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!

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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)

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