Welcome to the latest installment of Project Valentino, a series dedicated to the decades-long story of senior editor Sajeev Mehta and the car that got him interested in cars: A 1983 Lincoln Continental Valentino designer series. Join him as he works to restore the most complex of ’80s Ford products to its original glory—and then some.
Perhaps it all started back in January 1995, when I was a teenager awkwardly flirting with two beautiful girls in my Continental Valentino. As we idled in the Burger King drive-thru line, waiting for whatever garbage on a bun we had ordered, one of the girls opened a bottle of perfumed lotion. I vaguely remember notes of lavender—or perhaps it was rose—right before she playfully smeared it on my neck.
She and her friend giggled, as you’d expect from two teenage girls. I remember smiling uncontrollably at both of them, which might have been a new feeling for me. I wiped off the lotion, inadvertently applying it to the leather-wrapped steering wheel. When I noted how much softer it felt, they responded by smearing more lotion on the Valentino’s wheel.
The next day, the Valentino greeted me with a sizable puddle of red oil. The interior reeked of chemically degrading, perfumed skincare lotion, and Ford’s iconically whiny power steering howled in protest upon start-up. Days later I was $568.62 poorer, as the Valentino needed a new steering rack.
My underdeveloped teenage brain couldn’t believe the coincidence. I wanted to believe the Valentino was a sentient being capable of feelings. I thought it had jealousy in its small-block heart, after what I remember as the Burger King drive-thru incident of 1995. Now, I enjoy pondering how this Fox-body Lincoln was a mirror to parts of my psyche I’ve yet to explore.
When I picked up the car after the repair, the service advisor asked me why the Mehta family’s Valentino smelled like a bunch of girls were in it. His wry smile came from a good place, as he’s known me since I was a tween. I smiled back silently as he handed the keys to my 12-year-old Valentino.
I might have frowned after that, as the new steering system felt like it lost half of its assist as I motored off the dealership’s service drive. But all doubts turned to delight when I navigated the U-turn under US-59 with shocking levels of precision. Someone in the parts department had given the Valentino the faster (15:1 vs. 20:1 ratio, in Fordspeak) steering rack from Lincoln’s Mark VII LSC touring coupe.
As I hold this repair invoice in my hand, it seems that January 26, 1995, was the day I learned the value of OEM+ modifications. Not only did that day cement my feelings for the Valentino, it also sent me down a unique path of resto-modification. It’s a path that few choose to follow, but nobody forgets the results. Last month I attended my 30th high school reunion, where a friend asked about the Valentino. I took a while to process an answer, as it’s been well over a year since I’ve done anything worth discussing on the car.
Words are sometimes hard to string together, but my mind hasn’t stopped thinking about Project Valentino. It sits in storage, decaying, and frozen in time. Fluids now leak from various orifices on the car, mirroring something within my soul. Maybe the car knows something is wrong with me—after all, classic cars reflect modern society, whose most prevalent, health-destroying habit is no longer smoking but sitting.
I generally think I am in good health, but the Valentino still has my number. Last summer I was diagnosed with stress-induced gastritis. This isn’t something to be trifled with, but the issue likely hinges on nothing more than my sedentary lifestyle. I write that as a statement of fact, not as a veiled request for sympathy. When classic cars and inactivity from writing about them are two big reasons why your nervous system is on the fritz, you clearly live a charmed life.
Part of the healing process included the admission that the Valentino’s inability to move on from project-car status has caused me a shocking amount of misplaced stress. The discomfort in my guts was bad enough that I considered parting the Valentino out and crushing what couldn’t be sold. After briefly considering this option, I summarily rejected it.
Be it the smell of scented lotion on my teenage skin or a work-from-home existence in middle age, the parallels between my life and the mechanical existence of this damn car are worth salvaging. I chose to kill two birds with one stone by embarking on a quest that would help me and advance Project Valentino. Several doctors approved of my regimen: stretch/exercise more during the day, stop multi-tasking, breathe deeper on a regular basis, delete addictive apps from my phone, and make a pilgrimage to the Automotive Restoration Summer Institute at McPherson College. The latter was mandatory, because I needed a hard reset of my restomodding-obsessed brain.
For me, going back to school can be considered a manifestation of what Generation Z calls “touching grass.” I didn’t understand the concept until my own health was affected by an addiction to technology, and the anxiety it was (is?) causing. There’s truth in the notion that “unplugging” yourself is good for your body and soul, and for someone in my shoes, touching the grass on the campus of McPherson College might as well be a pilgrimage to Mecca.
This isn’t a spa vacation at a six-star resort, but I certainly left happier and healthier. McPherson’s one-week course offers dormitory housing and meals, a delightful throwback to simpler days as a college student. The experience worked for my body, as I experienced no gastritis symptoms the entire week. If I am overcoming my problems by merely hurling different stimuli at my gut/nervous system, I thought to myself, the Valentino’s electrical maladies can’t be much harder to overcome. That is why I had chosen McPherson’s summer course in automotive electronics, as Project Valentino’s numerous electrical glitches between chassis wiring (from 1983) and a fuel injection system (from 1991) keep it from becoming a fully functional automobile.
Our professor was a delightful gent named Sam. He armed us with a binder full of reference material that read like a college textbook but without the dry and repetitive filler material. The course was mostly theoretical and based in a classroom, unlike other McPherson programs (paint/body, engine rebuilding, tune-ups, and upholstery/trim) that require you to live in a shop setting for the entire week. I was not complaining, because my electrical knowledge until this point consisted of repair manuals, automotive forum posts, and educated guesses involving handfuls of blown fuses.
Like pouring sand into a jar of stones, my week at McPherson College filled in the gaps in my knowledge. I learned how to use a Power Probe, and instantly visualized how this specialty tool could help me diagnose a no-power issue in complex circuits. We took a trip to McPherson’s engine shop, where I finally understood how an endoscope works (by clipping it onto the ignition leads of a Stovebolt Chevrolet I-6).
The course brought clarity to my actions and a level of confidence that cannot be measured. (Thank goodness there wasn’t a final exam!) To say I recommend the Automotive Restoration Summer Institute at McPherson College is an understatement. When I returned home, it was time to put the power to the pavement. First up was an easy project: A dead radio in my 1988 Mercury Cougar.
The Cougar’s factory wiring harness was already mangled by some knucklehead at a Clinton-era stereo shop, but I had cleaned up that mess when I added a pre-amp graphic equalizer (EQ). This system received a Bluetooth-to-FM module after I came back from McPherson, but wiring it alongside that EQ made everything in the circuit lose power. The stereo’s fuse tested good with my multimeter, so something downstream was clearly amiss.
Out came the Power Probe, and in less than 20 seconds I traced the problem to a bad crimp at a spade connector. I have a unique need for factory-looking integrations, so I was far from done. I cut the cheesy, universal toggle switch out of the Bluetooth’s circuit, and wired that bit into a factory Ford switch (OEM+’d from a Thunderbird Turbo Coupe!) instead. The factory wiring diagram wasn’t much help, but again, the Power Probe made that connection for me within seconds.
The finished product came out well, and my nervous gut remained calm throughout the process. I consider myself lucky that my newfound confidence is reaping rewards with automotive electronics and my nervous system. “On to Project Valentino,” I said aloud in the Cougar’s cabin.
While I find more questionable wiring choices every time I look at the Valentino, I dove in seeking nothing more than a quick win. I addressed the lowest hanging fruit: an aftermarket electric cooling fan of both questionable utility and disappointing integration. The moment I twisted the Valentino’s key, that electric fan would spring—incorrectly—into action. And it was L-O-U-D, to the point that it distracted me from the joy of the 331-cubic-inch stroker motor idling right next to it.
Though I hated the fan, I investigated replacement wiring harnesses that included a thermostat, as that would ensure it would only kill my small-block buzz when necessary. The kits appeared well designed, and would make a restomod Valentino work more like a modern car. But there was an ache in my stomach that persisted. Something wasn’t right.
I listened to my guts, and chose to kill two birds with one, ahem, bird: I revisited the 1986 Ford Thunderbird that helped me write a Piston Slap article about the evolution of wiper blades. This junker was fresh on my mind, because that first visit included grabbing its fuel filler neck for Project Valentino. (Years ago, someone threw away the factory neck alongside the rusty tank. I am currently hunting for an appropriate replacement, as Thunderbird necks don’t work on Valentinos.)
So I made a second visit to this T-bird, which ultimately was an act of stupidity and frustration. I should have just looked at the photo used for that Piston Slap (the picture on the right), because it’s clear the front-end damage destroyed both the fan and its shroud. But there was a silver lining, because the act of “touching grass” once again proved healthy for my gut. I got one thing right in this journey: The junkyard can be a place of relaxation, even when you leave empty-handed.
Highlight and delete, as they say in tech circles. Going home from the yard, I felt my frustration with this electric fan grow. I wanted none of this self-imposed gastritis pain, and none of the inherent electrical complications. The 1982–87 Lincoln Continental is absolutely dripping in high technology of the era, so going back to a mechanical, clutch-based fan system certainly won’t hurt the car’s feelings.
I whipped out the laptop and bought the first OEM fan shroud I found on eBay. Then, I visited RockAuto for a Dorman fan and a heavy-duty Hayden clutch (originally spec’d for the Ford F-150). The results speak for themselves: The factory fan shroud draws air away from a radiator with superior efficiency. The aftermarket shroud leaves large swathes of radiator unfanned, an omission with consequences that rear their ugly heads in a Houston summer. I type that with certainty, as I recently had the absolute displeasure of driving a 1967 Camaro restomod ($250,000 spent, and counting) equipped with two of the most obnoxious aftermarket fans, screaming bloody murder as they tried to keep the modern LT4 motor from overheating and to help the Vintage Air condenser blow cool air, both with little success.
I hope that anecdote impresses upon you my disdain for aftermarket parts slapped onto a restomodded vehicle without consideration. I have been upgrading Fox-bodies since the “good old days” of sharing information on the Corral.net forums, which started in earnest around the late 1990s. It was a time when fan clutches from junked F-150s and uprated but cheap ($98) three-row brass radiators from AutoZone made your Valentino 5.0 Mustang immune to summertime heat. ‘Twas the good ol’ days of Fox-body modifications, I assure you!
Getting back to Fox-body basics feels great, and now I can take on wiring projects that would have intimidated me a year ago. I have Professor Sam to thank, because he was quite good at building complex circuits laden with treachery for us to diagnose and repair in class. One of his instructional circuits was for a cooling fan, and he even put a small piece of electrical tape on the fan’s blade, ensuring it would never turn even with power and a ground. I reckon he’d enjoy seeing me visualize Project Valentino’s problem before ejecting the whole affair from the car.
Some designs stand the test of time, no matter what the typical restomod may suggest when you open its hood. And sometimes knowledge inspires confidence, as my time at McPherson College proved when it cemented my mission with Project Valentino. Twisting this car’s ignition key and hearing the sounds of silence from under the hood was surprisingly therapeutic for my soul.
There’s a solace that comes from remaining true to the mission, and this has proven shockingly good for my stressed-out gut. I started collecting parts for this car before LS-swaps were cost-effective, and I don’t plan on wavering, even in today’s climate of 1000+ horsepower EVs that take no prisoners. If I learned one thing since our last update, it’s that therapy comes in many forms. Stress dissolves for different reasons, be it classroom instruction, or the cathartic yanking of a sketchy electric fan.
The kids are right about “touching grass,” and I highly recommend you do just that after finishing this article.
Thank you for the promised update. I apologize for any added stress I may have caused you in my constant bugging for a progress report. It sounds as if you’ve made some personal-life progress as well (giving up time-sapping and brain-sucking apps is #1), and congrats on that. I mostly-seriously recommend you move to a small ranch or farm in some sparsely populated area, far from Houston (and that hellacious freeway). There is much grass to touch – literally and figuratively…
Your requests for updates were always a source of encouragement, not stress. Personal life is getting a lot better, and hopefully this car will grow as I heal whatever it is that’s causing my issues. The brain is almost as fascinating as converting an EEC-III powered Fox Body to an EEC-IV computer. 🙂
Might be too much grass to touch all the way out there for me! I just need to pick and choose my battles with the beast that is the I-10 Katy Freeway.