High School Cool Cars

It's not easy being a car guy in High School when you lack a rebellious older brother, a crazy car-guy uncle, or when your parents' idea of a cool car was that mustard-yellow Toyota Corona they used to own in the '70s.

Fortunately, I went to school with a number of guys who had been able to manage a cool car in their driveway, and were willing to let me live vicariously through them.

One of my favorites was a blue '68 Camaro that belonged to my buddy Kurt. It was originally a straight-6 column shift car that he'd dropped a 350 into. It looked awesome. It sounded awesome. And between the horsepower, the lack of seatbelts, and that crazy over-boosted GM steering pump, it was one of the hairiest cars to drive. But it had muscular curves, and I loved drooling all over it. Sorry about the paint, Kurt.

There was a guy in my homeroom named Michael, aka "Wolfman". He was a scary-looking dude, complete with long hair and a Fu Manchu moustache. I don't think he never liked me much, but he had an evil black '66 Mustang coupe with a 351 Windsor stuffed into it with a four speed and open exhaust. He and the car looked the part together, and he either drove it at full-throttle, or it was parked - there was no in-between. I'm sure it was one hell of a ride.

Another guy I used to run with was Keith, who owned an early '70s Plymouth Duster. It was olive green inside and out, with Cragar S/S wheels, a 318 automatic and an open diff. How do we know? Because we once made fun of him for doing a peg-leg burnout at McDonald's. Still, the car was cool, and I always think of him when I see one.

Then there was Troy's '77 Camaro. It had a 305 automatic, and was dark blue with dual silver racing stripes. Its most distinctive feature was the shifter - and old B&M unit with a #7 billiard ball on it for the knob.

Another of my favorites belonged to my buddy, Jim. It was an emerald green AMC Rebel SST, and I've never seen another one since. It was a big sedan with a big engine, and it was unmistakable. We took a few road trips in it, and it once seated seven of us with ease. In a moment of weakness, I talked Jim into letting me drive it. At full bore, the throttle stuck open. Jim got on the floor and started pulling at the gas pedal to no avail. Somewhere around 75mph, I put it in neutral and brought it to a stop. The fix? Beat the carburetor linkage with a big hammer. "Just don't go wide open on it again," he said with a grin.

Another guy that didn't care for me much was a jock named Rick. He owned a pretty blue '70 Nova with a lumpy-cammed 327. It looked pro-built, ran 10" tires, and looked to be amazingly fast. I often wonder whatever happened to that car.

There's a sad story about Jeff's '68 Mustang fastback, though. It was a dark blue 302, and he'd upgraded the head unit to an Alpine one. Unfortunately, this was to be the car's undoing. One night, he looked down to change the station, and rear-ended another car. The lovely fastback was totaled on the spot.

One of the really interesting vehicles belonged to a guy named Tom. He had an old, olive green Toyota Land Cruiser. It was fitted with Dana differentials, 35" tires, and a Chevy 327. It was a ridiculously fast death trap, but was one of those truly badass SUVs that any car guy would want to own.

I would eventually get my own V8 muscle car, but I would have still given a right arm for most of these machines. I'm sure that, like my own, they're long since gone. But their awesome memories still linger on in all our psyches.


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So, How Does An Engine Work?

I've officially worked on cars, albeit on an amateur level, for about 18 years now. And as much as I'd like to say that I know everything about engines, I don't. But you know what? Neither do most mechanics.

You probably know that an engine needs air, fuel and spark to run. Plus, there's a number of things like pistons, valves, bearings, etc. that somehow work together to make a vehicle move. What's the difference between a camshaft and a crankshaft, anyway? Ever hear of a Wankel Rotary engine? How about those crazy Gnome Rotary motors on biplanes?

Glad you asked - and here's your answer!

Thanks to a clever gent named Matt Keveney, it's easy for even a beginner to find out how an engine works, whether it's powered by gasoline, diesel, steam or even rocket fuel.

So whether you're an amateur, or a seasoned pro with multiple builds under your belt, take a few moments and check out his page.

Don't worry - there won't be a quiz just yet.

http://animatedengines.com/

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Bench Racing, and Other Great Lies #3

Everyone knows what a great paint job looks like, right? It's the one that's done by a master painter; the car gleams from a block away, and the paint looks to be 20 feet deep when you stare at the fender in the sunlight. But what if that master painter were to masterfully do a poor paint job?

This is that story.

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One afternoon many years ago, I stopped by a body shop that belonged to friends of mine. It was always a lot of fun to drop in and see what they were up to. Their specialty was hot rods, restorations, and customs, but like most body shops, their bread-and-butter business was repair work.

On this day, I arrived to find a late '80s Cadillac Coupe DeVille. It was obvious to anyone that this car had never been waxed, much less washed, and its light blue paint was shredded. "What's this in for?" I asked.

"We fixed the bodywork on it. The guy hit a guard rail," I was told.

A guardrail??? He must have just tapped it, right?

"No way - he wiped out the whole driver's side!"

"Impossible," I thought. "There's not a scratch on this old beater."

But sure enough, the driver had spun in the rain, smacked the guardrail with the entire left side of the car, and had came close to totaling the vehicle. The shop had replaced the bent sheet metal, and repainted the car. "What did you do, find used blue parts for it?"

I got an annoyed look. "No, dumbass. I painted it."

As it turned out, the same painting master who I had seen lay down some of the most beautiful laquers and acrylics (and the most gorgeous flames you'll ever see) had worked his magic on the old beater Caddy. He'd mixed the original blue color, then added some clear and silver into it. Then adjusted the nozzle on the paint sprayer, and stood four feet away from the car and "misted" the paint onto the body.

The result was a perfect impersonation of an unwaxed and unwashed old blue Cadillac. "If I'd have done it right, there would have been a shiny side, and this awful side. It would have looked like shit!"

And that's why he's a master.


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Driving in the Electronic Age

Remember car phones? You know, the ones that were the size of a small cinder block and were usually hard-wired into the car and screwed into the center console? And don't forget the stick-on curly-Q antenna that went on a random rear window.

At the time, everyone thought they were awesome and an amazing piece of technology. Except for my friend Lisa.

I knew Lisa when I was a teenager. She had a penchant for fast cars, and her toy at the time was a modded C4 Corvette. It was loaded to the hilt with speed and audio equipment. I loved that car, but I once made the mistake of asking her about getting a car phone for it. After all, it had everything else, right? "Hell no," she strongly advised me. "No phones. My car is for driving, and my time in that car is MY time - no one else's." I was blown away, but I really respected her enthusiasm for the sheer pleasure of driving.

As the years went by, car phones evolved to cellular phones, car audio systems went from knobs to tiny buttons on the steering wheel. Some cars can even be spoken to, and might actually give you a response!

But the cars I've driven have always been pretty low on the accessory scale. I'd usually just have the factory radio (usually long blown out) if any radio at all (the Miata's OEM one broke for about two years), roll-up windows, and the only buttons on the steering wheel were for operating the horn. I enjoyed the whole "driving" aspect - hearing the engine rev, the exhaust pop, and tires squeal. I still consider myself a bit of a driving purist, or at least until the other night.

I went out to my car, and clicked the remote lock button on my keychain. I got in the car, turned the key, and watched as the radio flickered to life in nineteen colors. The aftermarket computer scanner started to boot up and illuminate the center console in it's dark green hue. I reached over to the passenger seat, found a loose cable, and plugged it into my iPod. Then I plugged in the GPS unit that I'd borrowed from my wife's car. I put my cell phone in the center console, and clipped the Bluetooth headphone to my ear. From the center console to the top of dashboard, it looked like Mission Control. "Start the countdown, Houston! I'm ready to roll!"

About a mile down the road, I realized what I had done. And I hated myself!

Somehow, I had become a comfortable, spoiled driver. I had been unknowingly seduced by modern conveniences. Gone was my tolerance for uninsulated firewalls, the loud whine of the gearbox, hearing the tread squirm under hard-cornering tires clawing for grip. Where had the "purist" in me gone? I was ready to pull over, strip out the interior, and leave it all on the side of the road.

I sunk down into the cushy, leather seat. "Leather seat?" I thought to myself. "When have I EVER had leather seats?" All I needed now for my transformation was a minivan with a soccer ball magnet stuck to the tail gate.

Disgusted, I came to accept my disposition, but I had to admit I really like how the stereo sounds. I'm able to monitor a number of engine parameters with the scanner. And the friendly Australian woman in our GPS takes me exactly where I need to go. But I'll get my purist fix soon.

In the Spring, construction begins on a friend's '92 Miata. It's getting an extensive lightweight treatment, so no radio, no air conditioning, no power windows. It won't even have a top or a windshield! But while it's main purpose is to go racing, it will be a pure driving machine built for speed and performance. I'll admit I get a bit giddy when I think about strapping on a sub-2100 lb. car that handles on rails and having a front-row seat for every engine revolution, crackle of the exhaust on downshifts, the squealing of the tires.

And under that helmet, I will be grinning from ear to ear.

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