I’ve never been shy about driving my 2002s on long trips. Heck, when I bought them—the ’69 (Wolfgang) new, the ’73 (Ludwig) in 1978—they were our daily drivers and vacation cars. Less than a month after taking delivery we departed with Wolfgang on a 2000-mile trip through New England and Canada; I hadn’t even finished the radio installation when we left. Wolfgang continued his role as our vacation car until 1978, when Ludwig joined the fleet. With less than half the mileage—and more important, air conditioning—Ludwig stepped into the long-trip role until 1985. At that point, Carol’s new (gasp!) Buick took over vacation-trip roles. But both 02s continued serving as my daily drivers: rust-free Ludwig in the summer, rusty-but-undergoing-unending-body-work Wolfgang in the winter.
By 1999, with Wolfgang’s refurbishment complete, his salt days were over, and he was replaced by a series of winter cars: a ragged but free E21, followed by serial Honda CRXs and finally an ’87 325e, which served faithfully for eleven years.
But just because my 02s were no longer year-round daily drivers didn’t mean they were languishing in my garage, longing for the open road. Prior to my acquiring a pristine ’91 E30 318iS, and when I wasn’t able to snag a press-pool car for a road-trip story, Ludwig was always our Oktoberfest transportation—almost.
Before a long trip, regardless of whether I’m driving one of my Bimmers or the family transport, I’m pretty good about checking all of the normal things: oil and coolant levels, tire pressure, windshield-washer fluid, and the wipers. I also check my maintenance-and-repairs book to see if I’m close to needing an oil change, or if a routine maintenance item is close to needing replacement based on previous mileage-to-failure notations.
At least I do that most of the time.
The afternoon before our early-morning departure for Oktoberfest 2009—at Lake Lanier, near Atlanta—Ludwig’s carburetor decided to go on strike. Resisting all efforts to do his duty and literally at the last minute, Wolfgang was called from the bench to fill in. Having covered only a few thousand miles—all short trips—since his cosmetic refurbishment a decade before, the entire drivetrain—engine, transmission, driveshaft, and differential—was untouched after 40 years and 215,000 miles. With just enough time to kick the tires and light the fires, I tossed in my tool box, extra oil, and the ever-present spares kit. Trying to outguess what just might fail in the next thousand or so miles, I added a few select spares. I shouldn’t have worried; the round trip was flawless, and I even won an autocross trophy.
Once back from Oktoberfest, I set out to discover what had caused the ’73’s carburetor to go on strike—only to discover that it had healed itself while we were away! It’s been working fine ever since.
But sometimes, just sometimes, careful preparation reaches up and smacks you in the face. This spring I’d been driving Ludwig a lot: a 1600-plus-mile round trip to MidAmerica 02 Fest in Eureka Springs, and even temporary stand-in use when my E30’s recently rebuilt steering rack developed terminal incontinence, and finding a replacement—from another rebuilder—sidelined Georg Fredrich for nearly a month.
In July, I was caravanning with fellow 02 owners Jim Denker and Will Tinker to the Deutsche Marque car show at the Gilmore Museum in Battle Creek. Our planned meeting point was a gas station just north of Dayton, in Piqua; from there we’d drive back roads through northwestern Ohio: much more pleasant—and scenic—than I-75 through Detroit. With fluids and tires all checked the night before, I tossed my duffle in the trunk, turned the key to start—and got nothing. Not even a click.
“Hah!” I thought, “I’ll just pull out my 100-amp booster charger and off I’ll go.” Those 100 amps didn’t do a thing. I had to push the car out of the garage and jump it with Carol’s Toyota.
Arriving in Piqua, I met Jim and Will, and like them, filled my gas tank, turned the ignition on: dead again. The three-year-old battery had neither charged nor healed itself on the 25-mile drive to Piqua. While Jim positioned his car for yet another jump (I was at least smart enough to bring jumper cables), Will got on his phone. “Mike, there’s a Wal-Mart a mile away.”
Off we went. While I went into the store to buy a new Group 26R battery, Will and Jim pulled my old one and wheeled it in, just in time for the exchange ring-up. Prepared for the worst, I had brought a battery-terminal brush and a little jar of Vaseline. Total pit stop time: under 30 minutes.
A month later, history repeated itself: Our Nissan Frontier was all loaded for our annual trek to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. I hopped in, hit the starter, and once again, got nothing. As with the BMW, the battery had been fine the night before. In déjà vu mode, we jumped it with Carol’s Toyota, and this time headed for the local Rural King, whence this three-year-old battery had come.
I was getting better with battery pit stops; I shaved ten minutes off my previous time.
