Tara's Corvettes

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.


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(photos coming soon)

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.

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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

Car #3 - The Bitchin' Camaro

After my much-loved Datsun 310 died, I was in need of another car. Through an acquaintance, I had heard of an old Camaro that might be for sale. I tracked down the owner, and went to inquire about it.

"Oh hell, I don't remember what year it is," said the owner, a gruff, greasy local mechanic who lacked the idea of customer service. "But I'll bring it over to the shop and you can see it."

So my father and I, along with our car-guy friend, Don, went to inspect it.

The car turned out to be a 1977 Camaro Z28. It was silver with black vinyl interior, and some obnoxiously loud, two-tone orange stripes. Except for a front fender, here wasn't a single body panel that wasn't dented or rusted through somewhere, the vinyl interior was cracked and falling apart, and the trunk opened with the turn of a screwdriver. This was fine, however, since the ignition key was stuck in the switch.

I loved it instantly.

For as bad as this car looked, it was a screamer on the road. It idled with a nasty rumble, it had a Muncie M21 4-speed transmission, and a 3.73 Posi rear end. The original 350 disappeared long ago, and had been replaced with one from a pickup truck. Its engine was slow to rev, but the torque-biased cam meant that when you got on it, you could smoke the tires through third gear. It was everything that a 19-year-old repressed car guy could ever want.

Somehow, a pile of paperwork managed to survive with the car, including its original window sticker. The car was purchased at a dealer in Virginia, and was optioned for speed, including the Gymkhana suspension and a/c delete. If it had survived in that condition, it would have been an amazing car.

But the problems started mounting quickly. A local mechanic freed the ignition key, and installed a new lock set all the way around. In the process, he also noted the radiator was bad, and replaced it.

Soon afterwards, the car failed emissions due to a lack of catalytic converters, so those were welded into place by another local mechanic. This, unfortunately, took away that great rumble at idle, and the NASCAR-like wail it had during interstate driving. “You young guys just have to own those damn cars, don’t you?” he said.

Despite the newfound quiet from the car, I still loved it in all of its awfulness. The speed from the engine was awesome. Shifting a big, Hurst-style manual transmission felt amazing. And I felt like it was the car I’d always dreamed of owning.

I was even willing to turn a blind eye to the rust deterioration, which included the floorpan. It was always great fun to lift up the driver’s floor mat, and watch the road pass under you at speed through a 3” hole.

One of the luxury items from a previous owner was an old Blaupunkt cassette player, which I discovered wasn’t grounded. This, combined with the lack of shielding on the engine’s rear-mounted distributor cap, instantly de-magnetized my tapes under hard acceleration. To this day, if I were to listen to “Sleeping Bag” by ZZ Top, you’ll hear a whine during the guitar solo that quickly increases in pitch. This, of course, was me downshifting into 2^nd gear and revving the engine for full effect with the music!

But despite its wicked-fast nature, I kept it pretty calm. I found out quickly that this trait would come in handy, as the car attracted police like crazy. On several occasions, I had police cruisers follow me for 10 miles. In some cases, they’d even turned around to follow me.

After a year ownership, my friend, Chris, and I went out one night for some food. On the way there, we decided to take the scenic route through the country. All was well until we came across an eight-point buck. I locked up the brakes, but I hit the deer on the left front of the car, breaking out the fiberglass nose and putting a large dent in the car’s only unscathed body panel. The force spun the car 180 degrees, and we somehow avoided sliding into a drainage ditch.

The damage would have been worse if not for the steel bumpers, of which 1977 was the last year. So for the next six months, I drove with a broken fiberglass nose, which really made for a sad-looking ride. Eventually, the car was traded in for $1500 at a local car dealer, and a new car purchase was made. It was the only muscle car I ever owned.

It’s been 16 years since I sold that car, but I still look back on that death trap with fond memories. I’ve never seen another in person done in that color combination, and I always wondered what happened to the beast. Sometimes, I even regret letting it go.

But one of the biggest regrets I have about getting rid of that car came from my friend, Renee. When I told her I owned it, she said, “Wow, a Bitchin’ Camaro!”

I looked at her with a strange gaze, but six months after selling the car, I finally understood her reference to The Dead Milkmen’s Song, “Bitchin’ Camaro.” If only I’d have known, I’d have kept that car just for the irony!

Christian's 1977 Camaro Z28, circa 1995.

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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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.