1957 Meteor Ranchero: The one I let slip away
Gearheads are many things, but the one thing we definitely are is hopeless optimists. That optimism sometimes leads to questionable quests to buy questionable cars. Case in point – the 1957 Meteor Ranchero you see pictured on this page.
I travelled more than 4 hours with an empty trailer, spent close to $200 bucks in gas, and travelled another 4 hours home towing an empty trailer, to go see this car. Needless to say I was somewhat disappointed in its condition. Even in the short time I’ve participated in this hobby, I’ve learned a car is often not what the seller says it is.
A few months ago, a kind reader, Duncan, phoned to tell me about this “car that looks like your ‘57 Ford” he’d spied behind his neighbour’s house. He didn’t know what kind of condition it was in, but he’d check it out and get back to me. A few weeks later he phoned to tell me he’d discovered a 1957 Meteor Ranchero, but that he couldn’t really tell what kind of shape it was in due to its resting place of high grass and other junk bits. Being a bit of a’57 Ford fan I already knew that Meteor Ranchero’s were rare. (I’ve since found out only 286 Meteor Ranchero’s left Ford’s Oakville, ON plant.) My interest was piqued and when he mentioned it was for sale, I knew I couldn’t resist going to see it. The night before I left, my very understanding wife only made one stipulation: “Don’t bring home any junk.”
Now, to a gearhead, “junk” has a pretty wide interpretation, but I had a pretty fair idea of what she considered junk, and it included everything with wheels I own that is not my 2005 Dakota pickup.
My co-pilot was my buddy Dan and when I picked him up at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, we were both pretty excited about the road trip. Three and a half hours into the drive I couldn’t keep my eyes open and either could Dan, so we pulled over and had a brief nap on the side of the road. (Many years ago, when I first got my licence and started to do a lot of driving my dad told me no matter how much you wanted to reach your destination, it wasn’t worth dying for – if you’re tired, pull over and have a nap. Sound advice).
We arrived at our destination (sorry about the ambiguity – I may still want to deal on this thing – at least I’d like to get the grille) and after a brief chat and tour of Duncan’s varied collection of vehicles – including a tube-chassis, 1961 Anglia project that’s got a ways to go but one day may look pretty wild – we headed over to check out the Ranchero.
Without even getting close, I could tell it was barely a parts car. Closer examination confirmed the dreaded tin worm had done a number on the car – even the roof was succumbing to the elements – and there really wasn’t a panel on the car that wouldn’t need to be replaced. The carbless, 312 ci engine was seized, all the glass was cracked or delaminating, the grille – including the very cool Meteor V-shaped centre piece – was pitted and corroded to the point of a very expensive refurbishment. The doors and quarters were junk, and judging by the car’s placement in the surrounding vegetation, there was likely little left of the car’s underside – including the almost impossible to replace gas tank that was special to wagons, Rancheros and Sedan Deliverys. I should have walked away, but the dreaded gearhead optimism prompted an offer of $400, which was declined. (The owner thought I was trying to snow him. The thing will probably sit for another 15 years – but that’s another column). A few minutes later, after some idle chit chat, I asked him what he expected to get for the car. His answer was that 15 years earlier he’d paid $1,500 for the car and that he thought he’d get $1,000. Yikes. I offered him $600 and he almost went for it. “How about $700?” My gearhead mind said “deal” but the words of my wife “don’t bring home any junk” brought me back to my senses.
Yep, gearheads are eternal optimists – good thing are wives aren’t.