…well then, by golly, they wouldn’t have been as fun, now would they?
A lot like the Millenium Falcon: Not much to look at, but had it where it counted. I am a nerd.
And they certainly wouldn’t have been hot rods.
I got to thinking the other day while cruising across the Valley to work on a project, about what makes a hot rod so damn much fun. Granted, this isn’t the kind of thing that should involve any thought to begin with (for cryin’ out loud, they’re freakin’ HOT RODS. What more needs to be said?!), but it brought to mind my teenage years, and the siren-like lure of hot rods and street machines in general.
In my circle of friends, we didn’t have the biggest budgets for cars, and we made due with what we had and could barter for or get our hands on with our relatively tiny paychecks. And looking back on it, it made for some interesting, if not terrifying rides. Sure, none of us had what the sticklers today would call a “traditional” rod or custom, but, if you stop and consider it, how much more traditional can a car get than when you stuff waaaaaayyyy too much power into a car that really shouldn’t have that much? Sounds pretty grass-roots to me.
I could sit here and tell the tales of a Pontiac-powered ‘83 Thunderbird (well, it needed an engine, and wouldn’t you know it, that Pontiac slid in on a combination of Ford frame mounts and Poncho block-side mounts. Sounded good to us!), a big block Chevy-powered ‘68 Firebird (where’d ya think that Pontiac mill came from?), a series of super-quick Mustangs and G-Body Cutlass and Monte Carlo’s… or even Bullitt-style jaunts to work, leaving late, but managing to arrive just on time. But the point here is that feeling you get when you slide into a car that’s got a bit too much under the hood, and maybe wasn’t ever meant to have it.
I recall my buddy’s ‘78 Firebird, with a healthy small block and 4-speed, tearing up the streets after school… Always just on that ragged edge, where you want to dig your fingers into the dash pad, but you can’t seem to stop laughing enough to reach forward, especially on that clutch-less shift to third… Or maybe you were too occupied with holding parts on the car. White-knuckle rides in a certain cranberry-colored ‘73 Cutlass etched some scenes into my brain, and probably a few stains in the underwear of the hapless folks occupying the next lane. Or holding on for dear life in another friend’s Sebring with a super-stout 440. Yeah, my Chevelle was fun, but had slightly more civility, having been more carefully watched over during construction by the fine folks who not only gave me life, but a garage to park and work in. My ‘72 Monte, however, was put together quickly in the driveway and always had that “recipe for disaster” feel to it, and just begged to be driven as such (nothing beats brake lines held together with a half-dozen unions, one seatbelt, and an uncanny ability to vapoirize tires with a mash of the go-pedal). It remains one of my all-time favorites, and I only owned it for a short period.
My parents had a ‘55 Chevy for a bit that fell into this category… with a primered body, sitting tall on black steelies and dog-dish caps, with that high-winding 283 (with killer M/T valve covers, too!), a Muncie, and 4.11’s, it was dangerously quick, and made you feel guilty just standing near it… and you know what? I loved that.
I’m not talking about some half-assed “rat rod” turd bucket that’s deliberately thrown together with reckless abandon, or some poorly engineered (on purpose) “hey, dig me!” fairgrounds dumpster… Nor am I glorfying the utterly retarded things we did as kids… but more to the point, I’m finally at terms with what got me so deep into cars in every respect:
The whole feeling of riding that edge, whether you were screwing around on some back road, or just idling through the local cruise night parking lot. You felt like all hell might break loose at any second, and by golly, you were racing toward that moment. Fortunately, we seemed to, for the most part anyway, escape certain doom and live on into our 30’s and ’40’s… pretty well adjusted at that. Except that burning urge to throw that old small block into the wife’s mini van, of course… but that seems natural…
