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Mark Schwarz

Five important lessons I learned from restoring a 1971 280SL as my first full restoration.

LABOR OF LOVE

What I Learned from Restoring a 1971 280SL


Article and Photography Mark Schwarz

Have you ever started something that you eventually thought was too big to finish? That’s how I felt during my first ground-up restoration. I hadn’t chosen a relatively simple 1965 Mustang or a ’70s’ muscle car. No, I naively chose a highly engineered 1971 280SL with two times the parts and three times the sophistication of any American car.

As I thought about how to tell this story, I considered sharing my life-long love of cars or the nuts and bolts knowledge I had to root out of old publications to do much of my own mechanical work; instead, I’ve settled on sharing a few lessons my wife Nancy and I learned during this three-year project. Without her understanding of my need to do this project, I probably never would have started. And without her patience during the process, I most certainly would never have finished it.

Why did I choose a 1971 280SL? For that I blame a good friend who introduced me to Mercedes-Benz cars in 1978. Being a Ford man at the time, I didn’t know much about Mercedes-Benz, but immediately fell in love with the craftsmanship and engineering. I realized that a car I had coveted during a road trip from College Station, Texas, to Houston four years earlier had been a 280SL. After that discovery, I remember naively visiting a dealership in Houston, thinking I might buy one instead of my next Ford: I was jolted into reality when I learned that its price equaled my annual salary.  

That memory surfaced 25 years later when I could afford to purchase such a car.

One day while picking up my E320 from my mechanic, David Kehl, I mentioned that I might want to restore a 280SL. Without any lengthy discussion or directive from me to be on the hunt for the model, I went on my way. Months later, Kehl called to say he had bought me a red 1971 280SL from a wholesale auction and I should come and get it.  Though the car had three layers of paint on it, the last of which was not great, the good news was that it was a “complete” car, something I would appreciate when I started to buy replacement parts. Without any real intention, a 72,000-mile car with brown/gold/red paint was my new project.



Lesson No. 1: Everything looks good if you stand far enough away


Our goal when we first undertook this project was to have a dependable car that would be relatively safe and comfortable to ride in. That may sound simple, but it is a tall order when dealing with a 29-year-old car. And as a rookie restorer, I really didn’t realize how that goal could develop into an obsession with the pursuit of a perfect car. As every restorer learns – and I did as I dismantled the car – every crack in the rubber, every leaking seal and every bit of rust under the paint was now visible. If I were ever going to replace this component or that, it should be repaired while the car was disassembled. And how would one new part look surrounded by all of those old cracked and dingy parts, anyway? At that point, rational thought flew right out the window.



Lesson No. 2: How many more parts are there?

As I disassembled the car, parts begin to pile up everywhere. Where would I store a 10-foot-long exhaust system for three years? Where would I keep the seats, the trunk lid, doors, hardtop, convertible top, engine and hood? All of those items fitted nicely together in the car, but take them apart and I had an explosion of stuff. Thank goodness for attics, the underside of beds, and spare bedrooms. And  now you’ll understand my gratitude for my wife’s patience. When I told an experienced restorer about my project, he said I couldn’t have chosen a bigger challenge because a Mercedes-Benz has many times more parts than an American Ford or Chevy. That’s one reason why our M-Bs last longer, weigh more and out-perform comparable cars.



Lesson No. 3: Thank heaven for zip-lock bags

I soon discovered there are a thousand nuts, bolt, screws and washers plus small one-of-a-kind fittings that come off the car. At the time, Mercedes-Benz seemed to use a different shaped nut, bolt or screw to attach each component to the car. How would I remember what set of fasteners was used to attach each of the hundreds of parts? And, the company that plates the fasteners wanted the parts delivered to them in a five-gallon bucket. How would I keep everything sorted?

Technology and common sense came to the rescue. As I removed each component, I took a digital photo of the assembly laid out on the workbench, drew a diagram on a note card, gave the note card a number starting with a number for the area of the car – 100 for engine bay, 500 for underside, and so on – and put the parts and the card in a zip-lock bag. When the car was disassembled, I took the fasteners that needed to be plated one by one out of the bags, and listed each item on an Excel spreadsheet by zip-lock bag number and length, head type and size, then tossed it into the bucket. When the bucket was returned from the plater, I could sort the parts by characteristics on the spreadsheet and return them to the appropriate bag. Sure, it was a painstaking and time-consuming process, but I can’t imagine how else a novice could get the car back together years after it was disassembled.



Lesson No. 4: Tell them André sent you

 We could find lots of sources for parts and plenty of mechanics willing to take our money on a restoration project. However, the proven professionals who do quality work and understand the inner workings of old Mercedes cars reside in restoration undergrounds hidden all over the country. The best Mercedes-only bodywork guy I found is located in San Antonio, the best convertible top restorer is in Maine, there is an experienced wood-restoration company in North Carolina, and a great chrome shop in Southern California. You see what I mean. My guide to that network was Mercedes-Benz Club of America member, André Horvath of OEM. When I called these far-away places to have some work performed, I merely said, “André Horvath referred me to you,” and I was immediately accepted as an okay guy to work with. I not only owe the car’s beautiful paint job to my good friend and guide, André, but also much of the success on the rest of the project.



Lesson No. 5: It’s not just about the car; it’s about the people

Much of my own joy in the restoration was in the hands-on process of the mechanical work; I was surprised to find that I’m sad that those tasks are largely behind me. But Nancy and I have a beautiful car to enjoy for the rest of our lives. Now we’re finding that the joy also includes all of the people we encountered during its restoration, those we’ve met in the MBCA’s Hill Country Section and others we meet as they stop to look at the car when we’re out for a drive. We’re looking forward to meeting many more Mercedes-Benz enthusiasts at coming events.