A Little Hjälp From Our Friends: Meet Our Scandinavian Survivor 1969 Volvo 144s

Without getting into Sigmund Freud's structural model of the psyche, I think it's safe to say that in our younger years, we make decisions without much thought. We really want objects that aren't necessarily practical. Instead, they are often 'cool,' 'awesome,' or 'radical.'

I'm dating myself, but you get the picture. 

High school comes along, and as young adults, we begin to grasp the consequences of our actions. If we eat pizza at the cafeteria every day, there's a good chance we won't be able to fit into our wrestling singlet. If we show up late for our part-time job because we were watching Tiny Toons, we soon find ourselves without said part-time job.

Simple. 

Then, somewhere around age 30, we begin to make good decisions. The stakes seem higher once we have a mortgage and a family, so we exercise our willpower more often. Our impulse control is well-developed by now.

We research that coffeemaker.

We ask our neighbours for advice on home repairs.

We make practical choices based on scientific evidence and ignore all of the visceral urges to do what our Cro-Magnon brains want to do by default.

Yet even after the years of restraint and the cautiousness, and all those decades of learning, we sometimes succumb to the caveman / cavewoman urge to do whatever the heck we want. 

And that, friends, is exactly how we ended up with a very practical 1969 Volvo 144s parked in our garage.

I know, the boredom meter is starting to rise. Before you click away and look at this week's cat videos, let me just attempt to salvage this by saying our Swedish meatball ended up among the ranks of the other classic American sedans and trucks in our stable because the car practically found us. 

How it Happened

A friend tipped us off that a neighbor's brother-in-law was looking to sell his old Volvo as he and his wife were downsizing and preparing to move to a condominium.

I hadn't seen a 140 series Volvo in quite some time, and I nearly forgot they existed until I Googled some photos. Square lines. Long boot with Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow styling cues and a clean, tall greenhouse.

I called the owner and got in touch, figuring that if the car was a total basket case I would at least take some photos and pass the info along to anyone who might be interested. As it turned out, the original owner was a retired Caterpillar engineer and meticulously maintained the car and kept lots of paperwork. Make that every single piece of paper that pertained to the vehicle since he took delivery.

In fact, there's some dealer literature with some quick math jotted down before he started haggling with the salesman.

Mr. Owner said the Volvo was purchased on September 11, 1969 from Lecour Volvo on Main Street in Peoria and never left the metro area. He and his wife drove it for decades in all kinds of weather. Their children were brought home from the hospital in this car, and it held the number one spot in the garage from the day it arrived. It wasn't just an old car, it was part of their family. I was intrigued enough to take a peek.

As is often the case with old cars, it was love at first sight.

When you buy old cars that don't run, it's great to have friends who do the exact same thing. They become partners in crime. Thanks Jon! 

Good news: Volvos are easy to push up a trailer.
Bad news: You're still pushing a car onto a trailer. 

Yours truly and Mr. Owner, happy to see his beloved 144S begin its transformation after taking good care of it for nearly 50 years. I promised I would return with a running car so he could buzz around the block a few times. Moments like these are what make this hobby so special for me. 

Why it Matters

Volvo 144 illustration by Ján Barica.
Photo Credit: granada_tunier/Flickr/CC by 2.0

Like many of you, I grew up seeing the Volvo 240 cars everywhere. They were often owned by well-to-do folks who did their homework (and the extra credit). I didn't give much thought to them until I was in college and I hitched a ride home for winter break in a friend's 1981 Volvo 245 station wagon. That car was purchased for $3,000 and was rust-free in the late 1990s. It also was easy to start in the cold Illinois winters, had great heat, plenty of interior room, and got great mileage on the trips back home.

Predictable, yet satisfying.

It was a vanilla milkshake. But sometimes a vanilla shake is just what you need.

As remarkable as the tough-as-nails 240 cars were, they owed everything to their father, the Volvo 140.

Safety: The ultimate sacrifice (Photo Credit: elkvcp/YouTube)

Introduced in the summer of 1966 and designed by the legendary Jan Wilsgaard, the Volvo 140 was a milestone car in many ways. It has the claim of being the first automobile designed with built-in crumple zones that absorb the energy of an impact. This principle is still used today to keep occupants safe. Volvo previously introduced the three-point seat belt in 1959, courtesy of engineer Nils Bohlen. In true humble Scandinavian fashion, the company didn't pursue a patent and shared the technology with the rest of the world in an effort to make automobiles safer.

The Volvo 140 was also equipped with four-wheel disc brakes, and a dual-circuit braking system that was plumbed to ensure the driver never lost the ability to stop the car, even in the event of a total hydraulic failure. Even the emergency brake was independent. If the backup hydraulics failed, a drum brake tucked inside the rear disc rotor would bring the tiny car to a halt.

The Volvo 140 was also constructed using a unitized body method which tied all underpinnings together with the body panels to form a rigid platform free from squeaks, creaks and cracks even a half-century after it was designed.

Distracted driving wasn't as big of a problem in the 1960s, but Volvo engineers thought of that as well. If owners wished to equip the cars with a radio, the unit was placed across the dashboard on the passenger side, right above the glovebox. This removed the temptation to surf the dial instead of placing both hands on the steering wheel. Your passenger could tune in the Harry Nilsson, your job was to drive.

Safety measures carried over into the engine bay, where the fan was painted with a high contrast yellow paint. Unlike similar Ford Fairlanes and AMC Ramblers of the era, the Volvo fans were a bright yellow color rather than black. This way, the average Joe could see the blades when the engine was running, and avoid accidentally shaving off a few digits.

Hashtag brilliant.

A few U.S. consumers took a chance on Volvo. At nearly $4,000 list price in 1969, they took a big, big chance. 

What Happened? 

If the Volvo 140 was such a sophisticated car, and buyers of the 140 were so smart, why aren't there more of them on the road today?

After owning this marvel of Swedish engineering for a few months, I can answer that in one simple word: Parts.

In an era where the average American auto repair shop repaired dozens of Fords, Chevies, and Chryslers in a given week, the foreign car was an outcast. Even the popular VW Beetle was a novelty and required special attention to remain running in top-top shape. I have a hunch that many of Gothenberg's finest ended up languishing in back lots behind the Standard station as the mechanics 'waited on parts' or 'called in a specialist' to deal with the vehicular equivalent of the common cold. A bad water pump is still much easier to replace on a '69 Nova than a '69 Volvo.

Cheaper, too.

Out with the old... 

In the with the new. 

Our Volvo has been sitting since 1994 and needs a bit of work to get it back on the road. The marvellous brake system that was so ahead of it's time has turned to dust. Calipers don't exist and rebuild parts are scarce. I'll spare you the sob story, but the Fiestaware blue meatball has been testing my patience. Nothing comes apart easy, and the usual internet parts hunt has turned into all-out warfare.

Girling or ATE calipers? 

38mm or 36mm pistons? 

Did you want to order the upper or lower brake hoses?

I want it all, and I want it now. Life was so much easier when I could get parts at the local Napa.

What's Swedish for "help"?

Ultimate compound? Sure. Why not. 

Volvo's enamel paint holds up well for being a half-century old. It even shines up, too with some elbow grease. 

Kicking back after some Advil kicks in. 

The good news is, I've been able to restore the paint finish a little bit, and clean up a few minor blemishes. Overall the body isn't in that bad of shape, and the interior is tidy. I'm grateful for that. I can't paint and I can't stitch. I love it when a plan comes together.

Original seats and original carpet aren't bad in this thing. It smells like an old gym, but that's beside the point. 

I've also removed some of the U.S. - spec side markers and replaced the DOT - mandated amber parking lights with the clear lenses that adorned European cars. I personally feel that this improves the look of the car.

At first, I was afraid the side markers were cut into the fenders and quarter panels of the car. That's not the case on U.S. models. The Swedes kept things simple, and just mounted them with a rubber gasket and two small sheet metal screws. If you're on the fence, you can peel them off in about 30 seconds.



Don't worry, I'll address the rust later.

Much later.

Next Steps

With the family fleet approaching hoarder status, I need to be mindful that project cars can't sit idle for too long. My goal for the Volvo is to keep pressing ahead and get the thing roadworthy before fall. In my head, I envision winding through the scenic Spoon River Valley with my lovely wife listening to the smooth-running B20 engine sing its song through the Fulton County woods. I'm wearing driving gloves, maybe a leather bomber jacket. Triple-A is on speed dial, and the cell phone has plenty of battery life and signal strength.

A guy can dream, can't he?

If I'm able to perform a miracle and rebuild all four of my brake calipers, flush and fill the cooling system once I replace the hoses, do some transmission service, fix the radio, and tune the carburetor after going over the entire fuel system... I should be able to pull this off.

With such a cute face, how could I say no?

Yes it's a German license plate. No I don't mind. 

Hjälp.

That's the Swedish word for help. I've already put out the call, and I've received a lot of wonderful advice from my friend who first turned me onto this car. He also happens to own the station wagon counterpart in the same year. Getting to know people with similar interests (and parts stockpiles) can ease the pain of bringing a classic Volvo back to life.

What would you do if I sang out of tune? 

I'm certainly going to need a lot more hjälp in the coming months.

I'll keep you posted on the progress. In the meantime, dust off that Abba record and sip some akavit. This old thing will be back on the streets of middle America in no time.

-D