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The BMW Isetta: A vexing car that invited bullying Photo accompanies this story By Ed Waggener Basically written around a quarter century ago, ca 1979; edited July 11, 2005 "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." I think it says that, but I owe some guys something, and after 20 years, I am getting wind of who they are. I know one culprit is Jack Portwood, a Blue Raider star from Blackey, Kentucky, who is now principal of Lincoln County High School. Others will talk, I am sure, when get Portwood to crack. What they did, in 1958, is they put my car in the basement of the Administration Building at Lindsey Wilson College. And laughed. I had to get outside help to get it out. It was a BMW Isetta. It looked like it had three wheels, but really it had two wide-set front wheels and two narrow-set back wheels which were on a solid axle. It had a 13 horsepower motor which got 57 miles to the gallon. On 23 to 32 cent gas, it could carry you to Louisville and back for less than one dollar. If it actually made it that far. It was not very reliable. Hartzell Hodges won it Hartzell Hodges, auto parts salesman extraordinaire, won the Isetta in a raffle at Bardstown. Either he did not have the class to appreciate the car's finer qualities, or he was just smarter than me. Or both. He sold it to me for $750, although the German importers in Louisville were selling the same model for about $1395. The car looked like a bug. It had a front door. And a canvass covered hole in the roof. With the roof laid back, it was a handy hole for throwing newspapers through. The car could be used to augment by throwing aim, and I remember that on Frazier Avenue, I could deliver Edgie Howell's evening paper with a hook shot, gain speed to throw Colonel Billy Wilson's paper, and by calculating the trajectory, hit the porch accurately everytime, frightening only the family cat, Sylvia (the Colonel's wife, not the cat), and any other guests or residents there. Between 4 and 5 p.m., the Wilson family knew the front porch was a war zone, and only the very intrepid ventured to wait there for the Times. The U.L. Rogers house, at the foot of the hill, was built as though it were made to show off the car's design as a newspaper delivery wagon. There, the front door could be flipped open and a simple, graceful lay-up would cast the paper right in front of the door. The car worked as well in other parts of Columbia. On paper routes. The car had problems There were problems with the car besides the fact that Portwoo's Mountain Mafia at Lindsey liked to put it in the basement. Muscle freaks loved to pick the rear end up, and let the tires spin freely, then let it drop. And laugh. "Har, har!" as the wheels squeaked. Don Yates could pick up the rear end of the car by himself. But there were other problems, besides that. It was unreliable I thought my pipelining career was ended when Donald Upchurch and I headed to Franklin, Tennessee, in the Isetta to launch our construction career. At the Adair Drive-In, we ran through a puddle of water and the engine conked out, just in time for Billy Humble to pass by on his way to Franklin. He laughed at us. It took us one-half hour to dry it out and be on our way to fortune in Tennessee. It was a parade feature It was to have been featured by the Business Club at LWC in the Homecoming Parade. Miss Hulse's group was to have made it look like the long dresses in the fancy turn-outs at the fair, and the beauty contestant, JoAnn Squires, later Mrs. Tim Hancock of Versailles, was to have ridden in it as a Southern Belle in a fancy turnout without a horse. But the universal joints were rubber donut affairs which flexed three times with every revolution of the drive wheels. The donuts broke right before the big parade. The Business Club members cried. I came to the rescue by borrowing Bobby Hutchison's Morris Minor convertible. It was used while my car was retired in disgrace with the broken rubber donut. Bobby's car lasted until the fancy turn-out dress was built around it. On the day of the parade, his car overheated. It was retired in disgrace, too. The Business Club was sad. But they still gave me a Lindsey Wilson T-shirt for effort. I don't know what they gave Lawyer Hutchison for the use of his Morris Minor. It was a humane car I remember that the car was kind to animals. I remember that James D. Tupman and I were traveling in it past Lowes Lane, north on Jamestown Street. A monster cat jumped in front of the car. We hit it. The car started thumping. I pulled into the Miller Avenue turn-off. Jimmy asked me what I was doing. With tears in my eyes, I said, "We killed that poor cat. It is wrapped around the wheel. It is causing that thump. I will get out and take the cats corpse off the wheel, and we will give it a decent Christian burial." "The cat," he informed me ,"did not stop. He ran on across Miss Susan's field. Your car is what's broke." It was. I considered giving the decent Christian burial to the Isetta. I left it home for a while When I graduated from Lindsey, I went to Mom and Dad and told them, tearfully, that I should go north, to Indianapolis, to get more education. "There is much more opportunity up North," I reasoned with them. "And I shall be able to work hard, educate myself, and grow prosperous. You and the town will be proud of me." Besides, I told them,"I can live with my sister and brother-in-law free." That suited them. At first I took my bicycle to ride to school. Twelve miles up Capitol Avenue from where I lived, on a tour past the Statehouse and the Governor's Mansion. It was good transportation. Cheap. But it winded me. I resolved to buy new parts, return to the Homeland, get my Isetta, and ride in style. I got them from a dealer with a name which I think was like "von Messerschmitt," and went back north. I did ride in style on my return, I carried my trigonometry book, my Leveque & Harris Conversational French book, fried chicken from Momma, and two two-pound rolls of Edwards Extra Hot Sausage for my brother-in-law. I made it all right through the night, except for tractor-trailer trucks blowing me off the road in Southern Indiana. At Franklin, the whole damned car came uncranked. It was near midnight. I left it in a front yard and took off walking toward Indianapolis, carrying the books, fried chicken, and my brother-in-laws two two-pound rolls of Edwards Extra Hot Sausage. I caught a ride to Epler Avenue, and walked the final mile and one-half to home there. The next day, as I remember, I called von Messerschmitt and offered to sell the car. As I recall, I got $375 for it. I still harbor no bitterness toward the cat, the puddles of water, or the bullies who kicked my car around. But I will continue taking names on the Portwood incident. Someday, I'lll get a chance to return the favor. Submit comments on this story in "Submissions," or write: ed@columbiamagazine.com This story was posted on 2005-07-11 15:11:06
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