Rara Avis "Rare Bird" - A Marvel of Originality

Written by Ken McGavin | © Copyright 2024

A short story about the surprising (re)discovery of originality regarding the 1963 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster chassis 198 042 10 003123

Hold on — are you sure he sent the right car?” Scott’s tone is low and baffled. His son Drew scoffs at the absurdity of the comment.

Scott’s looking over Drew’s shoulder at a 1963 300SL Mercedes- Benz Roadster in ‘Feuerwehrrot Red’ that’s being carefully rolled off a trailer by three of their mechanics.

Drew retorts back with an undercurrent of amusement, “What? You think he’s got so many 300SL’s that he can’t keep track of them?” Drew looks over his shoulder at the red Roadster and laughs. “Yeah, it’s the right car.” He chuckles again at the absurdity of the thought, but his Dad doesn’t return the laugh. Drew raises his eyebrows, waiting for his Dad’s attention to come back to the conversation at hand; but Scott’s still standing there, the backs of his hands folded on his hips and a puzzled look on his face.

As he watches the car get rolled into their restoration shop, the timeless front-end of the 300SL disappears from view, and Drew tries to bring Scott back to their conversation. “Did you mail out those passes for Pebble Beach?”

“Ah… no, but I will. It’s on my list!” Scott says, as he turns to walk up the gravel road that leads to his house. A couple hundred yards away, up a small hill, the main house sits surrounded by vineyards.

Their property is nestled in a small idylic California coastal valley that feels more like a plein air watercolor painting on a wine label than a world-renowned vintage Mercedes-Benz restoration shop.

The sound of Scott’s footsteps on the gravel road wakes his Malamute-Shepherd Eva, whose been dutifully sleeping in the shade of a large oak tree.

Scott pats the back of his thigh as he calls to her. “Eva! Come on girl, time to go home.” Eva looks back at Drew with one ear flopped to the side, still half-asleep she trods along to catch up with Scott.

Drew hollers before his Dad is too far up the gravel road. “Don’t forget I wrote that list, so I know what’s on there!” Scott waves a hand back, one part acknowledgement, one part dismissal. “I’m ordering a windshield from Germany!” Drew adds. Another wave back from Scott. Drew gives one final shot of managing his Dad for the day, “and I still need you to look at the door-fit on the ivory Gullwing!”

Scott turns in surrender. “I’ll come back tonight for a waffle and get some work done. Okay?!”

Drew laughs at his Dad’s peculiar habit. For years Scott has kept a waffle iron in the backroom of their restoration shop. It’s one of those workhorse waffle irons, heavy-duty cast iron with years of batter drips along the sides. It could keep a Waffle House in business for decades, and probably did.

Later that evening when Scott walks into the workshop, he only needs the ambient evening light coming through the open door to find his way to the waffle iron. In the evening, after everyone’s left, there’s a quiet hum in the workshop that he relishes. There’s something about that low, steady, continuous hum that he finds relaxing, and also energizing in a way where he can truly focus on the task at hand. He’s described it to Drew before, saying it’s the only time he can hear the cars talk. He says it figuratively of course, but when he’s working on these illustrious 300SL’s, there’s a reverence required for him to get to know a car. That takes time and focus — a luxury he doesn’t have during the day — which is usually full of interruptions and half done tasks. Fortunately for Scott, Drew, who has the energy for it all, spearheads the company these days. Because Scott yearns for the simplicity the car business had in his early years.

He opened his first shop in 1976 when he was only 29 years old, not knowing where it would take him. He certainly never dreamed he’d be working with and collecting multi-million-dollar cars, or that at times his client list would read like an article in Fortune Magazine. All Scott knew was that he had a feel for cars, that he had a passion for them, and most importantly at that time, he needed to do something to pay the bills. Nearly 50 years later, he’s turned that passion and expertise into one of the longest running and most well respected restoration shops in the world. He’s restored, bought, and sold some of the most important and collectible Mercedes- Benz cars, helped clients win coveted awards on showfields around the world, and become a trusted resource for other restoration shops and international collectors on how these cars looked and felt when new.

But as he stands there waiting for his waffle, he doesn’t marvel at awards in the corner case or any of the 15 rare cars currently occupying the lifts and filling every nook of usable space in their workshop; it’s a simple go-kart from 1956 with a lawn-mower engine,

hanging from the wall like a piece of modern art, that catches his attention. He reaches out and taps on the tube-frame with the knuckle of his middle finger. The early years were so simple, he thinks to himself. He huffs as the memory of his Grandfather comes flashing back, the two of them building his first go-kart. His memory floats to one of the first 300SL Gullwings that he worked on. Scott smiles thinking how he spent so much time getting to know that car; certainly more time than he billed the client for, but he remembers almost everything about it. He bonded with that car.

Scott’s nostalgic reverie is interrupted by the hiss of the waffle iron. “Crap!” He says out loud. He walks over and flips the top up, a little brown but not bad. Scott doesn’t bother with utensils or even plates in the shop, no syrup, so no mess. He’s been making the same waffle batter with diced apples for years. They’re just sweet enough to do the job. He lets the waffle cool for a moment before peeling the brown griddlecake out; a few chunks left behind, definitely not his best work. “I better keep my day job,” he snickers to himself.

As Scott walks past the rows of industrial racks holding countless original spare parts from the 1950’s and ‘60s, he takes his first bite of the waffle and thinks to himself, better than a sharp stick in the eye. He’s intent on getting to the ivory Gullwing to tackle the door fit, but as he passes the last rack, he spots her again, —that ‘Feuerwehrrot Red’ Roadster. Something about this car he can’t shake, or quite put his finger on, but it stops him mid-stride as thinks to himself, what is it?

As soon as he saw her being rolled off the trailer, there was something about the car that he recognized, a fog of familiarity. But he’s never worked on or even seen this particular 300SL before, so it’s not the kind of familiarity like recognizing your UPS driver’s face when you see him out of uniform at a restaurant. It’s a deeper familiarity, like an intuition he has about the car. There’s something unique about her.

He tries to shake it off and move on to the ivory Gullwing in the next garage bay, but his feet won’t cooperate. He just stands there, unconsciously snacking on his apple waffle, staring at this ‘Feuerwehrrot Red’ Roadster when the lulling hum of the workshop abruptly stops. Pure silence takes control of the room, but somehow it seems louder now, like the ringing roar of tinnitus. Just then, the ringing abruptly stops.“Forgive me if we don’t shake hands.“ Her voice echoing through the silence.

Scott swings his head around instinctually; despite the irrational, he already knows it’s the ‘Feuerwehrrot Red’ Roadster speaking to him.

She lets out an elegant ripple of laughter. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. You were standing there like a guy at a party, afraid to ask a gal to dance; so I had to say something.”

The evening light has brought out something in her color that he hadn’t noticed in the sunlight. There’s a warmth and softness to her color that adds to her poise and graceful demeanor.

“Well go on, ask,” she says.

Scott tentatively replies. “To dance?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “I’ve heard the music you guys play in here and it doesn’t exactly get me racing.” Her voice has an undertone of huskiness that carries a touch of glamour and somehow adds depth and entendre to everything she says. “Besides, I’m a car. I don’t dance; unless it’s along a winding country road with sharp turns and long flat-out straights.”

Scott’s dumbfounded stare and expression haven’t washed away. She expected the conversation would be a bit one-sided at first, so she coyly tries to bring him along.

“Maybe I’m wrong… but it seemed like there was something you wanted to ask earlier this afternoon, and then when I saw you standing there, just now with that waffle of yours, I thought surely you’d figured it out.”

He takes a half-step forward, “Well, no… Sorry. I don’t know… What…” The start and stop of his sentences finally trails off in utter confusion. “I thought I was confused this afternoon, but now I’m just…”

She expected him to have some kind of shock or disbelief, so she tries to put him at ease. “Don’t worry, you’re not going crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It crossed my mind,” he says with an eye roll. Then, with a jolt of nervousness, “Wait, am I dead?”

She laughs, she wasn’t expecting that at all.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. No, you’re not dead. But I imagine this is a bit of a shock. You see, when I heard that I was coming to your shop, I was excited because of everything I’d heard about you and some of the famous 300SL’s you’ve worked with. But then, when I saw the look on your face as I was coming off the trailer, it seemed like you were disappointed. So, I thought maybe I could try to talk to you.”

“Oh, no it wasn’t disappointment. I was just confused. I guess I was just expecting you to look a bit more rough.” His thoughts came fumbling out.

“Excuse me?” The tone of her voice is thick with offense.

“Sorry. What I meant was that I was expecting a different quality of car.” Scott’s not making it any better. He tries again. “I thought you were being sent to us for a full restoration that would prepare you for the concours circuits, where we’d have you gleaming and winning awards; so I was expecting a car that needed a lot of work. But when I saw you coming out of the trailer, I thought, this can’t be right. I even asked my son if they’d sent the wrong car!”

Not sure if he’s sufficiently dug himself out of the hole, Scott just stands there unsure what to say next.

She notices his left hand politely clasped over his right wrist with his thumb tapping his forearm; she realizes how uncomfortable he must be feeling.

She tries to put him at ease again. “Maybe you just need some time to get to know me.”

Even through his glasses, she can see his eyes brighten and his smile take over. She’s said the exact words he needed to hear. That old feeling comes rushing back in a wave; just like that first go-kart and the early 300SL’s, he has time to get to know her.

Scott takes a deep breath as he walks over to the workbench where a file-folder lies open. “Funny you should mention time. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately, or the lack of it. Time feels like a Fabergé Egg these days, I’m not sure what I’d do with it if I had it, but what a thing of beauty that would be,” he says as he flips the folder back to the first page. He sees a photo of the ‘Feuerwehrrot Red’ Roadster with the title 1963 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster Chassis no. 198042.10.003123 – Production no. 00047. The next couple of pages contain copies of her original window sticker and original title, that’s rare, he thinks to himself. He tilts the file, letting the moonlight brighten the page. He sees her original price, this always amuses him. “11,968 dollars… and two cents.” He looks up with a smile, but then realizes she doesn’t have any notion about money, and probably doesn’t care. “Martin Ganzler Jr., of New Brunswick, New Jersey huh?”

“Yes! Did you know Martin?!” She comes back excitedly. Scott shakes his head no.
“Then why’d you say it like that?” Her tone is sharp.

“Sorry, it was just the sound of the name, and New England towns always sound, well, so English,” he says, still slightly amused with himself.

“Well you shouldn’t judge. New Jersey was wonderful. Some of the best country roads I’ve ever driven. And sometimes, Martin would take me into the city,” she recalls, reveling in her memories of New York in the late ‘60s. “I loved Manhattan! But if I’m honest, I especially loved the way that I was admired driving along Fifth Avenue.” Her voice is resonating with the unmistakable timbre of a woman who embraces life with vivacity. “I was probably the first 300SL a lot of New Yorker’s had ever seen, but I think it was my color that really did it. New York, as lively as it is, was always a bit… grey. Grey buildings, grey avenues, grey suits. But as we’d pass those large swaths of windows, my ‘Feuerwehrrot Red’ color really lit up the street. Of course I’d catch Martin smirking at our reflection too, but it felt like I was the first color movie some of those pedestrians had seen in their black and white New York world. I loved it!”

Scott likes the way she talks about New York with her first owner. He can see they had a sincere bond.

“But Spring and Autumn in New Jersey were even more thrilling. Martin would take me out on these wonderful country roads where I could make good use of my light aluminum-alloy block engine and really let loose! That’s where I spent most of my miles, in New Jersey with Martin.”

Her mention of mileage makes him curious. Scott flips through all the documented titles from new with mileage notations along the way. “That can’t be right,” he says under his breath.

“What’s that?” She peers back with curiosity.

“It says you’ve only covered 18,452 miles. That’s insane. In 50 years, I can count the number of 300SL’s that I’ve seen with mileage that low on one hand.”

“No, it’s right. I counted every one of them myself; take a look.”

Her tone is filled with certainty and pride. Scott quickly strides over, still is disbelief. He opens the driver’s side door; the elegant mechanism of her flush door handle is smooth, he instinctually lets it go from three inches away with no leverage applied in return, the door clicks shut. The crisp and precise sound of the door clicking is like the clasp on a diamond bracelet; he thinks to himself, it’s perfect. He opens the door again, and just as he bends down to crane his neck into the car to look at the odometer, the smell of her interior wafts to him.

Connoisseurs of the 3-pointed-star cars know this smell well; it’s the smell of original Mercedes-Benz leather, Roser leather to be exact. That foggy feeling of familiarity begins to lift and a new thought starts to emerge. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he wonders, is she still completely original? She can’t be. He dismisses the notion, but as he bends further down to get a clear look at the odometer, the palm of his had hits the leather seat cushion. It is, it’s the original leather. He can tell from the distinct feel of it, there’s no mistaking it.

He doesn’t bother with the odometer. He’s too enthralled with the leather. It’s in near perfect condition, and he can’t believe it. He slides his right hand in the gap between the seat cushion and the back rest to jostle loose the driver’s seat cushion. He pulls it out of the car to look at the underside of the cushion.

“Blast it,“ Scott says out loud. He never turned the lights on in the shop. He quickly gets to his feet and makes his way to the workbench twelve feet away where he knows there’s a hand-held flashlight.

“What is it?” She tries to mask the concern in her voice. She worries that something’s wrong or that she’s disappointed him.

“I just need some light. I’ll be right back.” He can’t get to the flashlight quickly enough. His excitement is bursting as the thought of a 61-year-old completely original 300SL teases his mind.

As the flashlight blinks to attention, he turns back towards the Roadster. Now with the beam of light, even from twelve feet away, he can clearly see what he hoped for. On the underside of her seat cushion, written in chalk is the marking ‘047L.’ He hasn’t seen this on a 300SL in a long time. He quickly rounds the back of her to the passenger side and opens the door. Again, the door fit is absolutely perfect with vault-like precision. He pulls the passenger seat cushion up, and smiles with amazement. ‘047R.’

“Sorry to sound like a scratched Beatles LP, but what is it?” She’s not sure if something is wrong or right, but he seems very stirred.

“These chalk markings on the underside of your seats, they were written there in 1963, when you were made! They correspond to your production number ‘00047.’ Very few 300SL’s in the world still have their chalk markings. It means your interior is completely original, because if anybody had ever redone your seats that underside fabric would have been torn off and destroyed. But you still have it on both seats. That’s remarkable!”

“Well, I could have told you that. Why didn’t you just ask?” She relaxes and thinks maybe she can help him figure out what he needs to know, better than that filefolder at least.

“Are you? Really? Completely original?” He still can’t commit to the idea.

“Well, I’ve had a few oil changes and I get a bit thirsty when it comes to gasoline.” She says, smirking as though she were talking about a martini.

He puts the seat cushions back in her and finally gets a look at the odometer he’d started this investigation with.

There it was. 18,452. His eyes move across the rest of her dash, no sun damage or discoloration, he runs the tips of his fingers along the leather on the dash; not dried out, he thinks to himself. He compliments her, “You were certainly well cared for.” His voice has zero equivocation, it’s the nicest original dash he’s seen on a 300SL.In his excitement, Scott’s almost forgotten his age. He’s bent over too quickly and craned a little too far, and his lower back feels it. Slow down, he thinks to himself, take your time. He arches his back a little to relieve the tension. With his hands clenched in a fist, he rests them on his hips and stands there looking at her open door. “You look like Superman standing there!” Her hearty laugh cascades across the shop and it makes him smile. “I always preferred Dick Tracey myself,” he says, as he clicks the rubber button on the end of the flashlight, like it’s a specialized detective tool. “Mind if I take a closer look in your doorjamb?”

“Sure. Just let me know if you’re going to use a rag to wipe in there. I don’t like that feeling,” she cringes as she says it.

“Seriously, like you’re ticklish?” Scott tries not to laugh, but this is all surreal for him, so why should that surprise him. “No rags. I just need to get a light in there to look at your hinges, rubber, and trim areas a bit.”

He first looks over the hinges and screws. There’s no chipped paint or tool markings, so he knows the doors have never been taken off. He moves the light along the edges of the doorjamb where the body paint meets the leather. No signs of another color underneath, no signs of any tape lines, and no signs of overspray. Had she ever been repainted, he would have seen one or more of these signs, but the entire doorjamb is perfect. She looks every bit the part of what he’s previously seen from Stuttgart’s finest.

Scott allows himself to edge closer to the thought, completely original.

He didn’t pay attention to it at first, but now that he’s down on one knee, he can see the complexity of her paint. It’s that warmth he noticed in the ambient evening light. He looks along the length of her, letting the moonlight fall across her curves as he slowly moves his head to catch subtle angles. There it is, the subtle orange peel texture.

Long before these 300SL’s became the collectible bluechip investment cars of Monaco’s elite, the first Gullwings and Roadsters that Scott worked on were only 15-year-old cars at that point. Many of them were still completely original, unchanged from when they’d left the Mercedes factory. As he was getting to know these cars in the early years, he built an Alexandria worthy library of information in his mind. And one thing most restoration shops don’t know is the paint finish that Mercedes-Benz did at the factory. Most collectors expect their cars to have a mirror like finish, so when the car sits on the concourse lawn at Pebble Beach or lakeside at Villa d’Este in Lake Como, the car gleams, presenting the truest of reflections. But original Mercedes-Benz paint had a subtle texture that never got wet-sanded by hand or polished out, so the paint had more depth and more warmth. An original car didn’t gleam as much as it glowed.

“Eureka!” Scott says excitedly, as though he’d discovered California itself. “That’s what I recognized about you when I first saw you. I didn’t know it, except maybe instinctually, but it was your paint I recognized. Your paint is original!”

“You know Scott, I’m beginning to think that my opinion is about as useful as a glass hammer.” She says it playfully since she already told him that she’s completely original, but she realizes now that this was the mystery. Nobody realized that she was completely original. Her file-folder of documents left some breadcrumbs, but it’s here, in this moment with Scott that her original condition is being rediscovered.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dismiss what you said. It’s just so hard to believe. You’re rare, incredibly rare,” Scott says, with all the remnants of confusion washed away. He’s relieved to have figured out what that feeling of familiarity was; he’s more than relieved —he’s excited, and he can’t remember the last time he felt this excited getting to know a car.

“Well, if you really want to see something special, you should look in my engine bay.”

He pulls the hood release lever and as he lifts the hood past eye level, he immediately sees it, “Is that your original radiator foam?” His voice is half perplexed and half amazed, he’s never seen a 300SL with the original block of foam still attached to the hood. He’s certain that touching a 61-year-old piece of foam will turn it to dust, so he respectfully scans it with his flashlight. “Amazing,” he whispers to himself.

“You sound impressed.” She’s amused by these discoveries. She never thought much about how being original made her unique, everyone always talked about her rare aluminum-alloy block engine and disc brakes; but seeing Scott put all these pieces together, she decides to give him one more puzzle piece that will complete the story. “You might want to take a look at my chassis and safety bolts.”

He resists the urge to immediately slide underneath. He considers his back and reminds himself he has time. He slowly raises the lift so he can easily walk under her. He clicks the end of his flashlight to scan her chassis. There it is. A small stroke of yellow paint across a safety bolt. He moves his light to the other side of her chassis — more strokes of yellow paint on all the important bolts. “Can you see it? My witness marks?” The brushes of yellow paint across her chassis and safety bolts were brushed on by a Mercedes specialist at the factory when they witnessed the tightening of those critical mounting points.

“Astonishing. You really are a Sphinx aren’t you?!” Scott’s expression is warm with surprise and admiration.

She’s perplexed, but not offended. “What’s a Sphinx?”

“I just mean that you’re a bit of an enigma, a mystery,” he says. “Am I? Am I still a mystery to you?” She coyly comes back to him.
“No, I suppose not now that I know you,” the tone of his voice is filled with reverence.

“How long will it take for you to restore me?” She’s unsure about the process, and while she knows Scott will take care of her, she’s looking for him to put her at ease about the process.

“Restore you?! Absolutely not. Not now that I know you’re original! You’re rare, a Rara Avis.” His Latin isn’t exactly native, and she doesn’t know that he’s calling her a rare bird, but the weight of the phrase makes her feel respected. She’s proud to hear Scott talk about her this way.

“So, what’s next, will you find a new owner for me?” She wonders if she’ll ever have another Martin.

“I’m sure Drew will have that worked out soon enough. Actually, he already has a former Formula 1 driver that wants a completely original 300SL.”

“Really?! A Formula 1 driver?!” She can hardly contain the dream of being properly driven again. “So, what happens in the meantime?”

Scott sees the light changing outside. He can’t believe he’s been here all night with her. It’s been nearly 40 years since he stayed up all night getting to know a car. He walks over to the large rolling door behind her, thrusts it open to let the early morning light spill in.

“How about a drive?”