. We wiggled
steering wheels, shifted gears and made exhaust
noises with our mouths.
My 1960 was spartan. The only instrumentation
was the speedometer. It had red hash marks on the
face of it at intervals to indicate where the
manufacturer suggested shifting gears. There were
two small warning/trouble lights: red for electrical
and green for oil. Under the dash was a handy shelf
that went all the way across. It had a non-adjustable
bench seat with a space behind it to store the spare
tire, jack and lug wrench. I didn’t have a spare tire, but
10
that would have been
a good place for it.
Instead I stuck things
back there for
safekeeping out of
sight because the
locks didn’t work.
On the raised
portion of the floor
between the driver
and passenger were
three controls. One
was pulled for the
manual choke. When
used the engine never
failed to start cold.
Another was pulled
for approximately one
gallon of emergency
fuel. Since there was
no fuel gauge the
driver either kept
track of fuel
consumption and
miles traveled or
relied on the reserve.
The mechanism
caused the first gallon
Roger and
of fuel pumped into
the tank to be trapped. When the level was too low
and the engine began to starve the knob was pulled
dumping the reserve fuel into the tank. I preferred
doing this to tracking mileage. I always knew there
was a gas station within range when the engine
stumbled. The trap had to be reset by pushing in the
knob before fueling or the trusty reserve was not
available when needed next. The third control was a
big placebo knob to turn for the illusion of heat from
the 36 HP air-cooled power plant in the rear of the car.
There was a cleverly written booklet inside giving lots
of technical information about the German rebuilt
engine that had been installed. For instance, it told
how many times the pistons would whiz back and
forth in a specified period like 60,000 miles or how
many times it would traverse the equator before heat
found its way from the back to the front of the car.
The ventilation system was better than the heating
system although there was no blower to push air.
Since the weather was
more often hot where I
went than cold I
appreciated this feature.
Overhead between the
driver and passenger
was a console that let in
fresh air; well, as fresh
as could be expected in
the smog ridden
environment. A knob
was turned to direct the
air to the side or rear.
There was a sliding
window and a vent
wing window for both
driver and passenger.
On each side in the rear
were three windows
that hinged open a
couple of inches. The
forward ones pushed air
in and the rear ones let it
out. There was a
removable bench seat in
the back. We used to go
to a drive-in restaurant
in Los Angeles where
the car hops were on
Darrell
skates. Since the food
tray wouldn’t rest on the sliding windows we would
open the side doors, get in back and be served there.
There was a little shelf over the spare tire carrier
where we sat our drinks. It was the lap of luxury on
the cheap.
I drove the car daily commuting to work and
college. We went all over Southern California in it. We
moved to Long Beach in it and hauled furniture and
camping gear and various other things for ourselves
and others. It never had a serious break down.
Sometimes when driving over a dip in the road a
distinct noise could be heard that sounded like “thank
you” in a faint bullfrog voice coming from the radio
speaker. I usually said “No, thank you” back although
this disturbed passengers because they didn’t hear the
noise and the radio never worked anyway.
Now 39 years later on a beautiful Sunday morning
I am sitting in another 1960 VW Microbus very much
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Darrell by his 1960
like that first one. It belonged to my friend Darrell
Pinckney who died on April 22nd. I am honored and
privileged to be driving it to the 13th Annual
Volkswagens on the Green. For the second year our
club (Volkswagen Enthusiasts of Colorado) is hosting
this event at Clement Park.
The cab was
designed to maximize
cargo space and is quite
utilitarian. I remember
that it is similar in some
respects to the cockpit of
a small airplane of the
same era. I am now used
to modern vehicles with
adjustable seats and
dashes that curve away
from the driver and have
bodies that extend
beyond. I drive big over
the road trucks
sometimes and this
vehicle is on the opposite
end of the spectrum. It
suddenly occurs to me
that a contributing factor
to the feeling of
confinement is being 50
pounds heavier than in
1968. Still I like the car
and find it satisfying to be inside.
Yesterday afternoon Tim (Darrell’s son) and I
spent a few hours cleaning up the bus and doing some
minor repairs. It was hot. I stabbed myself in the
thumb putting on some personalized license plate
brackets while Tim struggled trying to install window
seals. We both tried to figure out how much fuel was
in the tank. Darrell was a scientist and kept notes on
all of his vehicles. According to his mileage figures
there should be ample fuel remaining for the distance I
would travel. On the other hand I didn’t want to risk
running out. The knob for the reserve fuel was stuck.
When I finally got it free it pulled out with about 8” of
cable so I knew it was disconnected. I went to get fuel
in a couple of lawn mower sized plastic gas cans. The
gas leaked inside the trunk of my wife’s car on the
way back saturating the carpet. When I poured the
fuel in the bus I found the spouts on both cans didn’t
seal and the path of least resistance was down the side
forming a puddle around my feet. The angle I had to
hold the container caused the leakage to worsen. I
found a funnel, but the tip was too short so it actually
made the situation worse. After getting maybe a
couple of gallons in the tank I said to Tim: “You know
The first thing I notice is how small the cab area is.
It is not a question of leg or head room since these are
adequate for me. However, the windshield seems
right in my face and there is a feeling of being
extremely vulnerable. Only a thin sheet metal panel
separates the tips of my toes from the outside world.
My knees straddle the steering column. In fact the
manufacturer wisely suggested that if a head on
collision was anticipated the driver and front
passenger should lift their legs to minimize injury.
Back in the days when I was making the scene in my
1960 there were numerous horror stories about people
taking their VW Microbuses north up the Alcan
Highway, getting into collisions in remote areas and
losing their legs at the knee. I began to have visions of
an entire string-town colony of refugees who looked
like Toulouse-Lautrec living in blasted out VW Buses
along the road from Dawson Creek to Fairbanks.
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Darrell is probably laughing his ass off at us right
now.” He agreed.
The other minor problem I am having with Darrell’s
bus is when I need to get into first the shift lever
moves so far to the left that it traps my leg against the
steering column. Pushing the stick down and back to
get into reverse is worse. However I find that with a
little jockeying and shifting of position I am able to
shift OK. With the sliders open I thoroughly enjoy my
leisurely drive to Clement Park.
I did feel his gentle presence. He was sitting in his
chair there on the porch watching us. He slowly
puffed on his pipe and the pleasurable smell drifted
out to me. There was a mischievous twinkle in his
eyes. I felt he was about to make a witty comment or
perhaps a sarcastic remark about my competence. All I
heard in my head was a soft “thank you” and “bye,
bye” the way Darrell always ended our phone
conversations. In reply I said: “No, Thank you!”
After parking Darrell’s bus for awhile by our
club’s pavilion so our members could see it, Tim took
it over to the Colorado Bus Club. This is a group that
Darrell traveled and camped with for years. Tim and
his sister Sue sat up a nice display with memorabilia
and photographs from Darrell’s past. At the end of the
show awards are handed out. A trophy was given in
remembrance of Darrell and it is our intention to make
this an annual award.
I start the bus and leave it in neutral idling while I
transfer some club stuff for the show.
Every time I get out and take a few steps the
engine dies. I check and find the choke is
disconnected. After loading I restart the engine and
just sit there nursing the throttle awhile. I like the old
familiar sound that resonates along the floor and
permeates straight into my body and soul filling me
with a pleasurable nostalgia. I put it in gear and move
off. Darrell has a tachometer, but I just use the original
speedometer shift points and that works pretty well. I
find that when I am in top gear and let off the throttle
it jumps out with a
disconcerting bang.
Lightly resting my hand
on the shifter solves the
problem. I remember and
old friend in California
that had a similar bus
with an identical
problem. He fashioned a
stick with a notch that fit
the shifter and it was
wedged against the parcel
tray to keep the
transmission from
popping out of fourth
when cruising. About five
years later he showed up
at our place in Sedalia
unannounced for a visit.
He had the same bus with
the same un-repaired
transmission except now
his stick had two notches
because it jumped out of
third and fourth gears.
At the end of the day I slowly drive the old bus
back to Darrell’s and park it in front. I glance around
the place for him. He is not to be seen. I think he must
be gone for good.
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Dub Box Retro-styled Trailers for Campers and
Foodies
By Chris Weiss
an icon - are now more than 30 (and even up to 62)
years old. That type of age in a vehicle means all
kinds of maintenance and restoration work, money
and headaches.
Dub Box USA offers a new solution for nostalgic
folks yearning for a camper as cool as the
Volkswagen Type 2 of the 1950s and 60s. Its line
of camping trailers is inspired by the classic VW
buses, and is offered without the expense and
headaches of restoring an old Type 2. You get outof-the-box convenience with timeless, retro looks.
VW may eventually create a reinvented Bulli cool
enough to command the love and admiration of the
original, but so far it’s been noncommittal. You
could always go to Brazil where trueto-origin Type 2 vans are still built
today, but in the United States and
Europe, the options are largely to find
and restore a classic Type 2 or buy a
newer (not nearly as awesome) Type 2
camper.
It may not be the largest, most
useful camper, but the converted
Volkswagen Type 2 van - or Bulli,
Transporter, Microbus, etc. - is
definitely among the most iconic.
Everything about the van just
screams “open road freedom” ...
except perhaps for the fact that the
first two generations of the Type 2 the generations that made the model
Now there's a new option that lets you
get a brand new camper while enjoying
timeless, decades-old looks. UK-based
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Dub box makes exactly zero effort to hide the fact
that its line of campers was inspired by the VW
Type 2. It even shows them being towed by samecolored Type 2s in its marketing photos, and the
name “Dub Box” (as in boxy V-Dub) pays homage.
The camping trailers feature the same roundedrectangle shape and square windows as the
original Transporters. They also get two-toned
exterior paint jobs. The only thing that might be
missing for some nostalgic Type 2 fans is the split
windshield of the first-generation vans.
with exterior and interior colors, flooring, blinds,
upholstery and countertop materials.
The Dub Box sleeps two with a double bed and
offers a dining area large enough for four. It has
kitchenette with two-ring gas burner, stainless
steel sink, pump-action tap and retro fridge.
Dub Box USA announced US availability this week
and a rep said that the first models will arrive in
May. The standard Dub Box retails for US$17,990
and the DIY version, which requires you to
assemble and paint it, costs $8,990. Dub Box also
offers the trailers in retail and food vendor
configurations ranging between $14,990 and
$22,990. A larger pop-top version with two bunk
beds and a queen will launch in the future.
Much the way the original Transporters were a
symbol of freedom and individual spirit, the Dub
Box is designed to be completely customized by its
owner. The company offers it in do-it-yourself
models and completed campers, both of which offer
the buyer plenty of say in colors, materials and
equipment. Buyers can individualize their trailers
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