"Unsafe at Any Speed," said my brother when I mentioned that I'd gone to see a Corvair several months earlier. It's the title of the Ralph Nader book that eventually damned the car out of production, claiming they'd flip over at high speeds. Another quirk about the car is that there's no park setting on the gear shaft. When you park it, you have to put it in neutral and set the parking break. If the brake isn't working perfectly the car will roll. Of course my brother had to remind me of all this and add: "Y'know, mom's gonna kill you when she finds out."

I was born in '68, three years after Nader's book was released and a year before the Corvair disappeared into automotive history books. The first time I saw a Corvair was when a mechanic in Northeast Philly unveiled an electric green beauty he'd restored. I only went to see it on a lark. I was about to buy a big old Plymouth Valiant—then I saw a Corvair.

It was the grille, or lack thereof, that first caught my eye. A smooth, concave sheet of metal stretched from one headlight to the other. The chevron-shaped hood of this relic from the Summer of Love seemed to have been inherited from a flying saucer. The Corvair has ducts on the bottom of the car to direct wind up to its rear-mounted engine. It was introduced by General Motors in 1960 to compete in the compact car market against more established lines like the Nash Rambler and the imported Volkswagen Beetle. In these days when automotive enthusiasts are going ga-ga over the new VW bug, the Corvair is little more than an old joke.

Which is unfortunate, because the car seems more appropriate for today than the '60s. An old ad I came across from 1966 described it as "A most unusual car for people who enjoy the unusual." Oddly enough, it's small, sporty and economical—all of those buzzwords that pop up in car ads since the '70s gas crisis. Back in '60s, the Corvair was known as a "Poor man's Porsche." It looks like the kind of car Roger Moore would have driven around in the old TV version of The Saint. Suitable for a secret agent on a tight budget.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to spend $3,700 on a car with no seat belts and an engine in the rear. When I told my mom I wanted to get a Beetle as a teenager, she replied, "Oh, no, not while I'm alive. The front end of that car just crumbles when it's in an accident." All those years she warned me about the Beetle, she probably never even thought to warn me about a Corvair.

When I called the mechanic back about the green Corvair, it had been sold. Something clicked. I didn't want a Corvair. I needed one.

The next day I bought a copy of Hemmings Motor News, a book-sized monthly filled with ads for vintage cars. The Corvair section had one promising ad: "'66 Monza Coupe. Powder Blue. Air conditioning, radio, runs great." I called the used car dealership that had placed the ad. The salesman told me the car had been sitting around on the lot for years.

One Saturday, I convinced a friend to drive three hours to a remote part of the Garden State to see it. The salesman, a sweaty fella who vaguely resembled the Commish, said he'd buy the car if he had the room to store it. Then he gave it a crank. And another. Nothing. After six long choking attempts, he got out of the driver's seat, pulled off the gas cap and said "Needs gas." Of course, the head mechanic had borrowed the lot's only gas tank, so we had to wait an hour for him to show up.

Surprisingly enough, it did, with a blast of black smoke that could have propelled the Wicked Witch all the way to Oz.

The car had a strong engine, but hesitated at stop lights. The black smoke was a sure sign that the engine was burning oil. When I got back to dealership, I looked underneath the car and saw a black ribbon of oil streaming out of the engine. I reported my concerns to the Commish. Yet, the interior was in great shape. If they could fix the engine I might consider their asking price: $4,100.

Most car enthusiasts considered the Corvair a toy because it was cheaply built. Most of them have rust problems and tend to leak oil.

I discovered various Corvair pages on the World Wide Web which refer to specialized garages like Corvair Ranch in Gettysburg, PA. They have acres of old Corvairs stockpiled for parts and rebuilding as well as a handful for sale. I begged my friend to take me.

On the ride up, we rode past a greying guy in a black Corvette. "Must be hitting mid-life crisis," my friend commented. Um, is that a hint? I wondered. Was she trying to tell me my classic car spree was a not-so-subtle yearning for childhood cool? Have I turned into one of those guys who hangs out at diners doing bad impersonations of the Big Bopper? Is it possible to own a classic car and not be pathetic?

I told an old girlfriend about my quest and she said "Oh, I never realized you were one of those kind of guys." What the hell does that mean? "Personally," she continued, "my dream car is a reliable Honda." Okay, maybe a Corvair's not the most practical choice, but it's not exactly a Ferrari, either.

My day at Corvair Ranch could have been titled Goldie Locks and the Three Corvairs, with me in the starring role. This one's too beat up. This one's nice, but too expensive. This one's just right, but not for sale. No purchase.

By this time, my brother had told my mom about what I was doing. "Well, it's your life," she said disapprovingly.

Not to be dissuaded, I called up to Clark's Corvair Parts in Massachusetts—the largest seller of Corvair parts in the world. Once a year they put together a newsletter with various Corvairs for sale around the country. Soon there was a pile of notes near my phone filled with mileage numbers and asking prices. I got photos and letters in the mail and had careful conversations with prospective sellers, listening for the pause in their voice when I asked if the car needed any work. The answer was inevitably "No" or "Hardly any at all," but there is a world of difference between the two.

Perhaps I could get what I wanted if I was willing to spend more. There was a '66 with 19,000 miles on it for $6,000 in Pittsburgh. Pricey for a Corvair, but possibly worth it. In addition to owning several vintage cars, Dave Ruggeri also owns two delis near Carnegie Mellon and the University of Pittsburgh. We drove to a parking garage in a residential part of town. One floor is dedicated solely to his vintage car collection, which includes a '71 Camaro, a '69 Mustang and '47 Fleetwood, among others.

"I'm car-rich and cash-poor," he explained. "The wife wants to do remodeling work on the house and I need to pay it off somehow."

Dave gave me the Ruggeri tour of Pittsburgh in the Corvair: "You know those Carnegie Mellon kids are a bunch of geniuses," he explained. "But the Pitt students are just regular folk like you and me."

"I don't know," I said. "It's a sweet car, but it's almost too good to drive on a regular basis." If I got into an accident or even scratched such a pristine specimen I'd feel miserable, like I'd ruined a piece of automotive history." I balked.

A guy from Carlisle, the car capital of Pennsylvania, had been around a couple of days before looking to sell a '67.

I bribed a friend take me to meet 73-year-old Jim McClafferty. He'd bought the car to use when driving around Pennsylvania selling paper. About 10 years ago he repainted and garaged it. The odometer had 40,000 and change on it.

Jim had as many questions for me as I him: "Will you garage it? Are you going to use it as a daily driver? Will you take good care of it?"

You'd think I was asking to marry his daughter. He didn't really want to sell it, he admitted. But he'd just bought his dream car, a '57 Thunderbird, and didn't have space for the Corvair.

"You know my grandson wants the car so much he offered to empty his bank account," said Jim. Oh great, now I'm taking the family heirloom from a baby. "But he's only eight and there's no place to store it for 10 years."

A few days later we agreed on the price: $4,000. Arguably high, but at that point it was relief.

Jim got misty-eyed when he signed the title over. Before I backed the car out of his driveway, he kissed his hand, tapped the driver's side rear quarter panel and pronounced: "So long, blue girl."

I'll admit I'm especially proud when yuppies in $50,000 Audis and Beamers ogle the chrome and smooth lines or a homeless person stops in front of my car and lets out a warm-hearted "Holy Shit!" Tooling around in a vintage automobile is kind like being in a one-car parade. Drivers get out of your way and onlookers love to wave. Yeah, and just in case you're wondering, chicks dig it.

Maybe that old ad was right. It's an unusual car for a person who enjoys the unusual. In a world of boxy 4-by-4s, I opt for a Corvair. Last month, a woman from Providence was buried in her '62 Corvair because she loved it so much.