Somewhere, she races on

I was leaning on my car in the parking lot of an ice cream stand, enjoying one of the better examples of their fare, when a vehicle pulled into the next slot. The youthful driver took his place in line, leaving me to examine his ride.

It would be difficult to not be first drawn to the hue, kind of iridescent phlegm green. The eye then moved to the spoiler, about half again the size of the body, suitable for generating down force at speeds exceeding mach three. Ground clearance was about four sheets of 20-pound paper stock.

The driver returned and caught me eyeballing the car. “Sweet, huh? I’ve got her all tricked out.”

“What does she run?”

“Please?” A native Cincinnatian.

“What does she turn in the quarter mile?’

“I dunno. I got an extractor on her, though.” I believe that’s similar to what we called a glass pack muffler, except about ten times the price.

“Anything else?”

“Nah, but she roars.” Lions roar and moose bellow to delineate their territories. The American male unleashes his exhaust system. With the animals, it’s understandable. “Oh, yeah, I put in a high performance chip.”

“What all does that do? Advance the timing? Change the shift points?”

“No, man, it changes the computer.” Oh.

We talked cars a bit, but were at opposite ends of form vs. function. He finally mounted his steed and roared off. Roared? More reminiscent of Briggs and Stratton.

As I mined a rich vein of hot fudge from the plastic cup, my thoughts wandered off to another time. My first car.

From an early age, I knew three or four things I wanted to accomplish for sure. Much to my parents’ dismay, none of them had to do with career.

One goal started with reading “Hot Rod” magazine and building model cars. The latter soon grew boring and I yearned for the real thing. A little ambitious for a thirteen-year-old.

I started working at an auto parts store; one that catered to drag and stock car racers. This not only provided supplemental income to my paper route, lawn mowing and snow shoveling, but also access to tools and employee discounts. Now, all I needed was a car.

I bought a 1952 Chevrolet for the princely sum of nineteen dollars. The engine was froze up, but that was of little consequence. The anemic 235 ci six banger did not figure into my plans.

The first step was primarily sweat equity. I stripped the car down to the body, and the paint and chrome would come off of that. This was months of labor. I had time.

I haunted the junk yards until I struck paydirt. A totaled ’56 Chevy. What I wanted out of it was the 265 ci V8. What I really desired was the 283 that came out a model year later, but there was a premium on them. I had amassed cash, but was not rolling in it.

It’s not like you can stage in serious modifications. One begets another in a chain reaction. Dual quad carburetors require a high capacity manifold. And, increasing air and fuel supply does not optimize unless you help the engine breathe with bigger, cooled valves and a high lift camshaft. It goes on and on. Fortunately, I did not have to drive the car (nor could I, legally), so I was able to stage the development somewhat.

The block was bored and stroked to increase displacement. Then, there were carburetors, manifolds, heads, pistons, valves, camshaft, ignition and other components to accommodate each other. While not into flash, I did succumb and go the chrome route under the hood.

One does not simply plunk this down in the engine compartment. There was significant engineering that had to be done to cage the beast. Also, the suspension, brakes, and drive train had to be beefed up.

Then, there was the voltage issue. In going from ’52 to ’56, I crossed over from six to twelve volts. The whole car had to be rewired.

The interior had already been gutted of the torn and moldering cloth. Fortunately, one of my workmates was an artist in these matters. With his guidance, it was soon plush with rolled and pleated silver leather.

Another stroke of luck: a neighbor worked for a paint company. They performed field tests of their products. He qualified my car for such a test of the “candy apple” process, so the paint job would be free. The undercoats were sparkly silver. The top coats, translucent candy apple red. Naturally.

I worked feverishly to complete it by my sixteenth birthday and acquisition of driving privileges. I did, but all was not peaches and cream. A “normal” four barrel carburetor was a bear to get into and maintain proper adjustment. Dual quads were a 5x5x5 Rubik’s Cube. Clearance for the street slicks was also an issue that had to be dealt with.

But, all came together and it was time to hunt. My plan was to hone my racing skills on the streets before taking on the drag strips.

Aside from the tubular grill, I left the exterior pretty much unadorned. I went the sleeper route. Everyone knew when the bets were placed that there were no representations made, but there was little sense in tipping my hand. Likewise, I went with fairly conservative mufflers. When the money was down, I could reach under the dash, pull the cable handle, and reroute the exhaust through the straight pipes. Cutout kits were not unheard of, so this wasn’t dealing off the bottom of the deck.

Roosevelt Boulevard was the minor leagues. Everyone cruised up and down there on weekends and thought their old man’s Buick Wildcat or Plymouth Fury was hot stuff. The odd Pontiac 2+2 would be trouble, as it stacked three deuces on top of a 421. Good thing I started out there. I blew a clutch and snapped a driveshaft before learning how to harness the power. But, once under control, I had little trouble dispatching the smaller fry.

From there, it was on to I-95. It was being built at the time, but after midnight, the serious dragsters skirted the construction blockades and went head-to-head for big bucks. Tuition was dear, but the education was worth it.

We were ready for Atco, Vineland and other major drag venues. I was eliminated in the second heat of my first outing. I lasted until the fourth the next weekend, but came close to setting a class record in my second heat when I slipped the clutch just about perfectly.

I was getting my number wiped after being eliminated when I was approached by a slick guy and his entourage. Wayfarer sunglasses, Italian shirt open to the navel and pencil mustache. Heavy duty. I said hi. He responded with an offer for the car.

I was taken aback. It was at least double what I had in the car, which was no small amount. But, I declined.

He kept going up and I kept declining. He offered the equivalent to over four times my investment and said that was final. That was also a heck of a lot of money to me.

I said I’d think about it. He said I’d better think fast because the offer was good for 30 seconds.

I took it.

He pulled out the biggest wad of cash I’d ever seen and fanned McKinleys and Franklins. I managed not to swoon and signed over the title.

What now? Go out and buy a GTO or Charger? No, too pre-fab for me.

Do another ground-up screamer? My attentions had diffused to many other interests. But, I gave it a token whack.

I came upon a bank repo that had been sugared (sugar in the gas tank, ruining the engine) by the sore loser. It was a ’62 Fairlane, the midsize Ford. It housed the 221 ci V8, making it at least partially set up for something hotter. I already had that something in mind.

The genius of Iacocca’s Mustang was the low development and production costs. It was essentially assembled from the Falcon parts bin. When they started dropping in the 289, it was only a matter of time before Walter Mittys would exceed the severe limitations of the brakes and suspension.

I found my treasure in a North Jersey junkyard. Someone had done an excellent job of rolling a high performance 289. It bolted right in with little modification.

It was hot. No question about it. But, it just didn’t have the blood, sweat and tears in it my Chevy had engendered. I didn’t have much trouble parting with it later, when I needed the money for college.

That would pretty much be the end of it. Except, many a late night studying, my thoughts would drift to the old Chevy. And, when I returned to Philadelphia a few years later, I went out bumming around with some friends from high school days.

We pulled into one of the old hangouts, and there she sat. The paint had gone unwaxed and dents unrepaired. Soot on the rear bumper told me that the tuning had been neglected. Damn those dual quads, anyway. It was sad. Like seeing an old girlfriend gone to seed.

I’m sure it wasn’t long after that she returned to a junkyard. This time, for good. No more scorching the asphalt aisle for her. Just slowly sinking into the topsoil and getting picked over until her date with the crusher.

Except, in the dim recesses of my mind, she races on.