New York City isn't the ideal place for a car. In fact, it's probably one of the least friendly cities for things like, say, parking.
Mere details.
After moving back to NYC as a photouournalist, I needed transportation. Yet being one of those soulless people who add to the exhaust fumes and traffic snarls in the Big Apple was the last thing I wanted to do. Searching for another option, I'd started reading up on vegetable oil cars, or "greasecars," as they're commonly known, and decided it was that or nothing. Running a car on fuel made from garbage? Perfect!
The car had to have an original diesel engine, which meant the options were limited to mostly older Mercedes-Benz models, cars hard to find on the East Coast. There were also a spattering of diesel Volvos and Volkswagens that could run on veg, but they were more difficulr to find and in higher demand, since Benzes were notoriously more expensive to fix and needed costly European parts.
I hunted online for a few weeks. When I found a Volvo with a veg oil system already installed, I could barely contain my excitement.
Within days, I was in White Plains, N.Y., talking to a middle school science teacher named Rudy. He'd converted the diesel wagon with his son as a bonding experience. The result was a carefully installed vegetable oil fuel system from Greasecar.com. The well-organized teacher had kept the car in immaculate condition, and his installation appeared to be flawles. He'd even crafted a wooden trapdoor neatly covered by custom-cut beige carpet, to hide the veggie tank from view.
I fell in love at first sight.
Not many would. The car wasn't what you'd call a beauty, She was an old brownish-maroon station wagon, circa 1983. Her interior was a mustard beige hue resembling baby puke, and she didn't always start.
My introduction to the car began innocently enough. Rudy told me how to switch back and forth between running on diesel from the car's original tank and vegetable oil from the greasetank. He explained how ro flush the system after each use, to avoid getting any vegetable oil in the lines. He stressed the importance of letting the engine warm up, and then began to explain the car's nongrease-related quirks.
Her windshield wipers operated in random explosions that five certified Volvo mechanics couldn't explain. The trunk had no latch and was tied down via a tattered bungee cord. The driver's seat, covered by a fluffy white faux sheepskin cover, had a large chunk chunk chewed out of its side. The white Greasecar.com. decals that Rudy had plastered to the wagon's side and rear windows inevitably transformed other motorists into high-speed peanut galleries, yelling questions out their windows in passing.
OK, I thought. I could deal. I didn't mind spreading the grease gospel to nonbelievers, and if it rained I'd just drive at the speed of a strolling pedestrian.
I paid Rudy $1,200, thinking I'd gotten a deal. The Internet ordered veg kit alone was worth $600, and hey, it was already installed.
The next day, leafing through the car's records, I found a handwritten bill of sale, Rudy had purchased the wagon from a woman in Jersey for $300.
Despite my growing apprehension, my honeymoon with the wagon was sweet. We grew used to each other's quirks--me to her shitty brakes, and she to the occasional burrito accidentally dropped into the window controls on the center console. I fell head over heels for the fast-food smell of her.
I named the car Rosie, an intentionally optimistic move. I figured that adopting a brighter perspective on the car would only serve to placate the gods of Scandinavian motoring. A name like Rosie underscored the fact that in midday sunlight, her dull brown paint had tinges of maroon, which was almost rose-colored. Almost.
I managed to hook up with a Chinese restaurant on my block that would give me the old oil from their deep fryer, and I built a haphazard contraption to aid in pre-filtration--the most important part of running on veg--from an old newspaper rack, a bucket and a 5-micron filterbag that resembled an oversized tube sock. I'd pour the waste oil, replete with crusty bits of Chinese food, through the bag into the bucket, and then take the filtered oil and funnel it into my tank. Passersby on the sidewalk in front of my Brooklyn apartment thought I was nuts.
On all the vegetable oil message boards and email lists I'd joined, no one had stresses just how, um, sticky this process could be.
Within months, the wagon had evolved from a normal car to a vehicle whose trunk had absorbed gallons of grease. Rudy's carefully cut carpet was now coated with a layer of sticky grime. In my excited beginner's haste, I had spilled oil in just about every way possible, via a loose cubie cap, a wobbly funnel and overfilling. Once I'd even awakened to find stray cats licking the oil that had dripped down from the car's undercarriage onto the street.
After a little more time and practice, everything ran smooothly, albeit with a little gumminess here and there. I'd still spill occasionally, but figured out how to pour smaller quantities of the liquid gold, instead of trying to move it around by the bucketload.
Two years and one city later, I'm now onto my second greasecar, a 25-year-old beauty of a Benz named Esmerelda. It's been nine months, and our relationship has blossomed into full-fledged devotion. Once you've been converted to the gospel of grease, there's just no going back.
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