Cheyenne, Land of Thurman's Folly

"This is the old family homestead, out near Laramie," he said as he pointed to a black and white picture of a barn, the date "1921" in the eaves. I don't like calling Thurman my grandpa. It's not because I feel he's done me any sort of wrong, he's just been too old and sick during most of my childhood for me to form a connection. He's 95 today, a World War II veteran who's still stubborn enough to drive, albeit on the sleepy streets of Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Thurman and my grandma live together in a postwar, one-story house a block from the Cheyenne Municipal Airport. And I imagine it's remained largely unchanged since they bought it back in the 50s. It certainly hasn't changed since I was a kid. An orange velour sofa in the basement matches the orange berber carpet, and the walls are the appropriately paneled in wood. A VCR and a tape of Wayne's World, which I imagine belonged to my mom or her brother, sit underneath family photos that haven't been updated since the turn of the millennium. The laundry room features a functioning laundry chute, whose origin is in a dark wood cabinet in the kitchen; the floor, a smooth, pebbled surface that's always ice cold to the touch. But the most unique room in the house by far is Thurman's tractor room.

The Tractor Room is a sanctuary devoted to all that bleeds green and yellow (sorry Case fans, I know there's an apparent tractor/farm machinery rivalry that itself rivals the Ford versus Chevy group). He spends much of the day sitting in his throne, a 1980s-era brown corduroy recliner, watching over his 10-by-10 kingdom until he's called for dinner. Surrounding him are myriad tributes to John Deere greats: scale models, John Deere wallpaper, lamps, coin banks, curtains, even a sofa love seat with a collage of great John Deere tractors. The tractor room is Thurman's domain at home, but it's downright pithy compared to the treasure trove across town.

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"I don't like that newfangled thing," he says, wagging a finger towards the roundabout that's coming up. My dad, brother, and me are riding with Thurman in my grandma's old Taurus. It's her form of compromise; Thurm refused to quit driving, so she made him at least give up his truck for a less damage-inducing, purple-interior, 70,000 mile Taurus, bought new in 1995.  "It helps so much with traffic on the weekends," my grandma told us of the traffic device, but Thurman's mind was made up, and we cut through the parking lot of the Veteran's hospital to avoid it. 

"These people have no idea what traffic means; come to Atlanta, she's got a white knuckle on her purse the whole time."--my dad, on the last time she came to visit us.

The roundabout was deemed an evil in these parts, like income taxes and Obama, so instead we cut through the parking lot of the Veteran's hospital, clipping a curb on the way in. We slowly wound through the parking lot, which was shaded by mature trees. Thurman uttered something along the lines of "I remember when they first built this place; gone to shit now 'a course. Then we cut back on to the main road.

Travelling down East Pershing, my brother and I exchanged glances that were part nervousness, but mostly cruel humor aimed at my dad. Thurm would slowly drift from side to side in his lane as my brother and I made unspoken wagers about whether or not my dad was going to mention how perilously close he was getting to other cars. Unfortunately, this game was short-lived, since everywhere you'd possibly want to go in Cheyenne is within a three-mile radius.

There are many names for the land we were about to set foot upon. Most relatives and close family call the place "Thurman's Junkyard." Gentler versions include: "Thurman's Treasure Trove," his "collection," and my personal favorite, which I've also coined, "Thurman's Folly."

An unassuming location, on the eastern outskirts of town where the land quickly turns to plains, is by design, as is the lack luster, ambiguous curb appeal. Fences are overgrown to the point of opacity, and an impossibly narrow dirt tract goes into an immediate uphill dog-leg, effectively obscuring any chance of peeking. Daring to poke around an area of this nature in rural Wyoming, for reasons needless to mention, is not advised.

But we're safe in the silver Taurus. We climb slowly up the hill, stopping just before the gate. It's mandatory practice to recognize the freshly-painted plows that line the road leading to the entrance of Thurman's Folly. After we've adequately admired the three-year-old paint jobs, we're allowed access to a collection that's easily within the top five "most eclectic arrangements of items in Wyoming."

You'd be best to heed the various "no trespassing" signs too. This vast property, scattered with everything from Ford Bronco's to an entire interior and signage for a Taco John's restaurant, is not uninhabited. Perched on a high terraced hill at the center is the house where a good portion of my extended family lives. Gaylen, along with his wife, several kids, and two Mastiffs roam around and blend incredibly well into the surrounding scenery.

These mastiffs greet us with enthusiasm--we're with the right company, thankfully. Gaylen speaks quickly and quietly when he does speak, which is rare, but makes you listen closely each time he does.

I remember coming out here as a young kid, probably around ten years old. My only clear memory was the sheer amount of cars and scrap metal laying around. Luckily, I kept myself from asking if I could smash a window. Now, the number of cars, probably around 50 is staggering, given only that this is a collection of cars from Thurman's immediate family. There are only a handful of outsiders, and each car tells a story. Each one is also, unfortunately, wasting away in the brutal Wyoming winters.

The cars range from a 1905 Overland, to a 1967 Mercury Cougar, along with a Series I Bronco, various Model A and T Fords, a Nash Rambler, a Ford Galaxie 500, and a handful of 80s Subaru wagons. Oh, also an original Willys Jeep.

One of the photographs in the album shows an unsmiling Thurm in front of the Willys. It's navy blue, with his name stenciled in white letters on the side and two Allstate insurance stickers on the back from when he brought it home. Now it sits inside a crowded garage on the property, alongside other family cars. As I stand in the garage, I can't help but think how much of a gold mine this would be for the American Pickers. The cars may be common and in poor shape, but the value is in the "smalls," little items like hubcaps, chairs, old advertising materials, and ancient pedal cars; not to mention the various hand-painted wooden signs, which would now qualify as "folk art," and a highly-sought-after visible gas pump.

Selling this stuff has been a constant family conversation. According to Gaylen, Thurm has finally started letting him sell some things, but the problem lies in condition and, ultimately, rarity too. Most of the cars are now part of the landscape. Tall grass grows up through the engine bays and rust adorns the roofs and hoods of most of the classic American iron.

We're only allowed to go inside two of the many mobile homes used exclusively for storage. Outbuildings range in size from outhouse to combine harvester shed. Every door is guarded with multiple padlocks and Thurm possesses a set of keys that would make any high school janitor flush with contempt.

It's clear that the first trailer has no unifying theme. He's brought us inside to show us a display case about four feet high and seven across. He flips a switch on the side, which then sets the trays inside in motion. The intricacy of this machine quickly becomes apparent. Each velvet-lined shelf is packed with tools, door hardware, and other metal odds-and-ends. No two trays are the same, and the cycle continues for a couple minutes, the clearances between trays and the sides of the case that everything inside appears to be floating. Then, he kills the power and shuffles us out quickly, I'm guessing before we've seen too much.

Other trailers, though, do have unifying themes. One is packed full of just bowling balls. An auction purchase made years ago when a bowling alley in town closed its doors. That's how Thurm's gotten most of the miscellaneous portions of his collection. Similarly, there's another trailer dedicated to sewing machines.

For all of the old stuff, few in the family believe Thurman's collection holds much value, except, of course, for one aspect: tractors.

The John Deere room back home might look silly, adorned in various gift shop wares, but discounting its kitsch would be ignoring a monumental clue.

Scattered throughout Thurman's Folly, you'll find tractors. Farm equipment is a huge theme of his collection. An enormous grain thresher has become part of the landscape. Ancient grain tillers and pumps litter the ground in between John Deere tractors of every imaginable vintage up to turn-of-the-century. Everything's mired in beautiful primer and rust patina, and every vertical exhaust pipe is protected by a plastic mailbox. Official tractor count? Several dozen, at least.

He has to have plans to restore this stuff. Or at least, at one point he did. But now, what happens? Each new trip to the yard yields a new addition to the collection. A trailer piled with scrap metal, a Frontier oil sign, pieces of the old rail station tower. Rather than shrinking, the pile is growing larger by the day.

Thurman's days are mostly spent confined to his chair in the tractor room. He visits the yard once or twice a week now. I like to imagine he goes in there and sits up on one of his tractor's, or maybe hangs out in the garage, just looking at his things. When he's not out there, he probably stares at the walls of his tractor room still dreaming, still thinking about what he's going to find next.

An Air-ride That Can Land You Flat on the Ground

Magic Body Control. It sounds like a cheap gimmick, a feature that gets tacked on to an overpriced mattress. And in a way, it is. That mattress, it turns out, is a 2015 Mercedes-Benz E-Class, and that Magic Body Control is an $8000 optional extra. 

That's a pricey mattress.

I was puzzled when I came across that line on the options list, which skyrocketed the mid-level Benz's price to almost 90 grand. The sales guy, the one whose eyes I could feel rolling at my mere presence, balanced on his heels and explained the complex system in three words. "It's air suspension."

That's disappointing.

In my head I had pictured something much more cutting edge, maybe magnets aimed north to north underneath the car's four corners, keeping it afloat on an invisible field. Instead, it was just air suspension, the culprit of saggy old luxury cars past their prime. And in actuality, the idea of automotive air suspension has been around for quite a while.

Ideas for a pneumatic "cushion" spring for vehicles were patented as far back as 1901 by a man named William W. Humphreys. By 1920, George Messier, a manufacturer of pneumatic equipment, had developed his own aftermarket automotive suspension system. His automotive firm Messier only existed from 1925 to 1931, but every automobile he produced came with his air system. Messier's fledgling company, despite being a failure, had opened the door to "cars without springs."

Illustration of Humphreys' original patent, a "Pneumatic Spring for Vehicles."

The Great Depression ground development of the technology to a halt, but by the mid-1940s, pneumatic suspension systems were being tinkered with again, this time by the United States military for use in airplanes. Soon enough, it was back to cars--the Stout Scarab, to be exact. A unique car in its exterior design alone, the Scarab was designed to look like the beetle of its namesake. But it was a radical car in many other aspects as well. It was powered by a Ford flathead V8 mounted at the rear, and featured, you guessed it, four-wheel independent air suspension. Only nine of these hand-built prototypes were produced, but the Scarab set the ball rolling once again.

A 1936 prototype version of the Stout Scarab on display at the High Museum of Art. Only five of these vehicles remain in existence.

In 1955, Citroen released the DS, a car that would become one of the most widely recognized French automobiles in history. As you'd  imagine, it certainly didn't lack the sort of zany, oft-illogical flair that Citroen would later become known for. The rear of the car was narrower than the front, producing a shape unlike any that had been seen before. Curious, too, was its suspension setup. Technically, the DS used an oleopneumatic suspension, named so because the shock absorbers were filled with nitrogen gas and hydraulic fluid rather than air. These shock absorbers were connected to the sway bars via a piston, which would pump the liquid and gas filled chamber depending upon the surface. In the DS, you didn't even need a jack to change a tire. Simply to raise the car up to its furthest ride height setting (intended to help the driver better traverse rough roads), place a jack stand underneath, and lower the car via the same dashboard-mounted switch.

Basics of the Citroen DS oleopneumatic suspension system. Nitrogen (Gaz) is suspended above hydraulic fluid and activated by a piston connected to the trailing arm.

It wasn't long before GM caught wind of Citroen's developments. In 1957, Cadillac introduced the new Eldorado Brougham, which came standard with an air suspension system designed to maximize ride comfort. Their system used what would now be considered a rudimentary collection of sensors that helped the air system compensate for uneven road surfaces. A year later, and both Buick and American Motors were offering similar systems on their flagship models. But the early technology was hopelessly complex and the option for air suspension soon disappeared on all American cars, not to return again until the mid-1980s.

Only European luxury brands Mercedes-Benz and Rolls Royce introduced air suspension systems throughout the 1960s. Mercedes' system, most famously the one on the mighty 600 sedan, used hydraulics which also powered the windows, brakes, and trunk lid, among other components. Meanwhile Rolls used a self-leveling system licensed from--none other than Citroën--in the 1965 Silver Shadow.

Nicknamed the "Mercedes Big," the 600 sedan boasted a biblically-complex hydraulic system.

Air suspension systems may seem complicated next to the traditional metal coil setup, but in reality, the basics aren't that much different. The beating heart of every air suspension is the compressor. Most commonly powered by the engine, the compressor pumps air into the system either to increase ride height or to level it out--if a heavy load is placed in the back of the car, for example. Rubber bellows, the name taken from an accordion-style instrument designed to pump high pressure air into fires, act as "air shocks" or struts. These rubber chambers sit between the car's chassis and axles or struts, and are sealed to keep the pressurized air in.

These suspension systems have a wide array of uses, ranging from modern buses that "kneel" at the front, providing better access for disabled passengers, to custom, aftermarket setups, where you can let your car rest on the (frame) rails while it's parked at a car show.

Ride height adjustability is the biggest advantage in an air suspension system. In performance-minded vehicles, this allows you to lower the vehicle, effectively increasing the spring stiffness and improving handling. Additionally, some systems are programmed to lower the suspension automatically at high speeds, which improves the car's aerodynamics and road holding.

Air suspension on the Panamera adjusts at speed, lowering the car slightly for better aerodynamics.

In off-road vehicles, the opposite is advantageous. The latest Range Rover, for example, features a system that can raise the vehicle while stationary, allowing for 11.9 inches of ground clearance. This means that the Rover can ride at a lower height for around town errand-running, but still retains its legendary off-road capabilities. However, these systems still aren't foolproof.

Every now and then, you're likely to see a mid-2000s Range Rover or Mercedes sitting suspiciously low in a driveway. Failing air suspension systems are still a huge problem, especially in cars that are getting a bit long-in-the-tooth. But why do these systems fail? Or, an even better question, how do they fail?

The most common problem in an air suspension system is failure of the air shock or strut itself. The rubber bellow mentioned earlier is subject to the same sort of issues any rubber component faces. Even though it's shielded in some effect by the wheels and body of the car, it's still subject to drastic temperature change, which dries out the rubber, eventually making it brittle, especially around connection points. Even under normal operation, the shock undergoes small amounts of stretching which, over time, add up.

Major leaks in any of the air bags can easily lead to failure of the air compressor. This, because the compressor is working overtime to maintain pressure in an impossible system. Eventually, the compressor burns up trying to compensate.

More common in custom applications, but not unheard of in factory systems, is air line failure. In automotive applications, the lines for air suspension systems are usually the same braided nylon lines used to transport hydraulic brake fluid. These are very strong, but if the line is run against a sharp edge of the frame, or placed too close to a moving suspension component, it's likely to wear out over time and eventually leak.  

All of these problems can lead to some very costly repairs.

A company called Arnott specializes in remanufactured suspension components for Mercedes-Benz. W220 Benz's--the S-Classes produced from 1998 to 2005--are experiencing the most issues related to their air suspension systems, but models as current as the GL-Class, introduced in 2006, are showing problems. Arnott provides both a replacement air suspension kit ($2700) and a full coil spring conversion kit ($1500). Comparatively, most Mercedes dealerships will charge up to $600 for a single air spring. And these prices are all before any labor is involved, although Arnott provides some excellent YouTube tutorials for their system's installation.

German luxury cars aren't the only ones having problems though. Second generation Lincoln Navigators, built from 2003 to 2006 on the Ford Expedition platform, are notorious for having problems with their air compressor. As mentioned earlier, this is ultimately related to leaky air bags. Replacement compressors are a fairly cheap piece at around $150, but replacing them is only putting a bandage on  the underlying problem. At their least expensive, eBay-special prices, replacement air struts for the Navigator will cost you $300 a piece. By comparison, a complete set of metal coils and struts costs $400.

Alas, it's back to contemplation mode. For all of the Magic Body Control's perceived virtues, I'd safely say that, even if given the opportunity to afford it, I'd leave that box on the options list unchecked. As for buying a car with air suspension secondhand, my first modification would be a coil spring conversion. 

S-FR Digs at Toyota's Roots

Let me be the first to say, I'm not usually a huge fan of concept cars. Their space-age looks and impossible interiors only lead me, immediately, to shoot them down. My train of thought is usually along the lines of: "that would never happen, that would never work, and that doesn't even have a windshield."

However, every now and then, a concept car will stop me in my tracks. 

I wouldn't call the new Toyota S-FR concept beautiful. The front end reminds me of an angry Pokemon character. But it feels more significant, more classically-refined. The lines are simple, clean; the silhouette rounded, but not in a hokey, Volkswagen New Beetle sort of way. It reminds me of an original, 1960s Japanese sports car.

The S-FR's exterior design, I suspect, intends to echo its ancestor, the Toyota Sports 800. The Sports 800 debuted at the same show back in 1962, and it was the first sports car Toyota ever produced. Tip-toeing the scales at a little over 1,200 pounds, and measuring a full 20 inches shorter than a Volkswagen Beetle of the time, it made the Triumph Spitfire look like a cargo ship.

The S-FR, its name no doubt an homage to the FR (front-engine, rear-drive) layout, is rumored to be a replacement for the defunct Toyota Supra. But, as it's smaller even than a Scion FR-S, it's likely that Toyota intends to compete with the likes of the Mazda Miata. Of course, it's not the first time a major car firm has taken on that mighty roadster.

Ever since the Mazda Miata rocked the automotive world in 1989, showing that small, two-seater roadsters could be both fun and reliable, other automotive giants have been vying for a piece of that market, with little luck. The closest contender was the Honda S2000, which didn't arrive on the scene until 1999. Sales of the S2000 remained healthy until the late 2000s, when numbers slumped dramatically from 2007 to 2008, leading to the roadster's discontinuation. BMW's Z3 and Z4 roadsters, along with the Porsche Boxster and Mercedes-Benz SLK were too expensive to be considered options, and the Miata continues to hold its title. 

While the S-FR concept is a hardtop, it still holds promise as a potential alternative to the Miata. The concept, a very-complete example, showcases a minimal interior, apart from the bright accent pieces. The inside also boasts seating for four, as opposed to the Miata's rigid two-plus-roof format. But, most importantly, the S-FR is described as an entry-level option, meaning prices will (hopefully) make it accessible to young buyers.

Wait a second, you might say. This all sounds a bit familiar, doesn't it?

Yes, it does indeed. If we're on the same page, you're thinking about the Scion Fr-s/Subaru BR-Z twins, which both came out a few years ago. Sales of these certainly haven't been making headlines, despite the relatively-inexpensive entry price of around $25,000. And I'd be lying if I said I believed with all my heart that the S-FR would post even decent sales numbers if it hit our shores.

The problem with the S-FR, if it were to even reach production, is the same problem the FR-S and, to a slightly lesser extent, even the Miata face. These are niche cars. By nature, many, many more people will buy a Ford Taurus before they even think of buying a sports car with bucket seats and no trunk lining. In fact, it would be impractical, foolish even, for most people to even consider buying something as singularly-minded as a Miata or a BR-Z. 

Furthermore, the hard fact is that fewer and fewer young people, the type of people interested in budget, pint-sized sports cars with little sound-deadening, aren't able to afford it. Even if they are able to, many will still flock to the secondhand market, where they'll get more car for their money. 

All that being said, I want desperately for Toyota to build the S-FR. I want them to sell it here, too, so that every now and then I'll see one on the street and think "man, that would be a neat car to own." Will it be a Miata-fighter? Probably not. The Miata is too well-established, it's got a cult following that's difficult to match, the sort that only comes along in a handful of cars every few decades. But I've got hope for the little bug-eyed guy. Maybe one day I'll be able to look up at a confused pickup driver in traffic, with the confidence that he'll never understand why I bought an S-FR.