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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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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