I love the Brick Volvos. My father's last car was a '95 940, which I wish I'd kept after he died. Beautiful car, not much power, but a silky smooth engine. But I didn't appreciate these cars nearly as much in late summer, 1973 as I do now. Back then, I drove a 140 wagon Boston to Palo Alto for a Stanford professor (don't remember the year). The car was loaded to the gills with possessions that were fitted inside like the pieces of a 3D puzzle. In late Nebraska or early Wyoming, I noticed that one of the rear tires had begun to leak air. I put some more in and tried to tell myself it was my imagination, but several hours later, it was obvious. I stopped at a gas station in Rawlins to get the tire fixed, as I had no desire to mess with the luggage. The guy who owned the place made some comments about German cars, and after correcting him several times I gave up. Not having a Volvo jack, he went through contortions to jack the thing without inflicting damage. Once the tire was fixed, he admonished me that next time I crossed the country, I should be driving a Cadillac, and stop in his gas station to get the gas tank filled. But that was the last time I drove across the country (the next year I took the train, and the year after that I rode my bicycle). I'm hoping to drive cross-country again next year, in my Civic, but I plan to be taking the back roads.
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