Bench racing, and other great lies #2

Let me just preface this by saying that not only am I thrilled that people are actually coming back to read all my ramblings, but that I occasionally get FAN MAIL too!

Much to my surprise, there was a great response to the "Bench Racing, And Other Great Lies" post from early December. In fact, one reader offered to contribute his story - and it's FANTASTIC. In fact, I kept it in the author's own words, because really, it's obvious he's quite the storyteller and it sounds best in his voice.

So I hope you enjoy this installment of the CarGuyChristian blog and, as always, if you have a story (or a car) you'd like to share, drop me a line!

-----------------------------
Editor's note: Just as some background information, this story involves the author's family's car, sometime around 1965. The road mentioned is now the modern Interstate 295 which runs from New Castle, Delaware to Lawrence Township, New Jersey.


It was a powder blue '61 Chrysler Windsor, a 383/2 barrel carburetor. The launch pad (the Cold War was still on) was a section of 295 not yet open to the public. It bisected the farm we lived on, so we had access to it.

There had been several high-speed passes run on it by a guy in a silver Stingray, but it was the unusual skid marks at the South end that captured my imagination. They were LONG and "J" shaped. Some were made by Posis and some peg legs (referring to the rear differentials - Ed.). It occurred to me they could only have come from some damn fool backing up as fast as he dared and then slamming it into "Drive" while mashing the gas just to see who could do the longest burn-out.

Proving idiot monkeys love the company of more idiot monkeys, I took the marks as an unspoken challenge to set a record. On a clear winter Sunday, while my folks were somewhere else, I picked up a cohort from town and we set out to set a record.

The '61 Chryslers had "push-button drive" (a button-style gear selector that came straight from the space race) that would allow you to activate the fin-mounted back-up lights by partially depressing the "R" button in order to scare the crap out of your pursuers.

Or you could push a little harder (at low speed) and make all your friends eat the upholstery.

Anyway, we drove south to the skid-marks and proceeded to steel our nerves by learning to back up at 40 or 50 mph. It's more difficult than it sounds. (Actual speeds may have varied - the speedometer didn't work in reverse. Could have been 100.)

When we were confident I could keep it on the concrete I tried my first "J-hook".

Stalled the damned car and had a hell of a time re-starting it. Left a patch about a foot long.

I don't know if it vapor locked or just sloshed all the fuel out of the carb bowls, or just agitated the sludge in the tank.

When it finally re-started, I decided the hot ticket would be to keep on the gas, shift from R to N then D so I could keep the revs up and hopefully break loose those recapped snow tires and claim my braggin' rights.

Actually, it worked pretty well. The right rear spun and smoked madly for about 15 feet while the car was going backwards! It continued to spin while the car crabbed to the left a bit, then REALLY SMOKED as it gained forward momentum for about 50 feet. It probably would have gone further if I hadn't been overcome by laughter and tire smoke.

We looked at the tire and it had softened rubber marbles hanging onto it that still smoked 10 minutes later. We could not have laughed any harder.

Most idiot monkeys would have called it a day and driven sedately home.

The third attempt BEGAN with the howling complaint of the right rear as I did the "Joie Chitwood Thrill Show" back-up-at-full-throttle maneuver. When it felt like the rear was getting airborne, I stabbed neutral and floored it before pushing the "D" button damned near through the dash.

In that moment, I succeeded in making time dilate.

The 383 sounded like a sawmill ripping a length of corrugated steel.

I was looking straight at Chuck whose eyeballs could have been seen from low Earth orbit. The speedometer was pegging 120, I was still moving backwards and there was a concrete column getting closer fast.

Because of time dilation, I was able to examine and discard about 20 scenarios in my head all while the car continued backwards at alarming speed.

The 21st scenario was the one I chose. It was SLAM THE FREAKIN' BRAKES, MAN.

Or maybe it was Chuck screaming those words like the little girl he is.

It stopped in a cloud of tire smoke several feet from the pillar of death.

"I had it under control" I said, "fer chrissake, quit your whimpering." At least that's my version of how it happened.

Turns out the axle had snapped (go figure), and Chuck had to push me home with his brother's '65 three-on-the-tree, lame-o Chevelle. It was only a couple miles on the pristine concrete of 295. By the time we got the car home, the tire had stopped smoking and most of the marbles had flung off.

We positioned the car in the very tire tracks mom had left it parked in by the back door.

The next morning she got in it to go to work. It started but wouldn't move.

She came in to the house and said to my father, "It's the strangest thing - it starts and runs just fine, but it won't move - and the speedometer says I'm going 50!

The old man looked at me through his eyebrows and said with no surprise in his voice whatsoever, "Tow it to Sam's and have it fixed. You pay the bill."

No sense protesting.

(photo courtesty of Flikr account holder aldenjewell)

.

Car #2 - The LTD

My second car was one that I shared with my father for a few months. It was a two-tone silver 1984 Ford LTD sedan, and would have been considered a mid-size car by 1980s standards. It entered our family via my grandfather, who bought the car in the late '80s. And it was awful in every way possible.

But that's not completely fair. After all, it was built on the Fox-bodied Mustang chassis, had a torquey V6, and actually was available with a 302 Ford V8. So it probably did have a small amount of potential.

But ours was riding on tires that fit the criteria of "black and round", so it always handled badly. In the dry, it would go from slight understeer to snap oversteer once the tires let go. In the rain and snow, it would just oversteer constantly. You could almost pretend you were Ken Block, if not for the fact you were constantly waiting for a hard impact to stop the skid.

One night, I was going over a metal bridge in the rain. I suppose I gave it too much gas, and the car swapped ends. I stopped on the opposite shoulder with a line of cars staring at me. As it turned out, I did it right in front of a family friend. It got back to my father, yet somehow I was able to convince him that they were mistaken, being blinded by the evening rain. To this day, I think he knew the truth, but secretly took mercy on me.

Of all the LTD's non-safety features, one of the more amusing ones was the horn button. Somehow, the plastic tabs holding it to the steering wheel had broken, and it had a tendency to fall off into your lap while turning. This, of course, added to the adventure since you were suddenly distracted and surprised mid-corner which, as stated before, would then turn into sudden, hair-raising oversteer.

Even the headliner was against you. The adhesive had dry rotted early on, and the back of it hung down to the lower 1/3 of the back window. We would roll it up and pin it, but nothing worked. It would still block out the rear view behind you which would make you move your head in an attempt to see around it. This distraction would, again, force you into snap oversteer.

Then there were the seats. The stock front ones seemed as if they were designed by La-Z-Boy, and the rear seat was like a sofa. Many years ago, my grandfather had actually paid for custom seat covers for it, made from heavy-duty clear plastic. This was great because it made for easy clean-up, but also made an awesome facsimile of passing gas when you'd rub skin across it. This, in turn, would make everyone laugh (including the driver), and the car would go into snap oversteer.

A mechanic friend of mine once saw the car, and commented, "Geez, I guess transportation isn't a real priority in your house, is it?" Nope, no it wasn't.

But the car did what it was required to do and, complain as I might, there was a certain sense of cool-cruiser to the car. I'd put it in "Drive" and roll through town. I'd put down the windows, hang an elbow out, crank up George Thorogood, and look for adventure. Unfortunately for my boyish ego, I think the only girl that I ever attracted with this car was my prom date.

Eventually, I moved on to another car of my own, and the LTD was sold to a woman who, like us, didn't hold transportation as a high priority. To this day, I still wonder if she survived after the first episode of snap oversteer.

(photo courtesy of Motorcar Portfolio)

.

Ferrari shopping; and why dealerships need doormen

I can still remember my first Ferrari.

It was 1986, and the mother of a schoolmate brought their red 308 GTB. It was a rainy day, which only enhanced the red color against the grey, muted colors around it. It was stunning, and as all of us in Mrs. Cooper's fifth grade class stopped to look out the window, it was readily apparent that it was the first time many of us actually lusted after something.

As the years passed, I learned more about these legendary cars. I hung posters on my walls. I'd flip out over the sight of a Testarossa. I'd sit and list off the complete specs of a F40, then list off the differences between European and US spec cars. I was a hopeless Ferrari nerd.

Did you know that Ferrari chassis numbers on road cars used to end in odd numbers, and the race cars had even ones? I did.

Did you know that when they restored GTO #3765 (the one that Mike Parkes famously put into the sand at the end of Mulsanne in the 1962 LeMans), they found sand wedged in the corners of the nose? I did.

Did you know the original color of Kirk F. White's 365GTB/4 Daytona that Brock Yates and Dan Gurney drove cross-country during the first Cannonball Run race? I did. (It was gold, before it was painted Sunoco Blue.)

See? Ferrari nerd right here. Not as nerdy as some, but I can still rattle off some really obscure stuff.

Oddly enough, to this day, I have never had a ride in a Ferrari. In fact, it's only been within the last couple months that I was graciously given the opportunity to sit in one. It was a lovely silver 1966 330GT 2+2. Not quite the epitome of the Ferrari hierarchy, but its V12 sounded great, it's wire Borrani wheels were lovely, and the interior smelled of aged European leather. I nearly shed a tear as I ran my hands along the spindly, thin wooden steering wheel. The yellow in the Cavallino logo has looked brighter to me ever since.

This past weekend while on a trip to New York City, I happened across Ferrari of Manhattan on 55th and Park Ave. It's located on the corner, ground floor space made of large windows. The cars inside are lit with very bright lights making them appear to be the jewelry that they are.

I didn't want to bother the busy sales team, who were busy avoiding tourists, but my wife and our friend, Peter, dragged me in. All I could do was stand there admiring the scene. 2011 is a great vintage for Ferraris, and in front of me was a dark silver California, a screaming yellow 458, and a very red 599 that would have had confused vampires licking the fenders.

I probably could have taken a seat in any one of them, but they were not mine. They were ready to start their own part of Ferrari history; maybe to become the first object of lust for yet another 10 year old.

I just hope he remembers the whole odd/even chassis number thing.

--------------------------

So what about the doorman comment? Well while inside, a gentleman in dirty jeans, a NASCAR shirt and a cigarette behind his ear walks in and sits down on a $1,200 Ferrari kids' pedal car. He then looks over to his wife, who's on the other side of the dealership, and announces, "Hey hon! I found MY Maaarr saydeeees!"

We left before Security was called.


.

Bench racing, and other great lies #1

If you've been around car guys long enough, there's sure to be some bench racing and other tall tales that are bound to happen. You know them instantly, because they sound so ridiculous that you think, "That just can't be true!" Or is it?

The truth may not be known. The details may have been exaggerated. But they're still great stories nonetheless.

And that's why, just like any great story, they need to be retold and shared. They may not be from the likes of William Shakespeare, or Mark Twain, or Stephen King, but their storytellers are unpolished backyard talents - much like their marvelous mechanical abilities!

So look for them here. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. Whether they're true or not is up to you, but they still make for a great story!

---------------------

Back in the 1960s, my father was a young art student who always seemed to have a black turtleneck, an old Harmony acoustic guitar, and a copy of Jack Kerouac's latest novel on him at all times. He was the epitome of the Beat generation, and loved and trusted a good number of people over the years, truly believing that there was good in everyone.

This belief stayed with him through the years, but during the 1960s, he often followed this rule of thumb while hitch hiking, which was still legal in those days.

One time, somewhere between Florida and Ohio, a large, burly man pulled up and offered him a ride. The man wore a work shirt, had greased-back hair, and mostly kept to himself the first 10 seconds or so. Then he put a large handgun to my father's head.

"You try anything - ANYTHING - and I'll f-ing kill you," he said to the skinny (and now scared) 20-year-old Beatnick kid sitting in the passenger seat.

My father quickly assured the man that, "it's cool, man. It's REAL cool," and the man slowly put the gun back under the seat, all the while giving my father the hairy eyeball.

After nervously choking down an unfiltered Camel cigarette, Dad asked the man about the episode. The man went on to explain that he'd been picking up hitch hikers for many years. One day, he picked up a young guy who pulled out a gun and attempted to rob the man. Thinking quickly, he decided to put the pedal to the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked the robber.

"I got nothing to live for, so you either pull that trigger and kill me, or I'll roll this sumbitch car and kill BOTH of us!" This, of course, put the assailant into a nervous fit now that he no longer had the upper hand. But the driver knew better.

While speeding along the highway, their quick pace caught the attention of a passing police officer who started a pursuit. After a few miles, more officers joined in the chase. Once there was enough police personnel behind him, he slammed on the brakes and, in one fluid motion, opened the door and jumped on the ground.

"He's got a gun!!" he yelled to the officers. The police quickly apprehended the thief, and the man was sent on his way.

Unbelievably, his adventure didn't deter him from picking up hitch hikers - he just gave you fair warning upon entering his car. But maybe, like my father, he still believed that deep down inside, there was good in everyone.


.