It was around 1986 when a workmate at the local Schwinn bike shop, where I spent my days wrenching on bicycles, casually asked if I was interested in buying his Amc Hornet Wagon. Having already navigated the treacherous waters of owning a couple of unreliable, smog-choked relics from the malaise era – a ’77 Plymouth Arrow and a ’76 Mercury Capri – the thought of diving headfirst into another questionable automotive relationship, especially with an AMC, was less than appealing. By the 80s, the writing was on the wall for AMC; their future looked bleak. I distinctly remember, perhaps a bit rudely, telling Alan, “No thanks, I’m actually saving up for a real car this time.”
Years have passed, and the exact reasons for my change of heart remain a bit hazy. Maybe it was the compelling detail that this particular Hornet wagon had been in Alan’s family since his grandfather bought it new, making it practically a one-owner vehicle. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of working alongside Alan, a friendly face I saw daily, which instilled a sense of trust that he wouldn’t knowingly sell me a lemon. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the simple, consistent sight of that Hornet reliably transporting him to work day after day. Whatever confluence of factors it was, just days later, a few hundred dollars changed hands, and the keys to the AMC Hornet wagon were mine.
Alan’s upgrade from the Hornet was a gleaming second-generation Honda Accord hatchback, finished in a captivating seafoam green – a shade that mirrored my own burgeoning envy. Back then, the second-gen Accord was only recently out of production, yet it felt financially unattainable for a bike mechanic, myself or Alan included. To truly grasp the automotive landscape of the 80s, remember that people were willingly paying premiums far above the sticker price just to get their hands on an Accord. An 18-year-old kid like Alan cruising around in a near-new Accord? He was indeed a lucky guy. You were a lucky SOB, Alan!
Meanwhile, I found myself the owner of a rather somber, gray AMC Hornet wagon. This car, first introduced way back in 1970, was undeniably a design product of the 1960s. And boy, did it show, especially inside the cabin. The shapes, the materials, the overall aesthetic – it all felt like stepping back in time, because, well, it was.
The odometer displayed a modest 13,000 miles, although I strongly suspected it had likely circled the dial at least once before. Along with the car came a stack of service records from Alan, revealing that the automatic transmission had been both replaced and rebuilt – a slightly concerning history. Still, I optimistically hoped that whatever gremlins had plagued it were now exorcised. The Hornet had also undergone a repaint, inexplicably transforming from its original metallic silver to a rather depressing primer gray – the color reminiscent of industrial water towers, electrical boxes, and general melancholy. Truly, out of the entire spectrum of colors, why this particular shade? Yet, when freshly washed, it actually looked reasonably presentable. The styled steel wheels, subtle pinstripes, and the somewhat sporty, sloping rear roofline did lend it a touch of visual appeal. (AMC, in their marketing, reportedly shied away from the term “wagon” for the 5-door Hornet, hence the “Sportabout” moniker). Supposedly hailing from Alan’s grandfather’s Florida residence, the car was remarkably free of rust, save for a couple of small blemishes emerging on the front fenders.
While in the midst of upgrading the sound system with a new stereo, I clumsily managed to crack the center dash trim – that distinct piece that rose from the dashboard like a ghostly echo of 1960s design. However, fortune smiled, as I knew of a non-operational Hornet languishing in a vacant lot in a less-than-desirable part of Cleveland. One evening, I ventured down there, located an elderly gentleman who claimed ownership of the derelict vehicle, negotiated a small sum, and armed with a screwdriver, swiftly liberated a replacement dash trim piece. (A thought just struck me – did that guy actually own that car?).
Under the hood resided a 258 cubic inch inline-six engine. Historical accounts often paint this engine, in its smog-era guise, as severely underpowered, perhaps churning out a mere 100 horsepower. Yet, my recollection is that the Hornet wagon wasn’t quite the sluggish performer those figures suggest. It was equipped with a rear window defogger, a welcome feature, and AMC’s “Weather-Eye” air conditioning system, which, in typical fashion, demanded frequent R-12 refrigerant top-offs to maintain a semblance of cold air. I did inquire about a proper, permanent A/C fix, but the quoted price approached what I had paid for the entire car, rendering it a non-starter. A monthly can of Freon, however, was a budget-friendly, albeit environmentally irresponsible, workaround. To the ozone layer, I offer my belated apologies.
The Hornet wagon did possess a couple of peculiar driving quirks. Encountering potholes, or “chuckholes” as they’re known in Cleveland vernacular, would sometimes cause the engine to abruptly stall. Another, even more predictable stall-inducing event was refueling. Approximately a minute after leaving a gas station, without fail, the engine would sputter and die. This happened with such regularity that coincidence was ruled out. My working theory was that the influx of cold, fresh gasoline into the tank created some sort of thermal shock when it reached the carburetor, which was likely still warm. I became quite proficient at swiftly shifting into neutral and restarting the engine whenever this occurred, allowing me to maintain momentum and minimize disruption.
Speaking of the fuel tank, it was a positively enormous 27 gallons. I rarely filled it completely, except for one memorable road trip to Canada’s Manitoulin Island. I parked the Hornet in Tobermory, situated on the Bruce Peninsula, and boarded the MS Chi-Cheemaun ferry across the strait to Manitoulin, the world’s largest freshwater island. There, I spent two and a half blissful days exploring the island by bicycle before returning via ferry to my patiently waiting AMC Hornet wagon. I topped off the tank in Tobermory and began the long drive home, heading south through Ontario to Niagara Falls, crossing into New York state, and continuing through New York, Pennsylvania, and finally back into Ohio. Nearing Cleveland, I glanced at the fuel gauge and was genuinely impressed by the apparent range I had achieved. With roughly 25 miles to go until home, the gauge still indicated a quarter of a tank remaining!
Ten minutes later, the engine coughed, sputtered, and died. I was out of gas.
Evidently, the fuel needle’s journey towards the “F” mark on the gauge had been so momentous that it had thrown off its calibration. It was confidently displaying a substantial reserve of fuel when, in reality, the tank was bone dry. And so, there I was, stranded and out of gas at 3 AM.
The Hornet wagon’s final chapter unfolded one evening when, parked behind a restaurant while collecting a takeout order, it simply refused to restart. After a period of relatively trouble-free operation, this starting reluctance had become a recurring issue. “Damn this car to hell,” I muttered under my breath, as I furiously cranked the ignition. Suddenly, a sharp “pop” emanated from beneath the hood, swiftly followed by a plume of smoke and the ominous flicker of yellow flames visible through the grille. Being a pragmatist, not prone to superstition, even I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of unease, as if my frustrated curse had somehow summoned automotive misfortune.
A concerned restaurant employee, witnessing the unfolding drama, promptly called the fire department. Given my proximity to the building, it was a prudent call. However, the arrival of the firefighters marked a decidedly unceremonious end for the Hornet wagon. With little sympathy for my vehicular woes, they unceremoniously punctured holes in the hood with their axes, jammed their hoses into the newly created openings, and proceeded to inundate the engine compartment with copious amounts of water. Minutes later, they departed, leaving me with a thoroughly disabled AMC Hornet wagon.
Now, this is the part of the story where, in classic car enthusiast narratives, I’m supposed to recount how I miraculously repaired the fire-damaged Hornet for a mere $28 and went on to drive it for another three glorious years. But alas, reality intervened. After mentally tallying the potential repair costs – a replacement hood, extensive rewiring, new hoses, connectors, and likely a new carburetor and air cleaner assembly, depending on the extent of the fire axe damage – not to mention the weeks of downtime, I didn’t even bother to lift the ruined hood to assess the full extent of the devastation. The next morning, I made a call to a local junkyard and sold the remains of the Hornet wagon for a paltry $30. Revoke my “car guy” card if you must; I won’t argue. I hadn’t developed any deep affection for that AMC, and I viewed this fiery demise as an unexpected, albeit inconvenient, opportunity – even though it left me temporarily without personal transportation.
In retrospect, perhaps I’ve been overly critical of the Hornet wagon. Context is crucial. Taken in its proper historical context, it wasn’t inherently a bad car. But it was, undeniably, a very, very sad car, a rolling testament to a bygone era and the automotive challenges of its time.
