With today being the 60th anniversary of the release of the Chevrolet Corvette, I found myself thinking back on all the Corvettes that I'd experienced over the years. Although I haven't seen them in over 20 years, three in particular still hold a special place in my heart.
One of those was actually the first car I've ever driven. This is the story of those Corvettes.
The car that most people first drive might be their parents' old sedan. Or, if you're lucky, a slightly older friend will toss you the keys and let you drive around a parking lot in a dented, faded 12-year-old Ford Escort.
Mine happened to be a custom 1991 Corvette coupe that would run a quarter mile in 12.9 seconds. It belonged to a friend who I will call "Tara."
Tara was a beautiful, tall 28-year-old brunette. Fortunately, she was also a really nice person at heart. Unfortunately, in her line of work, she had learned to not show that side of herself to many people and, as a result, would come off as being very abrasive to most people. However, she had done well for herself, and used her earnings to buy things that she enjoyed.
One of the things she bought was a custom 1991 Corvette that she bought brand-new. This one was parked next to another love of her life, her custom 1988 Corvette. This was parked next to the third love of her life, her custom 1977 Corvette. Her boyfriend was probably about #12 on her list.
As a 15-year-old living in a small town, I had seen these cars pass through occasionally, and when I finally stumbled across their habitat one day while on a bike ride, I had to stop. Tara was outside detailing them with her boyfriend, which I later learned was a weekly ritual.
"Excuse me," I said. "May I come look at your Corvettes?" Tara looked at me, then at her boyfriend, gave me a cautious shrug, and then beckoned me over.
I stared into the engine bay of the '91. "I see you put new intake runners on the TPI injection. What else have you done to it?" I asked.
The look on her face was priceless. "How... how do you know that?"
"Because," I said, pointing to the intake manifold, "These should be two tubes instead of the one larger oval-shaped one." It turned out those were the magic words that lowered her defenses. I was immediately given the full tour of all three cars.
The 1977 Corvette had a full Eckler's body kit and wing, had been custom painted a Champagne gold with tan leather interior, and had gold BBS-style wheels. The engine was a built 355ci small block with a roller cam and a big shot of nitrous. That car was good for mid 10's.
The 1988 Corvette was black with a (then in vogue) body kit that included pieces that resembled the side intakes from a Ferrari Testarossa, an F-40 style rear wing and she had comissioned a machinist to develop one-off chrome touches here and there. It ran on an early set of 5-star Fitipaldi wheels, and had a killer stereo. The car was later repainted a lovely blue pearl that flipped between cobalt blue and deep purple, and had purple neon lighting underneath (also a novelty at that time). The engine was a warmed over L-98 350, and it ran on a harsh Z-51 suspension with the Bilsteins.
The 1991 was my favorite, though. It was dark burgundy with matching louvers on the rear hatch. The windows were tinted illegal black, and the lights were covered with black-tinted lenses. The real fun part was the exhaust, which was removed as soon as the car arrived home from the dealership, and replaced with a set of 4-inch, chrome side pipes. The engine was the warmed-over L-98 350, with a stage-3 computer chip, and the afore-mentioned custom intake runners. But it was the side pipes that really made this car awesome.
All three cars were constantly detailed to a level that most Pebble Beach cars would envy. The best part was watching Tara dry them. She'd grab the keys, start up the car, then blast the cars around the block several times to remove the water. I always enjoyed sitting on the curb, listening for every gear change, then watching as a sleek, low Corvette would roar past me with all eight cylinders at full chat.
One Saturday, I was there helping to detail the cars. I had spent an hour buffing out the pipes on the '91 when Tara's boyfriend came outside. "We need to take it around the block," he said. I reached for the passenger door. "No, she wants YOU to drive it." I was nervous and excited at the same time.
I started up the car, and the sound from the open pipes reverberated through me to my soul. As much as I'd like to say that I got in the car and did a burnout all the way up the street, then hit 150mph as I rounded the corner, the truth is I was scared out of my mind. I put the car in "Drive", and idled my way around the block at a steady 5mph. I was relieved when I saw the driveway again.
As the years went by, Tara and I developed a great friendship. For me, it was that I got to hang out with a really nice person who happened to own three amazing cars. For her, I think I was someone who wasn't there to judge her, cheat her, or take advantage of her, and we could just talk with a mutual love of cars.
Then one day, Tara disappeared along with the cars. No one answered the door, and the phone went straight to voice mail.
I later learned through a relative of hers that she had run into some trouble. The gorgeous Champagne-colored '77 Corvette had been disassembled; it's motor sabotaged and destroyed by a vengeful mechanic. The beautiful blue pearl '88 had been in a serious accident, and was totalled. The '91, that I had loved so much, was sold to a drag racer.
I've never seen Tara, or the Corvettes since. But in my heart, I've always hoped that things eventually worked out for her. I hope that she found people who don't judge her, or take advantage of her like so many others had done. And I've always hoped she's been able to own another car that she loves as much as those Corvettes.
When I look back at my early automotive influences, I'll always put Tara up towards the top of my list. She could have easily turned me away that day I stopped by on my bike. But instead, she invited me over to share her passion for automobiles with a young car enthusiast. The woman who had been looked down upon by society had unwittingly become a great automotive influence and inspiration.
Over the years, I've often thought of Tara when I've been out working on cars and have been approached by an onlooker, especially when it's a child and parent. I'm happy to let them sit in the car, hear it run, and maybe run a hand along the fender. After all, you never know when you may unwittingly become someone else's automotive influence.
I probably won't let you drive my car, though.
.
(photos coming soon)
Friday, June 28, 2013
Friday, January 4, 2013
Junk yards are no place for a car guy
Growing up in south Jersey, I remember going by the local junk yards and trying to catch a glimpse of what cars might be there as my parents sped past in our Datsun. A small one nearby always had a rusty late-'60s Olds Toronado living out front among the weeds, and an even bigger yard had a pieced-together '68 Camaro perched on the roof, complete with a yellow rattle-can paint job.
To my young mind, there was all kinds of automotive gold behind those fences. Why, I'll bet there are old Corvettes, Porsches, and probably a Ferrari or two languishing in a back corner, just ready to be plucked out and restored!
When I turned 18, I set out one day in search of parts for our trusty Datsun, and was allowed to wander through my first junk yard. It was nothing like I'd imagined. I'd peruse rows and rows of milquetoast family sedans stacked on top of each other, and when I would stumble across the occasional cool car, it had been smashed nearly beyond recognition, and stripped bare by automotive vultures who had been feeding on it for years. It was really quite sad.
But joy returned to me when I spotted a blue 1982 Datsun 310, just like mine. It even seemed to be in great shape, and I was hoping it had the parts I needed. Unfortunately, it was 12 feet above me, stacked on top of three other cars. A well-meaning employee with a forklift kindly asked if I'd like a better look and, upon seeing my smile, proceeded to punch two holes in the side of the pretty Datsun with the forks, pluck it from the top of the pile and drop it to the ground at my feet, bending the unibody frame in the process. The poor little blue car lay broken and battered in front of me. I lifted the hatchback, didn't find what I was looking for, but thanked the forklift operator for his efforts. He smiled and waved as he picked up the car, and put it in the crusher. Twenty seconds later, it was an unrecognizable blue slab of metal.
It felt like I'd left my heart in that car.
I've always had a personal attachment to cars, and while I've never been one to assign names to them, I often find myself thinking back on what the car and I have been through together. I'd look at the back corner of my old Datsun and remember it being dragged along an embankment when my father fell asleep on a family road trip to North Carolina. I'd look at my friend's Cadillac, and remember driving with the windows down and grinning while we'd blast it down a back road. I'd sit in my old Mazda3, and remember the day I brought it home from the dealership - the only brand-new car I've ever purchased.
As I walk through junkyards, I can't help but look at the mangled, destroyed cars, and wonder what memories still lie in their chassis. Maybe that green car had an epic road trip. Or maybe someone got their first kiss in the back seat of the red one. One day, someone was overjoyed to have purchased that silver one brand-new, and drove it home full of pride. It makes me sad to think that, like most scrapped cars, they will eventually be destroyed, and forever erasing those automotive memories.
I recently had to make a trip to a local junk yard, a massive facility out by the railroad tracks. It's much better organized than the ones I grew up with, but the cars seem to be more mangled now than I remember them being in my younger days. I find myself slightly relieved when I stumble upon a Triumph Spitfire and an Alfa Romeo Spider of the same vintage keeping company in a back corner. But alas, they're both stripped bare, the Alfa's windshield frame has been cut off and thrown aside, and the rest of it has been there so long, it is nearly unrecognizable.
I try to remind myself that many of these cars will be recycled into new ones, ready to start new memories for their owners. But the romantic in me still weeps over the carcasses, and can't help but feel sorry for the now-faceless spirits languishing among the rows.
As for my Datsun, it blew an engine and eventually found its way to the same scrapyard as that blue Datsun on the pile. I was glad I wasn't home when they came to pick it up. It turns out all those memories were only worth a total of $75.
--------------------------------
On a side note, my favorite junkyard relic was an old Pontiac Fiero GT that was in a yard in New Jersey. The car had obviously burned to the ground from an engine fire. However, the yard decided to keep the entire car because the driver's door was absolutely perfect.
To my young mind, there was all kinds of automotive gold behind those fences. Why, I'll bet there are old Corvettes, Porsches, and probably a Ferrari or two languishing in a back corner, just ready to be plucked out and restored!
When I turned 18, I set out one day in search of parts for our trusty Datsun, and was allowed to wander through my first junk yard. It was nothing like I'd imagined. I'd peruse rows and rows of milquetoast family sedans stacked on top of each other, and when I would stumble across the occasional cool car, it had been smashed nearly beyond recognition, and stripped bare by automotive vultures who had been feeding on it for years. It was really quite sad.
But joy returned to me when I spotted a blue 1982 Datsun 310, just like mine. It even seemed to be in great shape, and I was hoping it had the parts I needed. Unfortunately, it was 12 feet above me, stacked on top of three other cars. A well-meaning employee with a forklift kindly asked if I'd like a better look and, upon seeing my smile, proceeded to punch two holes in the side of the pretty Datsun with the forks, pluck it from the top of the pile and drop it to the ground at my feet, bending the unibody frame in the process. The poor little blue car lay broken and battered in front of me. I lifted the hatchback, didn't find what I was looking for, but thanked the forklift operator for his efforts. He smiled and waved as he picked up the car, and put it in the crusher. Twenty seconds later, it was an unrecognizable blue slab of metal.
It felt like I'd left my heart in that car.
I've always had a personal attachment to cars, and while I've never been one to assign names to them, I often find myself thinking back on what the car and I have been through together. I'd look at the back corner of my old Datsun and remember it being dragged along an embankment when my father fell asleep on a family road trip to North Carolina. I'd look at my friend's Cadillac, and remember driving with the windows down and grinning while we'd blast it down a back road. I'd sit in my old Mazda3, and remember the day I brought it home from the dealership - the only brand-new car I've ever purchased.
As I walk through junkyards, I can't help but look at the mangled, destroyed cars, and wonder what memories still lie in their chassis. Maybe that green car had an epic road trip. Or maybe someone got their first kiss in the back seat of the red one. One day, someone was overjoyed to have purchased that silver one brand-new, and drove it home full of pride. It makes me sad to think that, like most scrapped cars, they will eventually be destroyed, and forever erasing those automotive memories.
I recently had to make a trip to a local junk yard, a massive facility out by the railroad tracks. It's much better organized than the ones I grew up with, but the cars seem to be more mangled now than I remember them being in my younger days. I find myself slightly relieved when I stumble upon a Triumph Spitfire and an Alfa Romeo Spider of the same vintage keeping company in a back corner. But alas, they're both stripped bare, the Alfa's windshield frame has been cut off and thrown aside, and the rest of it has been there so long, it is nearly unrecognizable.
I try to remind myself that many of these cars will be recycled into new ones, ready to start new memories for their owners. But the romantic in me still weeps over the carcasses, and can't help but feel sorry for the now-faceless spirits languishing among the rows.
As for my Datsun, it blew an engine and eventually found its way to the same scrapyard as that blue Datsun on the pile. I was glad I wasn't home when they came to pick it up. It turns out all those memories were only worth a total of $75.
--------------------------------
On a side note, my favorite junkyard relic was an old Pontiac Fiero GT that was in a yard in New Jersey. The car had obviously burned to the ground from an engine fire. However, the yard decided to keep the entire car because the driver's door was absolutely perfect.
Holladay's Used Auto Parts, where Christian found the little, blue Datsun.
Photo courtesy of Google Maps
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)