It was around 1986 when a coworker at the Schwinn bike shop, where I spent my days wrenching on bicycles, asked if I was interested in buying his Amc Hornet Wagon. Having already experienced the joys of owning a couple of temperamental, smog-choked relics from the malaise era – a ’77 Plymouth Arrow and a ’76 Mercury Capri – I was hesitant to jump back into another questionable relationship with a carbureted, smog-controlled heap, especially one bearing the AMC badge. By the 80s, it was clear to most that American Motors Corporation was heading towards automotive oblivion. I recall perhaps a bit too bluntly telling Alan, “No thanks, I’m saving up for a real car next time.”
Years later, the exact reason for my change of heart remains a bit hazy. Perhaps it was the fact that this particular Hornet wagon was a hand-me-down from Alan’s grandfather, making it practically a one-owner vehicle. Maybe it was the comfortable coworker dynamic, a sense that Alan wouldn’t intentionally sell me a lemon. Or perhaps it was simply witnessing the car reliably transport him to work day after day. Whatever the catalyst, a few days later, a few hundred dollars changed hands, and the gray AMC Hornet became mine.
Alan’s upgrade from the Hornet was a gleaming second-generation Honda Accord hatchback, finished in a captivating seafoam green. It was a shade remarkably close to the envy I felt every time I saw it. In those days, the second-gen Accord, barely out of production, was still highly sought after, often commanding prices far above the sticker. An 18-year-old bike mechanic like Alan, sporting a near-new Accord, was indeed a fortunate individual. Lucky you, Alan!
My reality was the drab gray Hornet wagon. A design that debuted in 1970, its styling was undeniably rooted in the 1960s. And it showed, particularly inside. The shapes, the materials, the overall ambiance – it felt like stepping directly into a time capsule.
The odometer displayed a modest 13,000 miles, which I reasonably assumed had already circled once. Alan provided service records indicating the automatic transmission had been replaced and then rebuilt, a slightly concerning history, but I optimistically hoped any lingering issues were resolved. The car had been repainted from its original metallic silver to a rather somber primer gray, reminiscent of rural water towers and industrial electrical boxes – the color of understated functionality, or perhaps, melancholy. Why gray, of all colors? Yet, freshly washed, it actually looked presentable. The styled steel wheels, racing stripes, and the sloping rear roofline gave it a hint of sportiness (AMC, in a marketing twist, reportedly avoided the term “wagon” for the 5-door Hornet, coining the “Sportabout” moniker instead). Supposedly originating from Alan’s grandfather’s Florida residence, the car was remarkably rust-free, save for a couple of minor spots beginning to appear on the front fenders.
During a stereo upgrade, I inadvertently cracked the center dash trim, that distinctively 60s-esque piece that flowed from the dashboard. But fate, or perhaps just Cleveland’s automotive landscape, intervened. I knew of a derelict Hornet parked in a vacant lot in a less-than-desirable part of town. One evening, I ventured down, located an older gentleman who claimed ownership, offered him a few dollars, and with a screwdriver, quickly liberated a replacement dash trim piece. (It now occurs to me, the man’s ownership might have been questionable).
Power came from a 258 cubic inch inline-six engine. Historical accounts often portray this engine of that era as severely underpowered, around 100 horsepower, but in my memory, the car wasn’t noticeably sluggish. The Hornet wagon did boast a rear defogger, a welcome feature, and AMC’s “Weather-Eye” air conditioning, which demanded frequent R-12 recharges to maintain any semblance of coolness. A proper AC repair estimate approached the car’s purchase price, making it financially unrealistic. A monthly dose of Freon became the economical, albeit environmentally irresponsible, solution. My apologies to the ozone layer.
The car exhibited a couple of peculiar driving quirks. Hitting potholes, or “chuckholes” as we called them in Cleveland, would sometimes cause it to stall. Another consistent stalling trigger was refueling. Within a minute of leaving a gas station, the engine would die. Every single time. This predictable pattern led me to believe it wasn’t mere coincidence. My best guess was that the shock of cold, fresh gasoline in the tank triggered some kind of thermal reaction in the warm carburetor. I became quite proficient at shifting into neutral and restarting the engine on the fly, maintaining momentum despite these interruptions.
Speaking of the fuel tank, it was surprisingly capacious at 27 gallons. I rarely filled it completely, except for one particular road trip to Canada’s Manitoulin Island. Parking the Hornet in Tobermory on the Bruce Peninsula, I boarded the MS Chi-Cheemaun ferry to Manitoulin, the world’s largest freshwater island, where I spent two and a half days cycling around its scenic landscapes. Upon returning via ferry to my car, I filled the Hornet’s tank in Tobermory and began the long drive home, southward through Ontario to Niagara, across into New York state, and onward through New York, Pennsylvania, and into Ohio. Nearing Cleveland, I glanced at the fuel gauge, impressed by the apparent range. About 25 miles from home, the gauge still indicated a quarter tank remaining!
Ten minutes later, I ran out of gas.
Evidently, the fuel needle’s journey to the “F” mark had been so impactful it had lost its calibration, falsely suggesting gallons of fuel when the tank was bone dry. There I was, stranded at 3 AM, out of gas.
The final chapter arrived one evening when, parked behind a restaurant while picking up takeout, the car simply refused to start. This starting reluctance had become a recent, unwelcome trend after months of relatively smooth operation. “Damn this car to hell,” I muttered, cranking the ignition. Suddenly, a pop from under the hood, followed by a plume of smoke and the ominous flicker of yellow flames visible through the grille. Good thing I’m not overly superstitious, or I might have believed my curse had summoned some automotive demon.
A restaurant employee, witnessing the unfolding drama, called the fire department. Understandable, given my proximity to the building. But the firefighters’ arrival marked the beginning of the end. With a distinct lack of sympathy, they punctured holes in the hood with axes, inserted hoses, and proceeded to flood the engine compartment with vast quantities of water. Minutes later, they departed, leaving me with a thoroughly extinguished, but equally ruined, Hornet.
This is the point in the story where, in a classic car narrative arc, I should recount how I miraculously repaired the Hornet wagon for a mere $28 and drove it for another three glorious years. But alas, reality intervened. Mentally calculating the repair costs – a new hood, extensive wiring repairs, replacement hoses and connectors, likely a new carburetor and air cleaner depending on the axe damage, plus weeks of downtime – I didn’t even bother opening the hood to assess the full extent of the damage. The next morning, I called a junkyard and sold the AMC Hornet for $30. Revoke my car enthusiast card, I wouldn’t argue. I hadn’t truly loved the AMC, and I saw this fiery demise as an unexpected, if inconvenient, opportunity, even if it left me temporarily without transportation.
Looking back, I’ve been perhaps overly critical of the Hornet. In context, it wasn’t inherently a terrible car. But it was undeniably a very, very sad car, a testament to a bygone era and perhaps, to the sometimes-quirky realities of budget car ownership.
