August 1982 I was a 20 year old kid. I'd just sold my second car, a Dodge Challenger hot rod, and I was in the mood for something a bit more refined. I checked the Syracuse paper, and saw a Citroën DS21 for sale. My father had long been a Citro-phile. He had first become familiar with them when he was stationed overseas in the Army. After he graduated from law school, he and my mother toured Europe in a rented 2CV. After they settled in Watertown NY, a Citroën franchise was opened by a local car salesman whom my father knew. My mother and father would often borrow one for an afternoon and go for a picnic. When my brothers and I were born, we were indoctrinated into the Citroën culture from an early age. So there I was, a 20 year old kid with money in his pocket, a need for a car, and a classified ad for a Citroën in his hand. I was aware enough to know that a DS21 is no ordinary car and that it would have very specialized maintenance needs, but I was naive enough not to really appreciate what that meant. I figured that no matter what might go wrong with it I'd be able to find someone somewhere who could help me. There was a further complication. At the time I needed my father's approval on all automotive purchases, because it was considerably cheaper to register my cars in his name and insure them on his policy. He usually rolled his eyes whenever I announced my cockamamy schemes for purchasing arcane and troublesome cars. This time, however, he couldn't help but be intrigued. Even he, the pragmatic attourney, was not immune to the Citroën charm. My younger brother was unconditionally enthusiastic about the whole idea. We finally decided that the three of us would make a day trip down to the car and check it out. It was a bit of a trek. From Watertown, located up by the 1000 Islands, we drove almost all the way to Rochester. We knew we had arrived when we pulled off the side road and quickly saw a gleaming, shiny DS21. At first glance it looked quite good. The body was in fine shape with very few dents or rust spots. The interior was black leather. The owner came out and greeted us. We chatted for a while, but we quickly came to the matter of the test drive. To get us started the owner took us for a ride to demonstrate how the semi-automatic transmission was operated. Once we got back we decided that my father would actually drive the car from here on in. The owner left us to our own devices and we motored away. The first thing we knew was that the brakes worked fine, because my father kept over-applying them and we'd lurch forward in our seats. Everything else seemed to be in fine working order as well. The engine was smooth, the shifting was clean (if a little hard to get used to), and everything seemed to be in fine working order. Before we went back to the owner's house we talked amongst ourselves. I clearly wanted the car, and I had the guy's asking price with me in cash. My father was now fully under the Citroën spell. His pragmaticism was now focused only on negotiations for purchase and the matter of transporting the car home. We went back to the owner's house. I decided that I was going to just give him his asking price rather than try to chew him down. It was all dependent, however, on him giving us permission to drive the car all the way back to Watertown on his plates. He agreed. He actually had a friend in Watertown whom I could deliver the plates to. I gave him his money. He gave me a receipt, plus a note indicating we had permission to drive on his plates just in case we got pulled over. We got in the car and drove home. Back at this point in my automotive development, I didn't go through a lot of the things I later learned were paramount when buying a car (such as changing the oil immediately). I just threw plates on it and started driving it around. I quickly became the toast of the Community College crowd I hung out with when I was home for Summers. I especially revelled in demonstrating the hydro-pneumatic suspension. I would routinely put it all the way down to the ground, and then all the way up in the highest possible setting. Before I'd even owned the car for two weeks, I made a road trip to Buffalo to visit a friend. The car made the trip fine. It really loved the highway. When I arrived at her house, I had to give my friend and her mother the suspension demonstration. As it got all the way to the top, I noticed a couple pieces of rust drop off the underside, back by the rear suspension. I didn't think much of it at the time. That evening we went out for dinner and a movie. By the time we came out of the theater the suspension had pretty much settled down to the ground. As was customary I started the engine and waited for the suspension to come back up. The front came right up, but it was taking an inordinant amount of time for the rear to come up. Eventually I got tired of waiting and just drove off assuming that it would come up as I rode along. Our destination was the Anchor Bar, where Buffalo Wings were first invented. When we got deep into downtown Buffalo, the hydraulic emergency light came on. I decided to see if I could make it to the bar instead of leaving us stranded on a busy street. The steering started getting very heavy and the brakes very soft. Finally we arrived. When we stepped out I saw that the rear end was still down, and probably had been the whole way. I got down on my knees and took a look underneath. There was a pool of green blood on the pavement with a constant trickle dripping into it. The rear left suspension mount had torn off the body, and the sphere had pushed itself up into the side rail of the trunk. I had no idea of the severity of this injury, but it sure didn't look good. We went inside the bar where I tried to enjoy myself, but was understandably distracted. During the evening my friend called someone who could come get us, and I made arrangements with the management to leave the car there overnight. The next day I started looking through the Buffalo phone book to see if there was anyone who might be able to help me out. I saw a small listing for someone who specialized in French cars. We went back to the bar. When I saw the place in daylight, I discovered that there was a Peugeot dealer right next door. I went into the service department and asked if they would take in a Citroën. The guy just looked down, shook his head, and said "Not under any circumstances." The plan was to start up my car and drive it with no suspension to this French car guy. I got a couple cans of Dexron transmission fluid and topped off the reservoir. I started up the car, and with the suspension setting in the low position backed it around the parking lot a bit. It seemed to be working okay. We headed out to find the place. The car actually drove pretty well. Of course I had to watch out for big bumps, but the ride wasn't nearly as problematic as I feared. At one point we went down a cobble stone street, and I wound up bouncing all over the place. But it was only for one block, and back on smooth pavement everything was fine again. Finally we headed out of town on the proper road. I figured we must almost be there, but we kept going and going. The number sequence on the houses kept changing. Just when we got around the right number, it would drop back down again. It became one of the most nightmarish drives I've ever endured. Finally we found a house with the right number. I knew instantly that it was the right place, because there were derelict Citroëns strewn all over the back yard. I finally felt a lot better. As I had assumed before I bought the car, I was able to find someone somewhere who could help me. The guy came out and I introduced myself. I told him that there was a problem with the suspension in the rear left. He bent down and took a peek. Almost immediately he got back up and simply said, "It's junk." Obviously that hit me like a ton of bricks. He didn't tell me what had happened. He didn't offer any insights into possible repairs. He merely said that the situation was absolutely irreperable. I kept asking him questions, but he was steadfast. His attitude was basically that I got what I deserved for buying a complicated old car that was way over my head. While he was uncompromisingly frank he wasn't entirely mean about the situaion. He was very cooperative with respect to leaving the car with him. He didn't even ask me for any storage fees. He simply said he'd toss it out back with the rest of them and that we'd figure everything out later. I was a little relieved that the situation was resolved for the time being, but I was understandibly down and dejected. I wound up taking a Greyhound bus back home. I only had a week or so before I went back for my third year of college. Although I had owned two different cars my first two years in school, I had never brought them with me to campus. Getting by without one wouldn't be that big of a deal. Still, the whole year, I kept thinking how much fun it would have been if I had that car to drive round and impress my friends. My father, ever the pragmatic attourney, followed up with the guy in Buffalo after I'd gone back to school. The guy confirmed that I'd been sold a car that had been entirely misrepresented. He even knew the character who had sold it to me, and reported to my father that he had a bad reputation of cobbing up bad cars and selling them to unsuspecting victims. My father told me that he thought I should sue the guy. I'm usually not one to exploit my father's trade, but in this case I consented. He filed suit for some outrageous amount, and we quickly settled out of court for half the purchase price. June 1983 When I got back home from school the following Summer I decided that I wanted to try to get the Citroën back on the road again. I didn't know if I'd succeed, but dammit I was going to try. Of course the first thing was getting it back up to Watertown. I got back in touch with the guy in Buffalo. He quoted me a very good price for flat-bedding it all the way back. In the end it came down to less than $1 a mile. I waited with baited breath until the evening when it finally arrived. It was like seeing an old friend. The next step was to find someone who could fix it. There was a German expatriate in town who my father said used to fix Citroëns back when they were sold in Watertown. The next day I drove out to see him and asked him if he had experience with Citroëns. Very cautiously he said that he did. I told him I had one I wanted him to look at. He winced. He clearly didn't want to get involved, but he was too polite to tell me no. He finally begrudgingly agreed to have a look. Now all that remained was getting the car out to him. If I had my shit together I would have arranged this ahead of time and had the flatbed drop it off out there instead of at my house. I could have just called another flatbed, but at this stage in my life everything revolved around doing everything as inexpensively as possible. This meand DIY. I went to the U-Haul place. At the time the tow-dollies for front-wheel-drive cars had just come out. My main concern was not exacerbating the wound to the rear end of the Citroën. I figured I could use this dolly and back the rear end onto it. A buddy of mine had a car with a tow hitch (or, more accurately, his father did), and he agreed to help me out. Of course when we got it back to my place and read the instructions it said to never put the rear wheels on the dolly because the front wheels would start steering on you and make an uncontrollable situation. So I punted and put the front wheels on and let the injured rear end bang along with no suspension under it. We finally got it to the guy's place. Now there was nothing to do but wait. And wait. And wait. Right away the guy hoisted the Citroën up onto jack stands with the rear end way up in the air. But then it sat there like that. Weeks went by with no progress. I would occasionally drive out in the evenings just to look at the car and dream about it being on the road again. One such day I was sitting out there gazing at my Citroën when a car pulled up. I thought it was going to be someone telling me to get the Hell out of the lot after hours, but it turned out to be a Citroën enthusiast. His demeanor wasn't what you might expect. He was in a Plymouth Volare with his unattentive wife and grimy kids. He himself was totally unkempt, and he spoke with attrocious, hillbilly-like grammar. Still, he was knowledgeable about Citroëns and he said he had a bunch of parts cars if I needed any parts. I took his number and he drove away. After weeks of waiting, the European mechanic Finally got some welding friends of his to take a crack at the car. These were Northcountry, redneck, tobacco-chewing, blue collar guys who really had no idea what this crazy contraption was. But they did know welding. They secured the suspension piston back into place with a big metal plate and some heavy angle-iron. It wasn't pretty, but it looked solid. The only problem now was that the connecting rod that went from the trailing arm to the suspension piston was totally bent up. It was beyond repair, and I needed a whole other one. I wasn't sure what to do, until I remembered that sketchy guy in the Volare. I gave him a call and he said he could hook me up. I went over to his place one evening. He took me out back. He did indeed have a number of old Citroëns lying around. He opened the trunk on one and showed me how the rear end had almost totally disengaged itself from the rest of the body right behind the back seat. He went to the rear end of another car and started yanking away at the connecting rod. He kept tugging at it with no success as time ticked away. I rather wished I'd brought a book or magazine to read. Then suddenly and without warning he pulled a pristine connecting rod out from under the car. I gave him whatever money he wanted for it and I was on my way. The next day I dropped the connecting rod off with the mechanic. In another couple days he finally had it all done. I came by to pick it up. What a magical feeling to once again be behind the wheel of a DS21! I was in heaven. I drove it cautiosly at first, but everything seemed to be fine. It immediately became my daily driver. I would use it to run errands during the day, I would drive it to work in the evening, and I would drive it out carousing with my friends at night. It was great! I drove it for the rest of the Summer, and that Fall I took it with me up to school. It was an instant hit with my friends and fraternity brothers. I drove it the whole year, even in the Winter, and despite the assessment of the guy in Buffalo, reports of its demise seemed greatly exaggerated. In fact, the whole year it performed flawlessly. Over the course of the year, however, the burden of driving a Citroën began to wear on me. It took a long time for the engine to warm up in the cold weather, and it was a constant bother to have to wait for the suspension to come up. And whenever I drove it I was constantly afraid that it would suffer another catestrophic problem. It got to the point that it just about required more time and effort to go to the trouble of driving it here and there than it actually would have taken to just walk. June 1983 The car did continue to work for the rest of the school year, but shortly after I got home for the Summer it sprung a leak in the line that fed the same suspension cylinder that had broken off. I just didn't have it in me to go through the effort of trying to have it fixed properly. I parked it in my parents' back yard and expected for it to sit there for some time. The place I had worked the two previous summers was under new management, and they were no longer hiring seasonal help. This left me without a job. Although I had completed four years of college, I knew that I still had at least one more year to go. It was not yet time to look for work in my designated career. Some friends told me about an asbestos abatement job in Rochester that paid obscene amounts of money. As soon as my mother learned of my plans she promptly vetoed the idea. If the Citroën had been working I would have defied her and gone anyway. But alas, without transportation I was dependent on my parents and had to stay behind. I eventually got a job as a bus boy at a resort in the Thousand Islands, about a half hour away from home. It had accomodations for workers, and I could effectively live there for the Summer without need of a car. I had gotten the job late enough that I could not have a room all to myself. I got there and met me new room mate Brad. He was very polite to me, but he made it clear that he had not intened to have a room mate here, that he would be much happier if I wasn't in his room with him, but that he was willing to make the best of it. This didn't make me feel too comfortable, but at least Brad was clearly reasonable about it. While we were sitting around the room killing time before we had to go down to work, Brad tried to make some conversation with me. "Do you have a car?" he asked. "Yeah," I replied. "What kind is it?" "It's pretty rare," I said. "I don't know if you'd know it or not." "Try me," he said, a bit short of patience. "It's a Citroën," I said. Brad spun around abrubtly. "You've got a Citroën?!?!?!?" he asked in utter amazement. It turned out he was a major French car freak, and he'd always dreamed of driving a Citroën. He got out some pictures he'd taken from a trip to France, and he had quite a number of fantastic photos of Citroëns that he'd taken himself. Our relationship took an immediate up-swing, and we wound up becoming best buds over the course of the Summer. He had previously owned a Renault 10, but now he was driving a rusty old Renault 16. After a month or so he had saved up enough money to buy a much nicer R16 that he had spotted some time ago. We spent a lot of time tooling about the Thousand Islands in that car. By the end of the Summer Brad decided that he wanted to buy the Citroën from me. He didn't have enough money at the time, however, but since I knew the car wasn't going anywhere I let him pay me a little at a time until we decided that he'd paid me enough. June 1984 The following Summer Brad had the Citroën towed away from my parents place. He was again working at the same resort, but rather than stay on the premices he rented a tiny camping trailer that was more or less permanently installed on a small lot in the woods. Brad towed the Citroën there, where it sat the whole Summer. He had paid me for it in full, but he didn't have enough money or time to get working on it. It was parked right beside the camping trailer, and he used it for his reading room. By the end of the Summer, Brad had gotten no closer to getting it functional again. He had it towed somewhere else where it sat even longer. All this time the rust kept getting worse and worse. Eventually even Brad had to concede that it just wasn't fixable anymore. I think he eventually sold it for the engine and drivetrain, which were still in very good condition. As far as I know the vehicle was utterly canabalized, and for all intents and purposes, it no longer exists. <-- back