In Chapter 10, the rolling chassis debuted to the world. In Chapter 11, that chassis gets the rest of its drivetrain reunited with it, but not before a very long drive turns fruitless.

The year 1995 had dawned. Staring me in the face was the sign I created and hung in my workshop: “The Isetta Will Drive in ’95”. Could this be possible? Theoretically, I had until 11:59 p.m. on December 31, but practically, I knew that it needed to happen before winter set in.

Never mind the still-unanswered dilemma about body and paint. There were two more immediate challenges:

1. The restoration had reached the point of discovering that many small pieces were completely missing. I had no ignition switch, headlight switches (on/off and low/high beam), turn signal switch, motor mount brackets, or hub caps. Some of the pieces I did have were in such poor repair that it would help if I could find other used ones in better condition.
2. My completed engine and transmission were not yet installed in the restored chassis. This was a priority because once installed, I needed to prove that the engine would start and run. Should there be a failure there, I wanted enough time to correct whatever needed correcting.

 

The solution to Challenge #1 came to me via interoffice mail. A fellow-fanatic colleague, Bob McCown, sent me a clipping from Old Cars Weekly magazine. Either I no longer subscribed, or I had missed the ad. Someone in Pennsylvania had a “complete, solid” Isetta PLUS a rolling parts car, for $1,000. I called the number, and the conversation went something like this:

ME: Hi. About the complete car you’re selling, what would it take for it to run?

SELLER: A battery.

ME: And the rolling parts car, is it complete?

SELLER: It has no drivetrain, but the rest of it is there.

This sounded like a deal to me. The plan was already decided: I’d buy both cars, strip them, keep what I needed, and sell off what I didn’t. What the heck, I’d been doing exactly that for the past 5 years!

I called my good friend Steve M, who was always up for an adventure. Checking a map (no, not Google Maps, that hadn’t been invented yet), I found the town outside Pittsburgh, about a 6 hour drive one-way. Steve and I agreed to a Saturday 6 a.m. departure from my house. I hooked up the open landscape trailer (a recent purchase made for express purpose of moving Isetta bodies) to my Volvo 850 wagon, and we were off.

Steve said: “You know, showing up with an empty trailer is bad. He’ll conclude that you’re buying his cars no matter what. I suggest that you find a spot about a mile from his house and park the trailer.” I would have none of it. I retorted “Look, as excited as I am about these cars, if I don’t want them, I’m not buying them.”

We arrived at the seller’s house around noon. The property was a large farm, with numerous outbuildings. About 50 yards away I spotted a canvas cover draped over the unmistakable silhouette of an Isetta. We didn’t see a soul, so we headed toward it. Peeking under the cover, the Isetta was quite rough. “This must be the rolling parts car” I told myself.

“John” the seller emerged from one of the buildings. Spotting the NJ plate, he correctly presumed that I was the guy who called.

ME: So this must be the rolling parts car.

JOHN: No, that’s the better of the two.

We peeled the cover completely back. The sunroof was missing. The interior was gutted. The engine was on the floor of the car.

ME: You told me on the phone that the better car only needed a battery to run.

JOHN: Well, that engine would run once it’s reinstalled. At least it’s there.

ME: Oh boy. Since we’re here, let’s look at the rolling parts car.

We followed him to another part of the farm. The roller was inside. The roller had been in a fire. Everything consumable was gone: paint, glass, plastic. There was sheetmetal, but it was impossible to tell what color the car had been. The roller was worth more as scrap metal.

I was too disappointed to be angry. There was no way I was purchasing these two Isettas from him. If he had offered them for free I would have declined, as neither car had the parts I needed. In a situation like this, the best way to get even is to walk away. I said to John, “I’m not buying these”, shook his hand, and we got back into my car. Steve and I had a nice dinner somewhere in PA. So much for that idea.

Challenge #2 was more within my control. Bolting major mechanical subassemblies to the chassis with the body removed was quite straightforward, except for the missing components. I had no motor mount brackets, and they weren’t being reproduced, so one of my local suppliers was able to fulfill an order for a pre-owned set. The engine, complete with cylinder head, carburetor, and clutch, went in first. Next, the transmission was installed.

 

 

The world’s shortest driveshaft, freshly painted and with a Giubo at each end, was positioned between the trans output and rear axle input. Two issues here required focus:

One, the Giubo bolts were special items with very thin heads. The clearance between the bolt head and gearbox case was so small that standard-sized bolts would rub against the case, gouging it. This was written about repeatedly in the club newsletters.

Two, the flanges on either side of the driveshaft were not aligned, and again, newsletter articles warned novices NOT to align them. Something about the way the entire drivetrain moved required the flanges to be ever-so-slightly offset, with the flexible Giubos correcting the difference.

 

 

The drivetrain was installed. I resigned myself to being “nickel-and-dimed” from local suppliers for any further missing parts. Spring was on its way. Next, I would attempt to start the engine, then really get serious about finding a body shop.

 

Did I mention that I didn’t have a title to the car?

 

Next time in the Isetta Saga: As taught in class, an engine only needs 3 things to run: air, fuel, and spark. Is that still true if you only have one cylinder?

All photographs copyright © 2018 Richard A. Reina. Photos may not be copied or reproduced without express written permission.

 

FUN FACT OF THE WEEK:

Giubo joints have their own Wikipedia page. The name “Giubo” (pronounced JOO-boh) is derived from the first three letters of “giunto” (Italian for “joint”) and the first two letters of the inventor’s last name, Antonio Boschi. “Giubo” is frequently misspelled as “guibo”, and then mispronounced as “guEE-bo”. The coupling was first used on the Alfa Romeo 1900 of the early 1950s, and was used on many BMW cars throughout the second half of the 20^th century.