arsha and I have wanted a P1800 for some time. Usually, it was just a fantasy for us -- a subject that came up every few months; not something we pursued actively. Whenever we came upon a prospect, it either happened that we had no money to spare, or the car had a fatal flaw (such as being mustard-colored). We'd been playing around with this for seven or eight years.

Then, looking through a newly-arrived issue of the Volvo Sports America SEES magazine, an ad caught my eye. There was a '67 1800S listed as "unable to finish restoration, would like to sell to someone who will," the price fit our budget, and the phone number was in our area code. After a half-hour of fretting about it, I called and found myself talking to a friendly man called Neil.

Neil turned out to be the original owner of the car, and he obviously had cared for it. The body was straight, new rockers had been welded in, and there was no rust. The car had been in a minor accident; the damage to the rear had been repaired but needed paint. Neil had completely redone the seats and dash with new leather, and all the gauges had been overhauled. The car had been sitting for three years, but ran well when it was put away. Yes, I wanted to see this one -- even though it was 170 miles away in San Luis Obispo. We made an appointment to meet that Saturday.

San Luis Obispo is home to the Madonna Inn, famous as a honeymoon hotel and for its "theme" decor (you could rent the Caveman Suite, for instance). Marsha and I cruised up the coast in our 122S and arrived in time for lunch at the Madonna Inn restaurant, a weird amalgam of Tyrolean hunting lodge, coal mine and white wrought-iron gingerbread. The food was fine, and I can testify that the Men's room has some of the most unusual arrangements I've seen. If you're ever passing by, give it a try -- it's a hoot!

We pulled into Neil's street, and there was the car. I think Marsha was sold on it before we parked. Neil was as nice in person as on the phone, and told us everything he could think of that was wrong with the car -- which was not much. The clutch cylinders had rotted out from sitting, the gauges needed to be hooked up and the interior put back together. There was no question of getting it running in a few hours and driving it home, but I could find no major problems. It was a solid car, and Neil had carefully marked every wire, made diagrams, and bagged and labeled all the hardware. As a bonus, the trunk was full of every piece of rubber for the entire car, brand new and still in packaging, as well as the original grille in fine shape. Marsha and I took a walk around the neighborhood, decided we couldn't let this opportunity get away, and made Neil an offer. We easily arrived at a compromise price, and I wrote a check. We were P1800 owners.

Several weeks passed while I tried to figure out how to get the car from Neil's driveway to ours and find a free day on which to haul it. Calls to the well-known rental agencies resulted in frustration. Yes, they'd be happy to rent me a trailer if we rented the truck to pull it. The daily rates were acceptable, but that 50 cents per mile fee ... and I'd be paying for the gas. Three hundred dollars at least. Extortion! Smaller outfits wouldn't let their trailers out of the county, for insurance reasons, or their trailers were booked in advance for several weekends to come. I finally did what I should have done to begin with and called the "We Rent Everything" place where I've always gotten engine hoists and stuff like that -- they had three serious trailers on the lot, distance was no problem, and a 24-hour rental was $50. However, I'd need a 3/4-ton truck, or no deal.

Salvation came in the person of a fellow who works down the hall from me. Erik races motorcycles and owns a number of American muscle cars. While he holds a sardonic view of our experimental hot-rod Amazon, he was forthcoming when I mentioned our purchase and predicament -- "Why don't you borrow my truck?" "Your truck? You have a 3/4-ton truck?" "Sure! It's great for towing." "Well, I'll bring it back to you full of all the gas I can get into it."

On the appointed day, we left the 122S in the parking lot of Erik's apartment complex and picked up the truck -- a GMC 2500 4X4 crew-cab behemoth. After clearing assorted Ducati paraphenalia from the bed, we were on our way -- to the nearest gas station. Forty-five dollars-worth of 92-Octane later, we headed for the rental place, and, after some struggle getting the trailer lights to work, through downtown to the US 101 northbound. The rig's about forty feet long and fills a lane of road. I drive gingerly at first; it's been a long time since my farmhand days! Pretty soon, we're headed up the highway, religiously maintaining 55 MPH. The trailer jerks us around unpleasantly, but I soon feel confident that we'll make it through all right.

Some three-and-a-half hours later, Neil and I are filling out all the paperwork to transfer the car's title. After carefully checking that the car still has brakes, I give it a push to start it down Neil's driveway while he sits on the floor and steers. We rig up a bunch of chains and Marsha winches the car up the ramps onto the trailer. We spend a while chocking the wheels with big pieces of wood and strapping the car to the trailer as tightly as we can. There are steep grades to negotiate on the drive back, and we don't need to have the car climb into the bed of the truck.

The ride back is smooth -- the trailer tows much better with a load. Every time I look in the mirror, I can't help but have the impression that some fool is tailgating us in a very nice car. We get home as dusk falls, and I spend a half-hour under the trailer with successively larger tools freeing a piece of chain which has managed to wedge itself tightly stuck. As we roll the car back off the trailer with Marsha working the brakes, a muffler snags going over the ramp and brings the proceedings to an abrupt halt. I finally resort to an improbable maneuver involving the right side of the car going down the ramp on a floor jack. It is now far too late in the day to return the trailer. We push the car into our driveway and go get cleaned up.

The next morning, I return the trailer, give Erik his truck back with another forty-five dollars-worth of gas in it, and collect the Amazon. Darn, this thing's fast! It's surprising how quickly I got used to the feel of the truck.

I think our driveway looks pretty good with a brace of Volvos in it; obvious siblings in matching Ivory and primer. A neighbor walks by with his dog. "What'd you get there? A Studebaker!"

Some people will never understand anything.