Workhorse Datsun: He Changed the Oil, Not the Car

It’s an old joke. An American asks a British gardener how to create a lush lawn like those at English castles. “First get yourself some good grass,” replies the gardener with a twinkle in his eye. “Then roll it for 300 years.”

I think of that wry gardener whenever someone asks how I’ve kept my 28-year-old car purring for 323,000 miles. It’s really quite simple. First get yourself a good car, then change the oil every 3,000 miles forever. And that’s no joke.

My 1972 Datsun PL510 wagon was purchased new in Laguna Beach to replace a dead 10-year-old Buick Riviera. She has never been out of California. And except for a trip to Yosemite in her early years, she has always cruised the freeways and byways of Southern California. Mostly she carries me to my Costa Mesa office, but often to headquarters in Los Angeles. On average, she totes me 11,500 miles a year.

As you can see, I think of my car as a female. After all, she has only four cylinders, just half the number in the macho Buick she succeeded. It’s the difference between a mare and a stallion. Not much really, because either can carry you anywhere.

Southern California’s dry environment contributed mightily to my car’s rust-free longevity. She has never endured the corrosiveness of salty Snowbelt roads. And a goodly amount of waxing and polishing throughout her life has helped too.

Nowadays my Datsun seldom goes anywhere for pleasure. She is strictly a workhorse, not a pet at all, although I do pat and stroke her dashboard with some frequency just to let her know I care. If my wife and I have weekend pleasure driving in mind, we take the “other” car, currently a 1996 Acura 2.5TL with air conditioning and other creature comforts. The unadorned Datsun stands in the garage and waits for her master to go to work again.

In the summer of 1983, after I had driven the Datsun more than a decade, I was reassured I had “good grass.” In an article devoted to the 1968-73 Datsun 510s, Road & Track magazine called the series a “Used Car Classic,” and shouted the slogan “Poor Man’s BMW” in large type. A chart listed prices for these used cars, all of which had at least 100,000 miles on odometers that counted to only 99,999.

My near-perfect filly, a 1972 station wagon manufactured in November 1971, would bring at least $3,000 in 1983, or $300 more than I had paid for her. This back when a buck was really a buck. But leaving behind Greed, I drove away with Pride.

And I rode the Datsun for 17 more years. I am riding her still. I get thumbs-ups on the freeway and compliments at stop signals. It seems that everybody, even the mechanics who repair her, want to buy her. Ubiquitous members of Southland 510 clubs almost salivate. A one-owner wagon with the original engine!

Japan’s venerable Nissan Motor Co. began manufacturing the Datsun 510 in the late 1960s, and immediately entered it in a series of stock car races.

From the beginning, this car obviously had more to offer than clean styling. Under the hood sat an engine with power to spare, just waiting to do a job worthy of it. The little 510 became a giant killer. By 1972 it had a solid lock on the 2.5-liter Trans-Am championship.

The Datsun 510s, marketed only in the United States, were highly successful off the track too. They made Nissan famous. No, that’s not true. They made Datsun famous. Then a funny thing happened. Nissan directors met in the late 1980s to consider this awkward matter.

Why do we sell Datsuns in America? The word “Datsun” has no meaning. It was invented years ago by an American huckster who thought it sounded like real Japanese. We bought the idea then, but Japan is the world’s big shot now. Let’s change back to the grand old name of “Nissan.”

And they did, ignoring business sages who preach the dangers of renaming successful products. Nissan suffered for about two years before recovering. It was “Nissan,” not “Datsun,” that sounded strange to American ears. The huckster was right.

The Datsuns themselves remained stubbornly loyal to their maker. They require genuine and brand-new Nissan parts--no rebuilt starters or American spark plugs or any other non-Nissan hardware. The 510s will accept no substitutes.

I learned this the hard way. Long ago I did tuneups myself. Once--only once--I bought Ace spark plugs at Pep Boys to avoid a trip to the dealership, and I innocently installed them. Halfway to work from my home in Lake Forest, the car quit on me. After getting a tow to an Irvine garage, I was bawled out by a knowledgeable mechanic.

About six months ago, at 316,000 miles, my Datsun’s engine overheated, blew a head gasket and choked on an unholy mixture of oil and water. It was my fault. I knew she was using and leaking oil, but I forgot to check for a few days.

The mechanic said, “Well, it’s either the boneyard or a $2,000 overhaul.”

I surprised him.

“I’ll take the overhaul,” I said. “A car like this can’t be replaced for two lousy grand.”

She is not a pet, not at all, but I like having her around.

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Jackson Sellers, an editorial systems manager for The Times, is as adept at babying old computers as he is old Datsuns. He can be reached at jackson.sellers@latimes.com.