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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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)

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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.

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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.


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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!

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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.


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Car #1 - The Datsun

It was a sunny day in 1981 when my parents and I drove up to Woodbury, NJ to pick up the new car - a 1982 Datsun 310 GX. At the time, you could get a 310 in a 2-door coupe, a 2-door hatch, and a 4-door hatch. Ours was the latter, though I'm still not sure what the "GX" badge meant. But, since it was a 1982 model, that meant it was the last of the "Datsun" badged cars, and under the GX was written, "By Nissan". It was also the last year for the 310.

Ours was a light metallic blue with blue interior. This, oddly enough, caused a rift in our household since my father considered it a, "cool grey". "Don't argue with me - I'M AN ARTIST!" he'd quip.

But my father loved this car, and drove it daily for years. I think he really enjoyed the utilitarian-ness of the hatchback, and it wasn't long before he'd line the interior with a tarp and fill it full of tree branches and grass clippings.

The car saw some action through the years, too. It's major christening came on a family road trip when all three of us fell asleep, and awoke to my father over-correcting like a madman. We crossed three lanes of traffic, and slid onto the grass median in the middle of interstate 95 in Virginia, damaging the drive axles and CV joints. Later on, its driver's door was backed into and replaced with one of the (almost) same color, and another incident resulted in a crumpled rear quarter panel which my father had repaired by a man at the local junk yard and a hammer. This repair also resulted in a mismatched tail light, but it passed my father's idea of safety, so it stayed.

After 10 years, and 125k miles or so, the car was passed on to me. By then, the hammered-out quarter panel and bumpers were rusting out, the pinstripes were peeling off, and the LR door no longer opened. But it was mine, and I drove the remaining three doors off of it.

The engine was a mighty 1.5 liter putting out an astounding 67hp through a new for '82 5-speed manual. But since the car probably weighed just over a ton, and had pretty short gearing, it was a spritely little car. In fifth gear, it would top out at 80mph, but if you shifted down into fourth, it developed enough torque to pull you to a staggering 85mph.

Amenities were few, but my parents did pop for the bucket seats which, to this day, are still some of the most comfortable ones I've experienced. The radio was a single-speaker unit, which didn't do much to impress the ladies (or anyone else, for that matter).

I had to do something about the outside, so I took a cue from Porsche and went with the "black chrome" look they'd started in the '80s. I sanded down the rust on the chrome bumpers and painted them black, along with the peeling plastic chrome on the drip rails, and the shiny door handles. I also rattle-canned the 13" steel wheels back to silver. When I was done, the car actually looked remarkably good, and more than one passerby would stop and ask about it. I even caught a glance or two from the guy across the street with the custom Maxima.

The struts had long since worn out, so it skipped across uneven pavement. This, combined with the front wheel drive, made for entertaining cornering and, along with the 6k rpm redline, made you feel like you were always hauling ass. The muffler even fell off once, which made the car ridiculously loud (and "sporty", to my 17-year-old ears), but was soon replaced much to my chagrin.

But like my father, I learned to really enjoy this little car over the next few years. It looked like nothing else on the road, and even had a reverse-opening hood with functional louvers which gave it a sporting persona.

I was terribly upset one afternoon when the car finally died, and I hobbled it home and parked it. My father, who knew nothing about cars, was convinced that the engine was toast. Now that I know better, I think it was something like a fouled spark plug or a bad distributor. It only had 155k miles on it.

I can't imagine many of these cars still exist, but I'd love to have the opportunity to find another one and run it up the road again. I'll even be happy with metallic blue. Sorry, Dad.

Photos courtesty of oldparkedcars.com

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Driving Music - "You Really Got Me"

One thing that I really miss about the current stereo setup in my car is that I don't have iPod connectivity (yet). As a result, I'm still stuck with channel surfing through radio stations, trying to find that great playlist that usually ends up being mediocre with long commercial segments in-between.

Occasionally, though, you get a real gem in the mix. You know it instantly because your pulse unconsciously starts to race, you reach for the volume knob, and no matter the weather outside, the windows get put down and you belt out the lyrics. It turns you back into that wild-eyed 17 year old, doesn't it? Sure it does. No need to deny it, or be ashamed of it.

So what was my song the other night? The old Kinks song, "You Really Got Me", as done by Van Halen. Granted, the original was a great song, but there's something about Eddie Van Halen's feedback-heavy guitar, Alex Van Halen's drumming, Michael Anthony's thundering bass, and the over-the-top vocal ownership that can only come from David Lee Roth that makes the adrenaline rush through me whenever this song comes on the radio.

Back in 1996, Nissan licensed this particular version for a TV commercial featuring their flagship 300ZX twin turbo. By then, the writing was on the wall for the car's demise, but Nissan hired ad firm TBWA Chiat/Day North America, who jumped on the popularity of the "Toy Story" movie (released in November, 1995), and made a farewell commercial for the car. 

The spot featured a G.I. Joe type of toy who speeds across the playroom in a red, remote-control 300ZX turbo. He eventually steals the heart of a Barbie-esque doll, who descends from her Malibu beach house and zips away with Joe in the Z, her boyfriend looking on in horror. "Oh no no NOOOOOO!!" wails David Lee Roth as Eddie hammers away at the neck of his Music Man guitar. 

It's still one of my favorite commercials, and it's one of those pieces of film that I think of whenever I hear that song. Fortunately, it wasn't ruined for me like Cadillac did with "Rock 'n' Roll" by Led Zeppelin. I suppose it's the combination of a really great piece of music, and a car that was truly timeless in its design. To this day, I still stand in awe when I see a 1990-1996 300ZX coupe. 

Should I ever be fortunate enough to drive one, rest assured I plan on popping some Van Halen into the CD player. But sorry, Barbie. I'm already hitched.

We build excitment - just not cars anymore

With all the excitement and pageantry that is Halloween, no one seemed to notice a strange disappearance....

That's right - while we were all out trick-or-treating, General Motors closed down Pontiac.

There's no doubt that a lot of people will be saddened by this - including me. And there will be thousands of pages written by journalists lamenting the loss of the once great brand. So as much as I'd love to sit and wax rhetoric with Jim Wangers about the GTO, I don't really feel like it's what my Pontiac memories were like.

Growing up as a little kid, I always seemed to have a black and gold Trans Am in my hand, whether it was a Matchbox car or a plastic toy. I must have had six or seven of them at any one time. One even had a "Bandit" decal on the side, which never registered with me until I was about 12 and someone showed me "Smokey and the Bandit". To this day, I'd love to get a ride in a 1978 Trans Am Special Edition - just make mine with a 4-speed and the Buick 455 engine.

My first real Pontiac memory came with the first episode of "Knight Rider". That sleek, black 1982 Firebird Aero whistling its way across a desert, with the red lights in the nose, just looked like it could have been the fastest car EVER. Sure, it talked, but it sounded like nothing else on the road and even had a "Turbo Boost" button that made it fly!

I always liked the looks of those cars, but it wasn't until 1993 that I finally got to drive one. It was a burgundy Firebird GTA, complete with the Corvette L98 TPI motor, gold mesh wheels, and the T-tops out. The owner let me hammer it down the street, and the roar combined with the shark-like looks made me feel like the coolest guy around. "You got a Ferrari? Whatever."

Years before that, I remember a friend of our family bought a new white-on-blue Grand Am SE sedan. It had the big, alloy wheels and a screaming QUAD-4 motor with 180hp. With the body cladding, matching white wheels and the digital dash, it was a sweet ride in all of its 1980's-ness.

I even liked the big Bonneville. I still remember running out to the Pontiac dealer around 1990, and demanding to see a Bonneville SSEi with the supercharger. The salesman thought I was nuts, but I'd seen one in print, and fell in love. To this day, I still think it was one of GM's better designs, albeit with those funky  front faux vent windows. Make mine hunter green, like every other one. Seriously, anyone remember ever seeing one that wasn't?

Even the Fiero still draws my eye when I see one go past. I loved the way they looked, but was disappointed when I finally got a seat in one (an early V6 GT model), and didn't fit well at all. I'd love the chance to try it again.

In more recent years, Pontiac became a GM knockoff. The models seemed to lose their uniqueness, and became even more of a lackluster car. As car enthusiasts, we'd convinced ourselves that Pontiacs were Pontiacs - not rebodied Camaros, Cutlasses or LeSabres. But somewhere in the last 10 or 15 years, the magic that blinded us wore off, and we saw Pontiacs for what they were.

Trans Sport. Sunfire. Aztec. When did they go from "We Build Excitement" to "We Build Crap"?

Once GM turned their back on the car enthusiasts, the damage was done. Even really great cars like the new GTO, Solstice, G6 and the G8 failed to bring back the hordes of fans. All the hard work, legend and lore that had been put into the brand by folks like Ed Cole, John DeLorean and others, had been thrown out within a few years time.

With brands dropping like flies at GM, it makes you wonder where the company is headed, and who's running the joint. 'Cause it sure ain't car guys anymore.

How a clock repairman introduced me to roadsters

When I was growing up, we shared a back alley with a gentleman named Tom. He and his wife lived in a lovely late-Victorian home with several purebred dogs, a yard full of wisteria, and a number of wonderful antique clocks. You see, Tom is one of the dying breeds of tradesmen who knows how to repair clocks. This attention to detail made him the perfect owner for the two vintage British roadsters he kept in the back yard.

On a particular Saturday every April, you'd hear a thunderously-tinny sound coming from his back yard. White smoke would envelop the neighborhood, birds would fly en masse to roost a block away, and the smell of crankcase oil and starter fluid would fill the air. Hearing the cars start up meant that Spring had arrived to the neighborhood!

Tom spent most of his summers driving a red 1963 Triumph TR4 around town, though his blue 1961 Austin Healey Bugeye Sprite made a rare appearance every few years. He loved the Triumph, as the patina on the car revealed, and when it wasn't being driven, it was secured only by a black tonneau cover.

I always liked that car, but never got the nerve to ask him for a ride. But one day when I was 14, I heard the phone ring, and my father was soon excited and laughing. When he hung up, he came into the room.

"Get your shoes on. Tom wants to show you something," he said with a big smile.

Shoes on, I waited outside on the porch. A moment later, I heard the small displacement Triumph turn the corner, and it stopped in front of our house. It was April, and the car hadn't been out much, so the top was still on. I watched as Tom's lanky 6'2" frame unfolded from inside the car. He looked over, and yelled, "Let's go for some ice cream."

I was ecstatic! I ran off the porch down to the little red car. I was a bit disappointed that the top was up, but I wasn't complaining. My true feelings must have shown on my young face, though. "Let's put the top down," he said. "It gets better gas mileage that way, anyhow."

Once we'd disassembled the top, and took a seat in the car, I started scanning the interior environment. Its horsehair-stuffed leather seats smelled lovely. And because it was a driver, some parts of the dash had some wear to them, but it was all great patina. I latched the 3" wide aircraft-style lap belt, and cinched it tight.

A turn of the key brought the 2138cc engine to a puttery start. It didn't have a lovely idle, but once in gear and moving, that wonderful British roadster noise (which can only come from a carbureted four cylinder) blasted from the tailpipe and into my psyche. Tom was great about winding out the gears, and the car responded with a melodious array of exhaust pops and vibrato. I'd look out over the hood, and stare down the lovely teardrop of a hood bulge that covered the carburetors, imagining that I could see the throttle plates open up wide. And I'd occasionally glance down at the array of gauges in the dash to make sure all was well. It felt and sounded like I was riding co-pilot in a biplane, and we were ready for some barnstorming!

Through the backroads we ran - 10, maybe 20 miles. Just two car lovers enjoying a fun, little roadster.

Years later, I would buy my own roadster, a 1991 Mazda Miata, also red with black interior. It was a great car, but it lacked the raw personality and purity of the Triumph. When I drove that Miata, a part of me always felt like it was Tom's TR4.

I never got another ride in the Triumph, and when I ran into Tom a few years ago, he mentioned he hadn't run the car in several more. Admittedly, I was crushed. But I gave him my contact information, with the promise to let me know if he ever wanted to sell the red Triumph. It would mean not only a cool car in my garage, but a chance to relive those memories from my childhood.

I'm still anxiously waiting for his call.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

When Cadillac was king

I met my friend Bob about five years ago while working at the motorcycle shop. He's a wonderfully unassuming, yet classy gentleman who's been around cars and motorcycles (and boats and planes) his whole life. But one of his endearing (and admirable) qualities is his great attention to detail. When making repairs, he's very particular, and everything is done carefully in proper sequence.

This, of course, makes him the perfect one to own and care for some fine machinery.

One of the vehicles he owns is a 1931 Cadillac All-Season sedan. Now, this isn't just any old Cadillac. It's fully restored. It's a Pebble Beach class winner. And it's one of only 4,067 chassis that came with Cadillac's V16 engine.

From 1930-1940, at the height of The Great Depression, Cadillac introduced it's most powerful, most expensive car ever: the Cadillac Series 452. At the time, Cadillacs were available in V8, V12, and now a V16 configuration. Rumor has it that Cadillac heard Packard was developing a new V12 in the late 1920s, and waited until after Packard released the V12 to launch their own V16, and steal Packard's marketing thunder.

GM's design chief, Harley Earl (arguably the father of "tail fins" which appeared on cars in the 1950s),wanted GM to build a car in the same fashion as European cars of the time. When you purchased a new Cadillac, you purchased the chassis and engine. Then, you were given a choice of 10 body styles, and dealers had an additional 30 design sketches that buyers could choose. Colors were to the buyer's tastes. Today, the Cadillac/LaSalle club estimates there were over 70 different body configurations that buyers could choose!

The first two years saw a production of nearly 3,000 cars, then production dropped off sharply. In 1935 and 1936, only 50 cars each year were built. From 1930-1937, the V16 was an overhead valve, 452ci behemoth, and looks much like two straight-eights side by side. By 1938, Cadillac went to a smaller 431 engine, which had a wider V to the cylinders, along with a flathead-style cylinder head design (and dual everything). All of which made for a smoother engine that still put out the same power as the previous one.

Bob's 1931 is an All-Weather sedan, which means it is a four-door convertible. There is even a glass divider window between the front and rear seats. It is a late Fleetwood body, which is easily recognizable by it's v-shaped split windshield (Fisher-bodied cars have a flat, one-piece window). It weighs nearly three tons, and is larger than most Ryder trucks. But it is loaded up with chrome, and is a polarizingly beautiful automobile. I say "automobile", because calling it a "car" would be an insult to such a fine machine!

So several weeks ago, I got a call from Bob. He'd been invited to bring the Cadillac to a private car show, and asked if I wanted to ride along. I said "yes" instantaneously, figuring whatever else might be on the calendar could be blown off.

Early on a Saturday morning, his Corvette rumbled up my driveway in the darkness, and we sped off into the dawn sunrise towards the car's storage facility.

Upon arrival, we parked the 'Vette, and stood there in the chilly pre-dawn light staring at a white garage door. The door rolled open, and there sat the Cadillac. In the darkness of the garage, I could only make out the chrome details which sparkled like the jewelry it was intended to be. Bob got behind the wheel, and the slowest starter I'd ever heard turned over the massive crankshaft. The engine came to life, and 16 cylinders of power forced their exhaust gasses into the morning with authority.

As the car backed out of the garage, I stood there staring at it nearly breathless. The car was stunning in it's dark blue and silver paint, wide white wall tires and perfect chrome details. By today's standards, it's an antique. I can only imagine how it looked to a young car enthusiast when it was new in 1931. Eighty years later, it'll still melts the heart of nearly anyone who lays an eye upon it.

I opened the suicide-style front door and climbed in over the chrome and polished wood running boards. Once inside, you sit on a springy bench seat covered in silvery leather. The dash board is a gorgeous piece of machine-turned metal, which houses eight gauges done in art-deco font. You'd be happy to hang it on your wall as art. A little to the left is a massive ivory steering wheel with levers to adjust fuel, idle and choke. And if you can pry your eyes away from the beauty of the interior, you can look down the long hood and see the hood ornament on the radiator cap - a graceful, chromed swan standing nearly 10" from feet to upraised wing tips.

The transmission is a three-speed manual. The first two gears are straight-cut, so the gear whine is tremendously loud, and your initial comparison is that this fine machine sounds much like a mundane school bus. But it's not until you change to third gear that the gear noise vanishes, the engine's song comes through the firewall, and the car moves down the road in all its majesty. Out on the highway, it's been said these cars will cruise at 80+ miles per hour.

For 1930s technology, the leaf spring suspension (along with the tall tire sidewalls) rides quite nice for a 6,000lb vehicle. You wouldn't want to test the handling capabilities, however, as the steering and brakes are both manual (power for both came along much later in the production run). This makes for interesting travel, as the co-pilot tends to be the one who's monitoring the road at much further distances than the driver. All maneuvers are planned far in advance, and you realize quickly that modern traffic patterns don't work for this car. The massive steering wheel mentioned earlier isn't just there for looks - it's there for leverage, too.

But treat it right, and the car brings it in spades. People wave and honk. Pedestrians stop in their tracks. Kids point with huge smiles on their faces. And that's what this car was made for. It's in its element on the road, making a lasting impression on all that see it.

It's why I'm thrilled that a car like this is owned by someone like Bob. His appreciation for such a fine automobile, and his willingness to share it with others makes him a relative rarity among car collectors. To him, it's not an investment - it's something he owns because he enjoys it.

And I feel honored that, on this day, he chose to enjoy it with me.

Now THIS is a hot rod

Summer's winding down here on the East Coast, and with it goes one of my favorite Saturday night activities - the local cruise night.

It's a great, impromptu little show that has cars rumbling in around 5pm or so, and wraps up when everyone gets tired or cold. A lot of the cars belong to the usual gathering of locals, but when the weather's warmer, more exotic machinery shows up which makes for a must-see event at the drop of a hat. I've seen a number of REALLY interesting cars - a Boss 429 Mustang, Max-Wedge Mopars, Top Flite Corvettes, the only Yenko Corvair convertible, custom Panteras, even the occasional gaggle of GT40s and Vipers.

When it comes to custom cars, I'm a bit picky; an afficionado of loving details, and champion of, well, just getting it right. I suppose it's easy for me to stand there, looking at someone's pride and joy, and scoff at the details ("huh, if you'd have spent another $1,000 to do wet sanding, you'd have a show stopper...") when I don't have a car of my own. So yes, I'm a hypocrite. But I like to think my hypocracy means I can appreciate cars that much more when they're done right.

As a result, I tend to be the one guy who stops and looks at the odd car that everyone else walks past, or I happen to notice the details that everyone else misses. So while everyone else is staring the paint off of a tubbed '69 Camaro or yet another shoebox Chevy, you'll probably find me laying on the ground admiring the period-correct Halibrand quick-change rear differential on a vintage-style hot rod painted in black primer. The looks I get are priceless.

Recently, I found another diamond in the rough.

This one was parked between two modern pickups and a rogue minivan. Given it's parking spot, I assume the owner had no intention of showing it off that evening. But if I'd have had a trophy in my hand, I'd have awarded it "Best of Show". Scratch that - "Best of Summer".

1934 Ford three-window coupe. Painted in vintage-style dark blue lacquer, with '50s style flames. Chopped top. No fenders, no running boards, no hood, no hood sides. Turned metal firewall. Vintage style 5-spoke Americans painted flat grey on the rear, with an old set of chromed wheels in the front. To top it all off, it had an old V8, with dual carbs and a 6-71 blower backed up with a true 4-speed manual. The 4" side pipes weren't period-correct, but still worked with the look of the car.

If it'd had the Halibrand quick-change, I probably would have teared up a bit.

I never found the owner, but it was obvious that whoever built this car, well, just got it. It was the kind of car I've always dreamed of having in my garage. Something to scare Mercedes-Benz owners, and my mother-in-law, too. This car had a mean attitude, and looked to have the equipment to back it up.

For ten minutes of my life, I never lusted after a car more than I did that one. I could envision myself driving it like a 16-year-old with Dad's car. Every traffic light would invite a smokey burnout, followed by a full-throttle run with the supercharger's belt squealing to keep up with the crankshaft. People would think it was Don Garlits driving through town. I'd plan a trip to Bonneville just so I could get some proper salt encrusted on the chassis. I'd drive the tires off the darn thing - no sitting around at a car show!

But therein lies my dilemma. Because really, if I actually owned a car like this, I'd probably miss out on some really great cars at the car show.

XJS - the un-loved Jaguar

Driving around town the other day, I came across a lovely dark silver 1989 Jaguar XJS V12 for sale. Unfortunately, my personal wealth status doesn't allow me the luxury of purchasing cars on a whim, but having been a fan of these cars for some time, I had to stop and get a closer look.

The body panels fit well. The paint matched. The interior was in good shape. I even liked the color! Unfortunately, it had those awful motorized seatbelts. That was the deal breaker for me.

So between the seatbelts and, well, the lack of $6900 burning a hole in my pocket, it won't end up in my driveway. Which is really unfortunate, since my admiration for these cars goes back a few years.

About 10 years ago, I lived in an old apartment complex. There were a lot of really lackluster cars there, mostly owned by the elderly residents that inhabited the neighborhood. You can imagine how well a race-ready red Miata and a purple Civic coupe went over in that area, parked among the many Cutlasses, Cadillacs and the occasional Corolla. I actually remember myself laughing at the fact that the older gentleman across the street still drove a Dodge Aries K. It wasn't until after I moved in that I learned that the man hadn't been legally licensed for the previous eight years, and the car hadn't moved since then.

A few days after moving in and assuming my place in this automotive wasteland, I noticed a Jaguar XJS would start sneaking in late at night. It would reside in a parking spot for a few days, disappear for a few more, then magically reappear. It was a lovely, deep red with tan leather interior and wire wheels, and the chrome was still in decent shape.

It took several months, but I finally tracked down the owner. As it turned out, Tom was as quirky as the car he drove. He was friendly enough, but I always got the impression he didn't really believe that I knew much about cars, or that I was a Japanese car snob. As a result, the conversations were usually pretty brief.

One day, I returned home to find him buffing the car with carnuba wax. He'd been at it for hours, and after a few beers, he'd convinced himself that it was time for a repaint. I looked at the can of wax, and tried to explain that he was using the wrong product to bring the shine back. But still the Doubting Thomas, he rolled his eyes a bit when I told him I had something inside the house that would bring back the shine.

Back outside, terry cloth towel and bottle of Eagle 1 in hand, I ask where he'd like me to start. Sixty seconds later, and the c-pillar gleamed like the paint was brand-new. He was stunned, and overcome with joy at the same time. As it turned out, this was the turning point in our instantly-budding friendship.

Within an hour, the car was restored to its former glory. He reached into his pocket, and handed me the keys. "You deserve it." I was stunned. "Go take it for a drive - I'll be insulted if you come back within a half-hour."

I opened up the long door, and surveyed the interior. After a couple of attempts getting my long legs to work (and bumping my head a few times), I took my spot behind the wheel and shut the door. Once inside, the car fit me like a glove. A turn of the key actuated the noisy starter, which was soon overcome by the gentle sound of the 5.3 liter V12. I revved the motor, expecting it to bark to life like most other V12s I'd heard, but it maintained it's civility. I put my left hand on the thin, spindly wood steering wheel, and my right hand fell on the automatic shifter. I slipped the car into "Drive", and that's what it did.

At the first traffic light, I put my foot to the carpet. The minivan next to me turned into a blur as it quickly out-paced the big Jag.

Instead, the Jaguar lumbered along on it's cushy suspension to the next traffic light. While waiting, I notice a guy in a wicked, black custom GTI who's eyeing me up from the next lane. The light turns green and he chirps his tires on his way to redline. The Jaguar continues to lumber along, but since this is a long stretch of road in a 50mph zone, the engine's torque starts coming into play. The car reaches its stride around 40mph, and suddenly it becomes a lithe, Grand Touring car. The steering becomes comfortable, the power abundant. I actually feel like British royalty on my way to Kensington Palace. "No stopping for tea - I've got a Jag to drive!"

The road starts to curve sharply, and the tuned GTI slows. Much to my surprise, and despite the cushy suspension and massive tire sidewalls, the Jaguar settles into the corner, and with no drama from the car or the tires, it cruises past the GTI in the outside lane. He tries to catch up on the short straight, but again, the composed Jaguar leaves the GTI clawing for grip at the next curve. 

I turn onto a back road for some touring time, and that's when I get scared. On narrow back roads, the Jaguar's width becomes quickly apparent. It's suspension will soak up bumps to the point of them being almost imperceptible. It's V12 and high curb weight keeps the momentum going. The part that scares me is the oncoming traffic, and combination of guard rails and trees to my right. When I see a box truck appear, I visibly flinch.

But once the road widens and traffic thins, the car drives with authority. To this day, I'll still proclaiim that engine to be the smoothest I've ever driven. Unfortunately, the GM TH400 automatic transmission means that it's not always in the proper gear, and you find yourself looking for a clutch pedal when you should really be looking for the brake pedal. The brakes are competent, but need a heavy foot to slow the equally heavy car. If this were my car, a manual transmission swap and a brake upgrade (assuming one exists that's not off a TWR Jaguar) would be mandatories. Not to mention the electrical system, which I would imagine is also very British in it's operation.

Nonetheless, the XJS is a fine automobile. Its styling may not appeal to everyone, but then again, it's hard to top the loveliness of it's famous predecessor, the Jaguar XKE. It's like Andy Warhol trying to out-do The Mona Lisa. Or Ripple trying to create their own version of Dom Perignon. Following up a masterpiece is tricky business.

So the silver Jaguar continues to sit, it's neon-orange "For Sale" signs calling to me as I pass by. I'm sure it'll end up in somone else's garage, and I hope they appreciate that car as much as I do.

And I hope they do something about those awful motorized seatbelts.

Who the heck is this guy?

While I'd like to be modest, and say, "Here's a little bit about me," in actuality, it'll be a bit more than that. You see, I've had many great automotive influences in my life that have helped mold me into the car geek that I am today. You'll hear about several of these great folks in coming posts, but just know that there's been some wonderful people who have allowed me to pick their brain, and enjoy gleaning whatever I could from them and their cars.

Growing up, my interest in cars consisted of Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars. And wow, did I have a million of them. Literally. In fact, I still have a bunch somewhere in storage. They're all chipped up, some have bent axles, but they've all seen many thousands of pretend road miles. Even today, I still look into that box, and I find cars like the pink Lamborghini Countach, or the red Ferrari 308 GTB (which was a long-time favorite) and can still remember running them around my parents' coffee table. "Don't chip the table!" my mother would scream. Sorry, Mom. It was my 5-year-old's need for speed.

I always enjoyed looking at the occasional car magazine, but what made me a true car guy was the day (around age 10) I got a ride in a custom Hugger Orange 1976 Corvette that belonged to one of my mother's co-workers. It was bright orange, with brown leather interior. And it was LOUD with a 4-speed, and a lumpy cam-induced idle. I sat in that low-slung car, barely able to see out of it (that pit of an interior that is the Mako Shark '68-'82 Corvettes...), and it was life-changing. My body pinned to the back of the seat as we charged through the countryside at full-bore. It was the coolest thing ever!

Over the years, I'd get rides in a lot of cool cars, and every one of them left an indelible impression on me. From the truly great, to the truly awful, each one would get my own brand of car reviewing. In my head, I sounded like Brock Yates!

Eventually, someone planted the seed in my mind that actual people designed the cars that I had always loved. What? You mean I could do that??? And many, many pages of notebook paper and miles of pencil lead later, I'd created my own study-hall portfolio. I still remember my first "design study" - variations on the first generation Ford Taurus. I'd developed a whole series that ranged from sport coupes, to a Ranchero, to a targa-topped wagon. But supercars were the most fun to draw.

Sometime around 1993, a family friend, Don Layton, introduced me to the world of hot rods. I was amazed what could be done to existing cars using parts from other cars. The paint, the stance, the sound - it was all new and exciting to me. Don took me to my first real hot rod show in Ocean City, NJ, and introduced me to yet another automotive influence - Egon Necelis. Egon and I hit it off well, and shared another wonderful chapter in a young man's car life.

Since then, I've gone from getting rides in cars, to being able to drive them. And from having to bum rides to car shows, to being able to get myself there. I ended up doing a series of articles and show coverage for a web site called Speedoptions.com (which is now out of business). The pay wasn't much, but it was cool to finally see my work in print, and the feedback I'd get from the readers.

I still subject every car I drive to a car review. I suppose it's still that 5-year-old in me that enjoys running the cars around the coffee table - driving them the way they should be.

And enjoying every minute of it.

Seatbelts on - time to turn the key

After several years of writing for (now-defunct) car web sites, various ramblings on yet other various car forums, the occasional Twitter post, and even the random Facebook posting, I decided to finally heed the advice of a friend or two and start up a blog. What should I talk about? What else - cars. And, well, since you found this blog because of your interest in cars (or I just guilted you into coming here), I might as well make it worth your while and something that you'll actually want to read and follow. 

So set up your RSS feeds, click your bookmarks, or commit the url to memory. Or if you're really hardcore, you can tattoo it in reverse onto your forehead so you'll never forget it (and it's visible in a mirror, making it easy to read). But really, the bookmark thing works pretty well on it's own.

And most of all, I hope you enjoy the ride with me.