Text by Daniel Vadillo.
In those days, we all wanted to have our own car, a rather pretentious goal for many of us, who did not even work and were dependent on our parents.
My friend had already ventured into that motorized world at an early age; his father had bought him, some time ago, a small NSU Prince white, quite walked by the way. With a two-stroke engine much more suitable for a motorcycle than a car, its mechanics were not at all reliable. Thus, our group of friends covered more distance pushing the primitive device than walking on it. A vehicle to forget.
I remember that the old NSU was succeeded by a Mehari, something very fashionable in those days. It was a kind of Jeep, without a roof or doors, with a reinforced plastic body mounted on the chassis of a Citroën 2CV. Another monstrosity that brought my friend quite a lot of trouble and, truly, he didn’t get to enjoy it.
On this new occasion, my friend José debuted, with little confidence, an old olive-colored Renault 12 that he had just acquired. It was not a big deal, although it was the best option to organize some trips, without the need to always depend on our old people. The reason for this new outing was to spend a couple of days fishing in Laguna de Lobos and we headed there.
Already on the route, we were struck by the fact that the speedometer indicated 150 kilometers per hour. What a phenomenon this car! Look how he walks! Is it the actual speed? It didn’t seem… Our doubts were soon dispelled when an old Renault 6, all dilapidated and smoking, passed us like a pole. Between speculations, the kilometers went by and we arrived, thus, to the entrance road to the lagoon. The classic stop to buy the mojarras, and, finally, we parked in front of the pier.
It was winter vacation and it was quite cold, although, with good warm clothes, the day was bearable. We rented one of the local club’s legendary aluminum boats and warmed up with a few good paddles. We did quite well with the fishing: about twenty silversides, which they kept for us in a refrigerator at the club until the next day. Excellent result for our time, but nothing memorable for that time.
When it was time to spend the night, as there was only one small hotel on the shores of the lagoon, we parked the car outside and went inside. It wasn’t amazing, it looked pretty precarious. The manager, a rustic and disheveled man, asked us if we wanted a room with hot water or only cold water. As apparently there were two categories, and it was crazy cold, we paid for the “Premium” although the hot water took more than half an hour to arrive. At dinner time… Better not even remember!
We started early in the morning to face our second day of fishing with renewed enthusiasm. Actually, we were the ones who started, but not the car, which, poor thing, was very white and covered in a thick layer of frost. In just a couple of tries, the battery died and there the Renault was left, lifeless.
As pushing cars was an everyday thing in those days, without hesitating what to do, I got a couple of willing countrymen to help me with the task, while José got behind the wheel of the supercar. Second gear, full clutch, take the race and release the pedal. First try, nothing; not a start feint. Let’s go again! In this second lap we did about 100 meters and, again, nothing. Nothing at all.
I remember that we went back and forth several times without any result, while the bad mood of my circumstantial assistants grew, already cursing and blaspheming exhausted with such a race. Finally, on the umpteenth try, the engine started happily, as if nothing had happened. I get in the car in a hurry before the engine was going to stop, and I see José breaking down with laughter and repeating: “If the gauchos find out, they’ll kill me.”
The thing was, I almost killed him. The old 12 would not start, because José had forgotten to put it in contact.
