Captainkirk's Duster project

I was originally going to do a blog on this project, but this seems like a better place to do this as there might be a few more interested souls here than just out in Cyberspace. Since this project is just beginning, now's as good a time as any, and reading Rumblefish360's little blow-by-blow caught my interest so off I go. Feel free to enter your comments and/or suggestions as I go along.

A Tale Of Two Dusters

Actually, this is part two of the story. Part one began back in 1975 when I bought my first Duster; a '72 340 Mr. Norm's car. An acquaintance of mine got it from somewhere, I actually got to see it and ride in it shortly after he acquired it. It was Tor-red, 340 decals and stripes with the little pissed-off looking tornados on it, Rallye wheels with Goodyear E-60's, 3.91 8-3/4 rear end with shackles, air shocks, black split bench seat, 3 speed with Hurst Indy shifter, 340 with Thermoquad and headers. The reason I ended up with it is the guy I got it from was not much of a driver and too much of a partier. He had 2 separate accidents; the first time he ran off the road and rolled it on it's side (left) in a ditch, which (surprisingly) did very little damage other than push in the left rear quarter with some collateral damage to the driver's door and left front fender. He and his buddies managed to roll it back onto all fours and drive it home, after which he continued to do what he did best; party and drive poorly!
Shortly thereafter, he managed to drive off the road and into the corner of some poor soul's brick house. It was pretty banged up in the front, but still ran and the radiator, unbelievably did not leak. It was at this point that I was able to pick it up fairly cheap. (He needed the money for his court appearance......go figure.)
I went to pick up the car at the lot where it had been towed to. About halfway home the hood popped open....as in vertical.....bending the hinges in the process! The latch had been bent in the accident, I guess. So, I forced it back down to where I could at least see, and tied it down with some rope (Yee-Hah!) and managed to make it home.
So now it was time to get down to business. The hood came off, and out with the engine & tranny. I had the motor down to gaskets & bolts in about 3 days. The biggest surprise was finding the TRW 13:1 pistons lurking in the block. A Mr. Norm's freebie! The headers were junk so I pitched 'em. The motor went to Sexton Automotive in Crystal Lake, IL for rework. Meanwhile, I started the bodywork........

next chapter please!

:toothy10: Hell of a driver huh? LOL. I once got a '72 LeMans that way. Except the door fell off in my hands when I opened it up. The metal looked like crumpled aluminum foil it rolled so bad. No one hurt though. Hey, for 2 six pacs of beer, it was still worth it.
Chapter II please! :thumblef:

Come on Cap'n, beam up the next chapter. :)

OK; twist my arm! It's cold, rainy and damp out in Dusterland tonight so I'll continue......

Chapter 2

It was obvious the hood was FUBAR'd so off it came. The deck lid (trunk) was rusted through along the bottom edge, so off with it's head as well. The front fenders, while both damaged, looked repairable, so I pulled them both off and began the tedious job of pounding out the dents as best I could and body grinding/applying body filler. I was fairly new to the whole filler thing and butched it up a couple of times until my good friend Mike, a recent grad of Wyoming Tech (body & fender) showed me the magic trick of globbing on the filler and shaping it before it hardened completely with a Surform file, instead of worrying about trying to shape it with the rubber spatula-thingy. This really stepped up production...you could be a complete buffoon and still get it right. (not that I'm admitting to being a buffoon, mind you! In fact, I can't even tell you what a buffoon might look like; perhaps a cross between a bassoon and a baboon? Or a buffer and a raccoon? I don't know.) Meanwhile, I was scavenging through all the local boneyards and finally scrounged up a faded metallic-blue Demon deck lid, an orange Duster hood, and a rust-free quarter panel off a vinyl-topped Gold Duster. The quarter was an interesting piece of work; the yard just cut the whole section off with a SawzAll and gave me the whole chunk! Sort of like hacking off a chunk of cheese with your pocket knife. I managed to scrounge up a couple of good hood hinges as well.
The original rear quarters had some small rust holes back behind the rear wheels. I glassed and filled the ones on the right quarter, the left side didn't concern me because of the Gold Duster quarter.
It really didn't take all that long to get the deck lid, new hood and hinges, and front fenders back on. Now the quarter; that was a horse of a different color (no, really, it was gold!) With Mike showing me what to do, (more importantly, what NOT to do) we drilled out the spot welds around the trunk, rear panel and door jamb. We chewed up more than a few 1/4 inch drill bits; those welds were tough! Then we took an air chisel, found the leaded seam where the roof joins the quarter, and let 'er rip. After peeling away the quarter skin there was this split-second of regret of "Oh, man...what the heck did we just do?" ( Notice how I use the word "we" here)Well, too late now to turn back. So we did the same thing to the mangled corpse from the Gold Duster. Once we peeled off the vinyl top and removed the glue, we trimmed the roofline panels to overlap. On the Gold Duster doner panel, I just heated up the roof joint with a propane torch and melted the lead filler right out of there, and the two panels just separated like a couple of tired Legos. After a dozen or so mock-ups, edge trimmings, etc I finally felt the quarter fit like I wanted, so we drilled a couple of "strategically-placed" 1/8" holes and secured it in place with a few pop-rivets. Then we began the tedious task of filling each one of the spot weld holes we'd drilled out with a welding torch and brazing rod. Of course, the holes in the new quarter didn't line up with the holes in the old structure; this is exactly what we wanted. The actual install time for the quarter, once we passed the "Oh man, what did we just do?" barrier was surprisingly quick.
The hardest part for me was blending the roofline with the quarter. We chose to use filler instead of lead; it was easier to manage, (hot molten lead runs down-hill; duh!) but I must have done that seam at least 10 times before I was satisfied. I remember dispairing over it; feeling like I'd never get it right. I'll clue you in right now; I'm a hopeless perfectionist who can't stand shoddy workmanship and I wasn't any different back then. After much hair-pulling and many do-overs, I finally got it to where I was satisfied. One neat trick I learned; the pop-rivets we'd used to secure the new quarter, of course, protruded. We simply backed up the pop-rivet with a socket on a breaker bar and smacked the pop rivet with the business end (round side) of a ball peen hammer until we'd dented it down below surface level, the filled it in with body filler.
Next I began the nasty job of scraping and wire-wheeling the underside of the car. Once I got all the undercoating and rust off, I zinc-chromated the entire underside and then recoated it with undercoating. All the rear suspension parts got de-greased, wire wheeled, then got a couple coats of white Rust-Oleum, including the rear end, drive shaft, springs, shackles and shocks. The gas tank came out and got undercoated as well, along with the hanger brackets. Rust was not going to be an issue here. (Not that it mattered; as you'll see later)
The engine bay and K-frame were in pretty good shape; remember, this car was only three years old at the time. I rattle-canned the engine bay with Tor-Red touch-up paint and repainted the K-frame and front suspension parts with black Rust-Oleum as original. Things were really starting to shape up.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch........

:happy1: meanwhile, back at the ranch............... :toothy7:

Chapter 3

Meanwhile, back at the ranch.....
Things were cookin' on the Motor Stove. The block had been degreased and acid dipped, new cam bearings and freeze plugs installed, honed standard bore. (4.04) The cast crank was polished, radiused and the oil holes cmferred and deburred. I reused the 13:1 pistons with Speed Pro rings, which came only .030 over at the time, and I had to meticulously hand-file each one for the proper gap. Back in those days I had no fancy ring-filer thingy. Ahh, the memories! It filled many an evening when I could have been out doing those things that eighteen year-olds do. Looking back, it probably kept me out of trouble. Anyway, It was cold and wintery, So I got this bright idea do assemble the motor in Dad's basement workshop. All the parts were meticulously masked and painted with Pontiac Blue engine enamel; the auto parts store was out of Chrysler Blue, and being 18 and rather impatient, I picked the closest thing to it. The heads had been cc'd to lower the CR to a more streetable 11:1, ported & polished, knurled guides and springs shimmed to go with the cam my shop had selected. The cam was an Automotive Alliance (????-probably some generic brand at the time) grind with .450/.475 lift and 298/308 duration, topped off with Melling lifters. The engine was assemled with Federal Mogul bearings reusing the rod bolts and nuts and oil pan. I stuck in a Melling Hi-vol oil pump. The heads went on using Fel-Pro gaskets.
(to be continued..........)

Where was I?
Oh yeah, the engine.
So I got the bottom end all together, then buttoned up the heads and valve train. Due to costs, I stuck with the stock push rods and rocker arms/shafts. I had purchased an Offenhauser 360 manifold used from some Navy guy who was being transferred, so I cleaned it up and got ready to bolt it on when I discovered it was NOT for a 318 as the guy had promised, but for an early 273; the ports matched up fine, but the manifold bolt holes were drilled at a different angle. Discouraged, I decided to port the stock cast-iron manifold to match the head ports and gaskets (bad idea). I got through maybe 3 or 4 ports before I burned up my Dad's brand new grinder.
This was really starting to suck. Fortunately, a friend of a friend had an Edelbrock Torker 340 with a pair of polished aluminum Edelbrock M/T valve covers to match, and he let them go sinfully cheap ($40.00 comes to mind). They fit like a glove and looked a hell of a lot better, too. This created another dilemma, tho. I had planned on re-using the Thermo-Quad. This manifold had no choke well. Maybe Einstein could have figured out some way to rig up a manual choke with this setup, but I didn't have the patience.
One of my friends had a Holley 600 SP that had been in an engine fire. Aside from being sooty and needing a rebuild, it looked like a good bargain, since he gave it to me free. It fit without an adapter plate, too.
After going through the Holley and bolting on the flywheel, I decided it had warmed up enough to get the motor off the stand and get the longblock out into the garage, bolt on the clutch pack and tranny, and drop it in. There was just one hitch....
Q:how do you get a 400 lb. longblock up a flight of basement stairs and into the garage?
A: With great difficulty!
I believe that could be the understatement of the year. Me and my buddy Howard almost ruined forever our chances of having offspring in later years.
My Mom's freshly painted basement stairs suffered silently as we heaved and strained, gonads shrieking and spinal discs writhing in mortal agony. Whose freakin' idea was this anyway?!!!! We finally got it out the back door, our voices at least an octave higher, when one of us lost our grip (I'll blame it on Howard as he's not here to defend himself) and dropped the SOB on the back stoop. Amazingly, it didn't do much to the motor except scratch the fresh Pontiac Blue paint and maybe put a tiny dent in the pan. The stoop was not so fortunate, losing a 2-inch chunk off one of the step corners. Ooops! Who's freakin' idea.....oh. We covered that.
Undaunted, we lurched and grunted and heaved the longblock out into the garage. My back has never been the same. My family jewels recovered fully...just ask my kids.
So I managed to get the new Borg-warner street/strip clutch and pressure plate bolted on, next came the bell housing and tranny, all dressed up in new paint; the bell housing wearing tuxedo black and the tranny standing out in stark contrast in brilliant Rustoleum White, all bolted to a fresh Pontiac Blue motor, topped off with aluminum rocker covers and an aluminum manifold. I was impressed, anyway. Let the transplant begin.....
Now let me tell you about the way an eighteen year old thinks. If it works, it's OK. This theory applied to my engine hoisting technique as well. I had wrapped a big logging chain around one of the 2X6's in the garage, and hung a 2-ton cable come-along from the chain. Won't work, you say? The joist will collapse? Oh, I'm much smarter than that, mister! I'll wedge a 4X4 under the joist on either side of the car to support it. It worked, too! except.......
The come-along hoisted the motor nicely into the air, and we pushed the car under it. Now, this particular come-along had a kind of switch on the side: flipping the switch either one way or the other allowed you to raise or lower whatever it was that was "comin' along". It worked fine when I pulled the engine out. What I didn't know was......the switch-thing was sort of squirrely. (you know where this is going, right?) If you didn't get it ALL the way to the opposite direction, well...if you've ever gone fishing with your trusty Zebco 404.......
Fortunately, the only damage was to one of the shifter fork threaded rods coming out the side of the tranny. Needless to say, the motor did not get bolted in that fine, sunny day. It took a week of waiting for a new shifter fork and another bottle of gear oil before I went down that road again. Can you believe I used the come-along AGAIN to drop the motor in? (maybe "drop" the motor is not such a good term......) Anyway, this time it went off without a hitch. It was in. A few short hours of hooking up the water pump, radiator, carb, headers and distributor and I was ready to pull the pin on the little blue grenade!
I had gone through all the usual BS with pre-oiling the engine, setting the initial timing, etc, etc. One expects to encounter some difficulties, natch, so I had the fire bottle standing by with a friend and I was really nervous as I finally twisted the key. The motor lit immediately...no cranking, no farting or popping....it was just RUNNING and Lordy, was that puppy LOUD!!!!!!!! Idling about 2000, Howard and I were grinning like a couple of Cheshire cats and when I shut it down, my ears were ringing like church bells on Sunday Morning! The heat from the open headers had melted some of my fresh undercoating, but standing there, hearing the engine ping, pop and tick as it cooled down smelling raw gasoline and exhaust mingled with the baking of fresh paint, there WAS no better place in the whole world to be! We were in Motor Heaven! :angel4:

captainkirk you must bee one of the best story writers at this site;)

Why......Thank you! And I'm just getting warmed up! :violent2:

So, now once you've got a bad motor shoehorned into a car, whaddya do with it?
Break it in.
So I did. I hung a set of Turbo Thrush header mufflers on the business ends of the Hedman Hedders and "Hedded" out to put lots of break-in miles on the motor. The body was still pretty rough; blue trunk, primer-gray quarter panel and primer on the fenders where I'd Bondo'd them. I left the hood off initially to show off the motor; it looked pretty good, which was in stark contrast to the rest of the car.......!
I quickly racked up a couple hundred 55mph+ break-in miles, to the point where I felt comfortable rompin' on it a little.
So what do you do with a tight, broken in motor?
Tune it, of course!
Tuning was fun. It was an excuse to tinker and fiddle with minute details such as timing advance or vacuum secondary opening, jetting, etc. and then go romp on it to check my work. I did a lot of tuning. I did a lot of romping on it, too.
disclaimer: All you kids take note. Don't go romp on your car. It's bad. Any cop will tell you so. Just because I did it and got away with is no excuse for you to try it.
I quickly noticed a roughness in third gear when really cranking on it. It was driving me nuts! It would scream through first and second and then start to cut out in third. It didn't appear to be fuel-related. The plugs were coloring nicely and going lighter on the secondary springs didn't help. In desperation I picked up a used Mallory dual point distributor and hung it on there in place of the Chrysler electronic distributor. In hindsight, that was probably not a good move. (Later reasoning would find the Chrysler spark-box probably out-performed the dual point all through the RPM range) It helped some, but not enough. As the summer weather changed to fall, the car became more and more difficult to start in the mornings, and the roughness in third was still evident. I was getting discouraged. Winter was approaching and I needed a car that would start and run. Enter the 318.....
A friend of mine knew a guy that had a fresh 318 for sale. He'd been trying to sell it for quite some time. He also had an A-833 four-speed for sale as well. I paid a little more for the 4-speed than I should have and a LOT less for the engine than it was worth!
So the plan unfolded thusly.....
Out came the 340, back on the stand, for head-scratching purposes.
In went the 318 with a 2-barrel Holley 500 on top.
And yes, I used the same come-along with the 4X4's!
For a "little" 318 2-barrel, the car was mighty respectable! It would light 'em up in first and second and it ran like a house afire. This was an early 318, I'd say maybe a '69? Anyway, it was one strong motor.
It got me through the winter with no problems whatsoever, always started, and never lost a race. :thumblef:
(psssst: I never raced it, but nobody needs to know this...let's keep it between friends)
Well, there was the time I was coming home from work and a guy on a BSA 650 was goosing it at the lights and I gave him a real good look at the little pissed-off tornado in between my taillights, if that counts.....
(To be continued.........)

OK...now we "need" a thread called "stories".. :book: Well done Capt, :thumblef: I've just decided it's time to put the :computer: in the shitter. LOL.

Thank you! And FYI, there's a method to my madness......but I need to tell Part I to the story before I start Part II, otherwise it won't have the same effect..........
Besides, I love to write & share my memories....what else are they good for? :sunny:

As the winter played out, I learned some things. I learned the 318 was a strong, gutsy little motor. I learned that E60's on snow with a manual tranny and a gutsy little motor isn't the most efficient means of transportation. I learned about snow tires (Remember snow tires?) I learned about mononucleosis, and how laying on a cold garage floor can make it a much worse ordeal than it already is. At least, when I wasn't sleeping, I was reading, trying to figure out why the little 340 wouldn't play well with others.
In the end, it was so simple it was stupid! I'd installed a "newfangled" AM/FM /cassette deck with the money I'd recieved as a high school graduation present. Naturally, the crackling of the Mallory through the FM had to be dealt with, so I'd purchased a brand new set of Hi-perf carbon core silicone ignition wires so I could groove to the likes of Peter Frampton and such. Anybody wanna hazard a guess as to what happens to a motor under hard accelleration with very high compression and under a heavy load with high manifold pressure (such as high gear?) Who'da thunk it?
In the end, that's all it was. I had an epiphany while tossing the idea around in my head during my recuperation. So as soon as I was better, and the weather turned spring-ish, I put my theory to the test by yanking the valiant little 318, slapping on the newly aquired 4-speed with a bran'-new Hurst Competition Plus and dropping the 340 back into the Royal Throne. I put in a new set of plugs (Autolite AG-32's) with a brand-spankin' new set of 8mm solid core wires, fired it up and stalked off to some deserted road to test my theory.
JEEEEEEHOSAPHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The thing ran like a scalded dog! Not only did the motor not miss a lick, but the 4-speed made a difference like I wouldn't have believed! And wind......man, I'd never seen a motor wind up that quick! Any of you who are cat owners, or have ever owned a cat, ya know how they rub around your legs when they're hungry? And when you're half asleep, reaching for the coffee pot, there they are, rubbing around your legs. And sooner or later, you step on their paws. You know that sound? Yeah, that's what this thing sounded like when I pounced on it. Only deeper;lower. And the cam; lordy, that cam! The thing would sit at the traffic lights with this rump, rump, rumpety rump idle, the front of the car shaking like the back of a horse trying to get rid of a pesky fly; you could hear the compression of those pistons thudding against your eardrums and smell the unburned gasoline in the exhaust, and then the light would change...and there goes that pesky cat again, yowling like you broke it's paw! In retrospect, it's probably a good thing my hometown had a small police force that was spread rather thin. I never got on a first name basis with any neatly-dressed individuals in shiny black shoes, but I won't deny the opportunities were present! I'll never forget the time I was tuning my 650 DP for full-throttle jetting. The procedure here is to avoid breaking the tires loose, do a full-power run through all four till you reach top speed (or chicken out) and then push in the clutch, kill the engine and coast to a stop. At this point the perpetrator should pull a spark plug and check the coloring. Sounds simple, anyway. So me and my buddy Jerry decide we'll give it a shot, right? I turn onto this 2-lane country highway, accellerate up to about 30, and then just pound on it! The motor is howling like a werewolf over a fresh kill and I can feel the front end topping out the shocks as I'm powershifting at 6500 between gears. I probably hit close to 100 before I chickened out and killed the motor and casually coasted to a stop on the shoulder. Jerry's mouth was hanging open in this disbelief-kind-of look and his eyes were as big as saucers. I said "Feelin' alright, bud?" and hopped out of the car and popped the hood. I grabbed a spark plug socket and ratchet from under the seat and started to pull #1 plug when he emerged from the passenger side, still looking sort of dazed. He then began to babble expletive praises of the little 340 while I modestly told him "Aw, shucks, 'twarnt nuthin'......." or something to that effect. Just then a county cop coasts up behind us, pulls over and gets out. This is Not Good. This might be Bad, even.
"What seems to be the trouble?"
(As if you didn't know. As if you didn't hear that werewolf howling mere seconds ago.)
"Uhhhh......I think I fouled a plug" (gulp)
I'm sweating bullets. My hands are shaking; I almost drop the freaking plug.
"Anything I can help with?"
Yeah. let me have at least one phone call and holster your weapon?
"Uhhhh, I think I have it fixed, I'm changing the plug now."
The motor is trying to rat me out.....ping, pop, ting! Tick, tick, tick. Sorta like a scorching hot frying pan when you put it in the sink....
"You sure?"
(Look, just cuff me and get it over with....)
"Yessir, officer, but thanks anyway!"
He walks back to the squad and sits there while I thread the (properly colored!...jetting spot on!) spark plug back in, connect the wire and shut the hood. Jerry shoots me an I-don't-have-bail-money look and hops in the pax side. I start the werewolf...er, motor, and ever-so-sloooooowly ease out the clutch and limp off down the road like granny on the way home from church, nervously watching Officer Friendly in the Rear View sitting on the shoulder 'til he's out of view, then we both let out a HUGE sigh of relief.
All Jerry can mutter is "Damn! Damn, this thing is a MONSTER!"
(You're preaching to the choir, bud!)

(to be continued)

:book: O.K., preachin' to the choir....... :happy1: .Uh Huh... :clock:

OldVart;
Your comments are appreciated!
Do I continue; or shoot it in the head?
BTW: it's all true, as it happened. Life is stranger than fiction. :thumblef:

:worthles:
:sad2:

(I need smaller paragraphs. :silent: )

Captain, your story has my rapt attention, and I'm waiting not very patiently for the next installment. Keep this up and you're going to inspire me to try and write about some of my own mis-spent youth.. lol. You've got a way with words, keep it up!!

Thanks for the kind feedback, guys. I supposed I'll trudge on with my story; there's a lot more to go. I apologize for the lack of pix, Rumble. Truth is, there are none. Only 2 pix survived that era and they're not digital; they sit on my mantel....one with me & the car and the other with me, my dad and the car. I lost my dad in '89, so the picture is ,well, priceless. It's one of two pictures I own of him. He was my mentor, advisor and best friend and made me what I am today.
There will be more pix than you can shake a stick at later on.......
Sorry about the width of the story also. Someone posted some real nice pix early in the thread which sorta widened things out a bit. I can't unwiden things without starting a new thread. Maybe I'll do that for Part II.
Unreformed; have at it! Ya know, the really cool thing about some of these memories is, you don't realize they're there until you start writing and then they come flowing out of nooks and crannies you didn't even know you had! When I read back some of my text I'm amazed; as in "I forgot all about that"; as if somebody else had written it! I'd love to hear your memories as well, looking forward to your thread!

At this point, I would be remiss if I didn't mention some of my buddies and their rides; I was not the only motorhead in Mudville.
Howard, that motor-dropping son-of-a-biscuit-maker, was actually the first to get a car; a '68 GTO with a 400. I learned some of my best chops working on that car; in fact, I darn near lived in his garage before I got my Duster. He was running a balanced & blueprinted 400, ported & polished heads w/ oversize valves, headers, Crane cam, Edelbrock manifold with Holley 850 DP, Accell dual point distributor & Super Coil hooked to a Muncie M22 Rock Crusher through a street/strip clutch with a Mr. Gasket vertical gate shifter (sorry Howard, but your shifter sucked compared to my Hurst) spinning 5.13 gears. This car would top out at about 90 due to the gears, but man, what a ride! This car would wheel hop so violently he could've made a fortune just collecting all his friends' fillings off the floor! He "sort of" fixed it by installing ladder bars, but it didn't go away completely until he changed the gears to a more reasonable 3.-something. I remember some funny Howard stories......the time when, after getting the engine installed after the build, while installing the manifold and carb (which were the last things to go on except the distributor) he was spinning on the nuts and lock washers for the carb base. One of the rear nuts wouldn't start properly (cross-threaded) so he backed it off, and......
Yep, right down the 'ol distributor hole. Down the well, like little Jessica, so to speak. It sounded somewhat like a pinball game; bouncing and ricochetting down into the bowels of that motor until we heard the dreaded hollow "thunk" of a rogue nut hitting the bottom of an empty oil pan.....the kind of sound a prison door makes when it slams shut on an inmate sentanced to three consecutive life terms. We just stared at each other in disbelief, and then Howard lets out this long, drawn-out; "F***************! Just like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, only he didn't say "fudge" either! He fished with a magnet for hours to no avail; eventually the engine came back out and the pan came off, the nut sitting there cheerily in it's empty metal swimming pool waiting for the fire trucks to come and fill 'er up...."Oh, hullo! Fancy meeting you here!" I learned about stuffing rags in open holes from that; I still do it today. That's a sound forever etched in my memory, and once is enough.
And then, when we finally got the engine back in, removed the rag cleverly placed in the distributor hole (wonder where we came up with that one?) and fired it up, (it, like mine to follow, also lit immediately....what can I say; we were good!) while this dragon was roaring and belching fire through open headers we could hear this distinct banging from deep within the bowels of the motor. We tried everything you could think of to find the source; push rods, rocker arms, etc. It wasn't evident 'til we pulled the distributor and saw a nice new shiny wear mark on the shaft. The boneheads who had balanced the crank had drilled holes in the counterweights and added mallory(?) metal (I think this is the term they used?) to add weight; it protruded too far. End result; the engine came out yet again, and the crank had to go back for warranty work! Howard was not a whole lotta fun to be around that particular week. In the end, this was one quick Pontiac!

Then there was Dave, with his '68 396 Chevelle SS. He never pulled the motor but had the heads done, cam, manifold, Hooker headers, Holley 780 SP strapped to a Turbo Hydromatic 350. I don't believe he could've taken either my car or Howards in the quarter, but I had never seen a motor with so much mid-range torque! So much, in fact, that it chewed up the 350 and ate it for breakfast....Alumin-O's! The tranny case was non-repairable, so he put in a shift-kitted TH400. This thing would lurch so hard when he had his foot in it that it would've snapped your head off like a G.I Joe in the hands of the town bully if it wasn't for the high-back buckets! I'll tell you what; at 30 mph when he'd stomp on it there wasn't a car we knew of that could stay with him between 30 and 60. He would literally have to ease off the gas because the tires would break loose and start smoking at 30 mph!

Jerry had a '68 Camaro RS with a 327 2bbl....nothing to write home about there. We threw a Holley 600 and manifold on it, but without a decent cam to give it some lung-power, it actually was slower! He later bought an early '70's Chevelle SS 350 with cowl induction; this would've been worth a few bucks today if he still had it. It was bone-stock, and not all that quick compared to what we were used to.

Bodyman Mike had a Vega. I will not dwell on this.

Fellow Mopar freak Mike T. had a project '66 Barracuda fastback....I don't believe he ever finished it.

Other Fellow Mopar Freaks Bob and Dale had (respectively) a late-model 318 Charger and Dale first a Demon 340 followed by a '73 Cuda 340. Both (Dale's) were stock but surprisingly quick.

There were others, of course, but these were the ones that helped either directly (such as Howard "helping" me drop my fresh motor) or indirectly (through advice, ideas, etc)

OK- enough of that "brand-X" crap....back to the only Motor that Matters......MOPAR.

The old Duster was garnering quite a reputation around town, both by those who knew me, and by those who didn't....yet. Remember, the car was not yet wearing new colors and I was still cruisin' around with a blue deck lid, orange hood (I'd put it back on by then) and primer-gray left quarter and Bondo repairs. My dad referred to it as my "Navajo Cadillac"...I referred to it as my Joseph car (with it's Coat of Many Colors). Anyway, it didn't resemble any of the museum-quality musclecars that occasionally graced the streets of Mudville.
Mind you, I didn't deliberately go out looking for trouble. It went looking for me most of the time......
Like the time I was out just wasting fossil fuel; I pulled up to the traffic lights heading out of town on a four-lane highway. It was a hot June night and the windows were down; I could smell the fuel-laden exhaust and feel the thudding in my ears. The Hurst was chattering away merrily and the hood was shaking like a dog that just ambled out of a country pond, the streetlights wiggling their reflection in limpid pools on the hood as if trying to jump off. I just happened to be outside of our favorite restaurant, D***'s Coffee shop, where we motor heads hung out. There I was, minding my own business at the red light, when a brand-new Trans-Am pulled up in the right lane. There were two guys and two girls in the car. Obviously, the guys were trying to impress the girls....maybe fishing for prom dates.... They had the T-tops off and all the windows down, and the radio was blasting some typical late-seventies music-R.E.O. Speedwagon comes to mind- and these guys are hootin' and hollerin' at the old Navvy Caddy (I still prefer Joseph). That didn't bother me much. Then the moron goes and starts revvin' his Big Bad 6.6L...outside my hangout, with who-knows-who inside looking out! Well, frankly, brother...that pissed me off. I paid no attention and stared straight ahead (but my eyes were glued the opposite set of lights.......lordy, this is the longest light I've ever sat through......and then it goes yellow. Every muscle was tensed, right hand on the Hurst T-handle, the tip of my toes poised like a tiger crouched and ready to pounce while these dope-smoking punks were laughing and carrying on with no freakin' idea of what was gonna go down here.....)
The opposite light turned red a split-second before ours went green......but I saw it. Dinkweed next to me got caught with his trousers down in the middle of one of his looong, obnoxious revs. I dumped the clutch and put my foot in it so hard I thought it might poke through the floorboard. The E-60's let out a howl like the Hound of the Baskervilles and started rolling smoke while the rear end of the car slid left across the double yellow. 6500, slammed second and pounced on it again. Both rears lit up again and the rear swung to the right, in front of the Super Chicken (which was by now, at least 6 car-lengths behind me). I banged third and the rear end swung back to the left again....the little motor was talkin' the talk and walkin' the walk now, yowling like a wildcat with his hind foot caught in a blender. The noise was deafening. I really hit my stride with fourth and as I rounded a gentle curve, glanced back in the rear-view. The Thunder Chicken's headlights shown waaaaaayyyy back there...maybe a quarter mile or so.....as I rounded the curve and throttled 'er back to a "reasonable" 70 mph. It was great to be alive! The motor was thrumming out it's testosterone-laden song and galloping like a thoroughbred who has just outrun the entire field and has settled into his pace; a true untamed wild stallion, and I could smell the night smell and fresh-mown grass and I reached over and popped in a cassette; Eagles; On The Border and Glenn Frey was belting out Tom Waits....."Well, it happened so quickly/I went lickety-splitly/Out to my old '55...."
I guess those two guys didn't get prom dates after all.

Well, enough about my misadventures in maintaining throttle control.....back to the project at hand (I tend to get a wee bit off track at times.... :thumblef: )

Things were moving fast, and the car was badly in need of new school clothes....literally. I'd finished my second year of college and was leaving the state for tech school in the fall. Bodyman Mike and I lined up a compressor, a Binks paint gun, (sorry, can't remember which model) and respirators, etc. to go with it. I bought a fiberglass Mopar Pro Comp scoop and spent way more hours than I want to talk about getting it trimmed and shaped to fit the hood, then pop-riveted it in place and blended in the fillets with "tiger hair"; (chopped-up fiberglass cloth mixed with resin). It took a number of tries to get it looking just right, then I smoothed it over with filler and sandable primer. You literally could not tell this was not a one-piece....it was that good. I didn't yet cut the hole in the hood as I wanted a true "cold air" induction setup (similar to the six pack air cleaner setup). I then peeled off all the decals with a heat gun and roughed up the car for final prep. We planned the shoot for a long weekend, and I spent the week before covering things in Dad's garage with plastic and removing everything that didn't need to be in there. With the car outside, I scrubbed and swept that floor until there wasn't a spot on it. Then we bought plastic sheeting and began stapling it to the joists. We built a sort of "plastic tent" around where the car would be with the delusion that the tent would a) keep overspray in , and b) keep dust out. I set up a box fan it the widow (blowing out, of course) and taped a furnace filter to it. I ran the garden hose in under the door, set up the compressor with a regulator and water trap, and then rolled in the car. We spent almost an entire day masking. We drove up to the local NAPA and picked up a gallon of primer/sealer and a gallon of NAPA's version of Mopar Tor-red. I believe their name was "Rally Red". We planned to shoot the primer on Friday night and the color on Saturday night.

Next.......the Shoot.

I gotta stay tuned , just cause :thumblef: I think you should have the announcers job at the track !!! LOL

Well, now that Ma had bought all these new school clothes, it was time to try 'em on and send Junior off to school.
After making sure all our tape was down tight and no uncovered seams in the paper, I hosed down the garage floor and the sides of the "tent"with the garden hose, and then rolled the "Navvy Caddy" in. We mixed the primer up, fired up the compressor, and switched on the fan. The prime coat went on unceremoniously, without a hitch; for the first time since I owned it, the car was all one color! We slapped our high-fives and went out to the coffee shop, letting the prime coat set up overnight.
Saturday dawned clear and HOT. We'd decided to shoot the color that evening, after it had cooled off. We spent the afternoon hosing the gray dust off the floor and tacking the car to remove any loose overspray. Darkness fell, but not the mercury...I remember to this day how blistering hot it felt in the garage that night. :color: It was now or never...
Mike mixed the paint, an acrylic enamel, with some sort of gloss hardener in it. We donned respirators and dewrags, and looking like some freakshow scuba divers, got down to business. My job was to hold the air hose away from Mike and the paint, and fill the gun cups. Mike's job was to shoot color. We laid down a tack coat and right away ran into a problem. The walls of the "tent" wouldn't stay put because the fan was exhausting so much air with the garage door cracked. We looked for small, heavy objects to anchor the plastic, but finding few volunteers, we made prisoners of war of numerous unwilling objects and placed them around the perimeter of the "tent" like some bizarre sentries. All better now, Mike shot the first coat of color.
Even with one coat of color, the car looked stunning. We popped out for a breath of fresh air and high-fived each other at my mom's picnic table. After a brief breather and a couple of ice-cold Special Exports, :drinkers: we went back in for coat number two. Coat two took longer, for some reason, and by the time we emerged, the Special X's and the paint fumes were working together in an Evil Medley of toxic proportions. Our eyes were burning and we might as well have not been wearing any repirators at all. :color: We were blown.......and not from the Exports. We shot the third and final coat in a paint-induced haze. It went on fairly quick, and then we were done! We stood back admiring this lucid, gorgeous, liquid red paint when all of a sudden Mike goes.. "Oh, Sh**! The flies!"
The flies, indeed. We hadn't counted on visitors. They'd come drifting in under the door and cruised around under the flourescent lights which were strategically placed on the joists over the car; so we could see, naturally! They were taking in a snootful of paint fumes, then getting higher than we were from the fumes, doin' the Kamikazi into that rather large, red swimming pool of fresh paint! The first one to go was flopping around like a beached walrus and Mike's going, "The tweezers! Get the tweezers!" and I'm rumaging frantically through the tool box like a wino rooting around for his last bottle, and finally I find them.
Mike reaches over the roof and extracts the flapping red walrus, which leaves a tiny little red walrus crater above the passenger side. He flings it to the floor and turns it into a permanent Rally Red streak on the concrete, and then....
The second wave attacks. This is like Pearl Harbor! The Battle of Midway on a Saturday night! Three more Kamikazi's sacrifice themselves for the Emperor, leaving tiny walrus-craters in their wake! Mike and I are frantically trying to pick them out and convert them to Red Streaks before the paint stops flowing and sets up. After the fifth one Mike says; "We'd better stop....let 'em set up and we'll buff 'em out."
BUFF "EM OUT????!!!! RED WALRUSES? ARE YOU NUTS?
That did it. The Evil Medley had us out of our minds....Mike EXPLODED with laughter, and then, so did I. We had to leave the garage. We barely made it to the picnic table outside the garage before we collapsed in gales of hysterics. Mike was laughing so hard I thought he'd pee his pants. (Maybe he did.) He was slapping the picnic table with his hand and laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath. I was too. I guess it really wasn't that funny, but at the time.......you hadda be there. We had tears streaming down our faces and my stomach hurt so bad from laughing I could barely walk. I went in....er, crawled in, to get us a couple more X's, and as soon as I came out on the stoop Mike started in all over again. Here we are, laughing like a couple of retarded loons at midnight at a picnic table while red walrus Kamikazis were floundering around in our precious paint job. It was too funny. I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call the cops.
We finally got our act together enough to clean up the paint gun and shut down the garage for the night. The red walruses left in the pool had obviously drowned and were no longer flopping. Mike gets an epiphany and says "We should shut the lights off...maybe the flies will go away". Duh! Had we done this half an hour ago, maybe a few of the Kamikazis would've gone back to the carrier in shame. Hindsight is 20/20, however.
I woke the next morning with the worst headache I'd ever had. Not the kind of headache three beers gives you. The Evil Medley had done a number on us. I didn't crawl out of bed 'til noon, and that was because I couldn't stand it any more. I HAD to see what the car looked like, and what damage the Emperor's Finest had done. (I kept hearing John Wayne going "Let's see what our little yellow friends are up to")
Mike showed up, slightly the worse for wear complaining of the worst headache he'd ever had. Funny how I could relate to that.
We rolled it out in the daylight in all it's glory to remove the paper and tape. It was GORGEOUS! (with the exception of the "battle damage"). In the end, Mike was right. The flies just kinda flaked away under your fingernail leaving almost imperceptible bumps. Once we'd flaked them off of there we couldn't even find them. You could, however see the craters from the few we removed with the tweezers if you looked hard; kind of like a tiny fish-eye.
Who cares? The car looked even better than I'd ever dreamed possible. There was one tiny sag in the paint way down low on the passenger door, but the paint in general was like a red pool; no fish-eyes or anything, just this mile-deep, beautiful coat of paint.
We removed all the tape and paper and let it sit in the way-too-bright hot sunlight to cure.

Next: Matching Accessories!

Every well-dressed Duster needs matching accessories. Mine was no different. The Argent Silver wheels and trim rings got cleaned and polished. I'd ordered a complete stripe kit from the Mopar dealer, and once the paint had cured, we mustered up enough courage to put 'em on.
We started with the back stripes first, around the tail lights and trunk lock, with the little pissed-off tornado in between. That went on very well, so we moved on to the side stripes. They went on straight and all, they just had a few (OK, more than a few) air bubbles, which took a lot of coaxing out with a squeegee. The ones we couldn't get we popped with pins and flattened. Then came the numbers; 340 on both rear quarters! Big, bold, and telling the world this was one machine to tread lightly near. Hot Dog, this car looked hot! I topped it all off with a new Hurst T-handle done in black suede. (They used to make them that way; I don't think I've seen one like that for twenty years or more, though). Now it looked as good as it ran!
It was late July, and I was due to leave for tech school in a few short weeks...I made the best of it, cruisin' the local scene on those hot summer nights. I was in car heaven! Little did I know the dream was about to be shattered in a few short weeks........
Next, The Journey

have you ever considered writing Cap? Im younger, only being 16 myself, but have grown to be a quite adept reader.. Im gonna have to say I enjoy reading your stuff more than a few books Ive read, and you have written 2-3 pages mostly likely, I read books 1000+ pages, it isnt easy to impress me, nor captivate my mind.. keep it up, looking forward to seeing where this goes.

First time I've read this and I'm captivated. I know this because this story has just cost me about 45 minutes of corporate productivity. Nice work CaptainKirk.

Very nice story indeed! I wasted about half an hour reading it and my boss read it too lol

But I must say....

:worthles:

Thanks for the kind comments, all. Shame on you for reading this at work anyway! This is a (true) story not to be tossed down like a shot of rotgut whiskey, but rather, rolled around on the palate like a fine wine and savored to get the full effect (although I am honored to have all of you read it in any context!) I'm truly sorry about the lack of pix, but as I explained earlier, there are none. Now for the good news.....when we "cross over" to part 2, there will be more pix than Carter's has little pills.....I promise!
Again thanks all for reading and being patient; writing quickly is like reading quickly, you don't get the same effect and I don't want to rush the stroll down Memory Lane lest I omit some of the "good stuff", so please bear with me. CK :thumblef:

Sorry, guys.....
I had carefully crafted the next installment early this morning (about 1:00 am), and was reading back through and editing, about 2 minutes from "submit reply" when....
Power failure! Lights out, Goodnight Irene!
Power was off for about an hour, no Save To Hard Drive here!
I'll have to try to reconstruct tonight, if time allows.
It was going so well.......

Aw man! That's means I'll be reading this at work again! LOL

The summer had gone quickly; much too quickly for me, and it was time to leave for tech school, an 18-month AMT school in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This was around the middle of August, I believe. I loaded up as many tools and spare Mopar parts as I could fit in the trunk; nuts, bolts, gaskets, etc; stuff I'd never use but I took it anyway. I was following my dad, who was driving his big Jimmy half-ton pickup with the big stuff.The Duster actually got fairly decent highway mileage (for that era), although that was not a huge concern; gas had not hit a dollar a gallon yet. You could still buy leaded premium!
I was a little concerned, as this was my first real road trip in the car; not to worry! It ran and drove beautifully. I'd put on a new Walker dual 2 1/4 exhaust through Turbo Hush Thrush cans and reinstalled the original bullet tips; the motor still growled plenty but it was a bit more civilized finally ;no more eye-popper pounding headaches and ringing ears! We made St. Louis uneventfully the first day and stayed overnight at my uncle's house.
The next day we finished the trip, also without a hitch. When we left Chicago I was nervously scanning the gauges all the time, ear cocked for the slightest sound out-of-sorts. The second day I relaxed, finally, and enjoyed the ride. When we hit the Will Rogers turnpike Dad kicked it into high gear and smoked along about eighty, (this was in the Carter-era when 55 meant 55!) with me "drafting" right on his tail. The Red Rocket fell into a kind of groove; the motor thrumming out it's muscle melody, wind in my face, groovin' to Robin Trower and Jeff Beck...that was a ride that coulda gone on forever, but all good things must come to an end, and so it did.....

Tulsa, Oklahoma. Hot, dry, dusty and flat. We stayed in a motel that first night, then the next day went down to the school and got me all registered. Placement hooked me up with some student housing (a mobile home, for cryin' out loud; I was feeling more like a redneck every day!) and a "phantom" roommate, who had not yet shown up. With that all taken care of, we drove out to the fancy new digs and unloaded. We went and got a bite for lunch, then Dad drove off into the sunset.
I spent an hour or so getting unpacked, then walked outside to view the surroundings. Nothing had changed; it was still hot, dry, dusty and flat. The sun was hanging up in the sky like this blazing blowtorch; I could hear half a hundred air conditioners humming; having a battle of the bands with the locusts (who won; they were louder when they put their insipid little minds to it) and cars moving past on the road; other than that was like the Twilight Zone; no wind and no people! I suppose they were all inside in the AC doing what trailer people do best (?)
This was not a student-only MHP; in fact most of the people living there were just ordinary....well, hillbillies. "Trailer trash", if you will, for lack of a better word. Now don't get me wrong; lots of the people in that MHP would probably give you the shirt off their back if you needed it; that's just the way they were. But I really didn't associate much with the ones who weren't students; there just wasn't time.
Being a student (cheap) on a fixed budget (cheap) with no job yet (cheap) I chose to forego the AC and opened all the windows, hoping for a wisp of a breeze; no such luck! You hear stories about illegal immigrants dying in a boxcar, well baby, I had my very own boxcar! It was like the hothouse in "Cool Hand Luke"! Three hours and I was already lonesome and homesick and bored; I had no phone yet, and didn't know where any pay phones were anyway. It was hotter than the bore of an M-16 in a fire-fight and I decided to go find a hamburger and later, a pay phone (to call my girl back home.)
Now this trailer park....er....MHP, was about two miles from the middle of nowhere. I had to drive several miles to get to anything resembling civilization. The funny thing was, there was a four-lane paved road leading there! With nobody on it! It seemed like a good place to romp on it.
I walked out onto the porch of the trai...er, Mobile Home, and the sun was just hanging there, this huge pumpkin-orange orb in a cloudless, windless sky. Hot as the inside of the MH was, the heat outside was like a wall you ran into; it took effort just to move into it. The seats of Red Ryder were so hot I had to throw a blanket on them; even at six in the evening. I rolled down all the windows and popped the rears open (one of the cool features about a Duster; rear windows that work like vents), and headed out for a burger.
Naturally, I romped on it. Even in the sizzling heat she ran like a fresh quarterhorse. This was more like it! At seventy, the wind moving through the car felt like a cold shower. I pulled into this drive-in restaurant and ordered up dinner, enjoying the AC indoors. These two guys in a nice Z-28 pulled up and were admiring the Rocket outside before coming in. They asked me if that was my car (duh, I'm the only one in here.......) and we started talking cars. I told 'em I was new to town, and they're like; "Duuude! You've gotta go down on XXXXXX street! Every weekend there's like this unofficial car show; some really cool stuff!" Now I'll be hog-tied if I can remember the name of that street; maybe some Tulsans out there can jog my memory. Anyway, I made a mental note of it, thanked them and finished my burger.
Right outside, as luck would have it, was a pay phone. Let me tell ya, a quarter didn't get you very far even then, despite what all the old-timers blowing smoke tell you! I called my sweetie but ran out of quarters much too soon, and found myself alone again, feeling all the worse. Well, the best thing when you're feeling blue is to...
Romp on it.
I did.
The sun was down below the horizon now, the light rapidly dying and the sweet smell of freshly-mown grass came skating in on the cooler night air. Robin Trower was goin' on and on about some funky Bridge of Sighs and the little motor was talkin' to me, daring me to put my foot in it and snarling at me when I did, and life was just a little bit OK again.

:salut: Some damned good reading Cap'n. Brings back a lot of old memories of hot July/August nights and the smell of burning rubber. :drinkers: Keep it coming. :book:

Cap, I'll have to say that you have me officially hooked. I have NEVER read prose such as this on a motorhead site. One of these days when you're through I might relate some of my misspent youth, but quite frankly my writing style can't compare to yours and I don't want to embarass myself.. KEEP IT COMING!!!

Thanks, all of you. Especially for enduring my tongue-in-cheek remarks about fine wine and reading posts at work! (I was kidding......sometimes my sense of humor catches folks off-guard)
A few times early on I thought about just chuckin' the whole thing, then you guys go and post something nice and I feel obligated to continue. Now I couldn't stop if I tried....at least until the story is all out! I don't mean to ramble like I do, but the words just come a-rollin' out and won't stop!
I do appreciate the comments...they fuel the passion. Thanx again :salut:

School daze......
The boredom and loneliness was rapidly replaced with a whirlwind of frantic activity come Monday. Classes began, and we started off swimming in the deep end right from the get-go. I met my roommate; I'll call him "Al". Al was a rather out-of-shape, dumpy individual with more pimples than a prom dance. He rather resembled a pizza perched on top of a giant ground sloth. He was not the sharpest tool in the shed; in fact, you'd be hard-pressed to draw blood with this guy! His level of intelligence was fitting with the ground sloth image as well; more on this later. He was a nice guy and all, but.....
I gave him half the MH; I took the other half (with the "master bedroom"....if there IS such a thing in a MH!) First come, first served, right? I was there first so I got dibs. $200.00 a month rent; we split it down the middle. Of course, neither of us had a job, so it didn't mean diddly squat anyway. I'd payed my 1st month's rent and the security deposit, so he owed me a hundred bucks. That gave me about 30 days to find a job.
School was tough. Eight hours a day, half classroom and the other half shop. Homework every night. Every Friday was "quiz day"....where everything you had learned that week was put to the test. Each section was either 2 or 4 weeks long, with a final exam at the end of each section. You needed a 70% or better on both the quizzes and test to move on to the next section, or you were doomed to repeat it. This put an enormous amount of pressure on all of us; Fridays became the do-or-die day for all of us, especially on the Big Test Friday.
Naturally, this made me want to run out and find a job to fill my nano-seconds of not having something to do, but my little 340 was a thirsty little bugger and my bank account was dwindling fast, so reluctantly I started looking.
Within the first week of class I hooked up with a bunch of car guys. One of them was rooming in the spare bedroom of a little old lady with lots of house rules that he didn't think a hell of a lot of, and bunking on our sofa sounded better to him than abiding by the rules (such as; light out by 10:00pm, no music, etc). Splitting the rent three ways sounded OK to us as well. I'll call this guy "Dave". Dave was nuts; no two ways about it. He drove a nice old aqua-green '68 Impala that had no rust or anything, 327 2bbl. Al bought himself a car as well; it was a big old 4-door boat; a Chevy Caprice, I think. Sometimes we'd all leave for school at the same time; we'd be jinking and feinting on that 4-lane ribbon of concrete; then I'd get bored with it and wail on the little motor and it was like, "See ya!"
I found a job first; some dinky little grocery store. My impression of the manager was immediately that he was a bitter little toad that hated life and the fact that he was managing a grocery store staffed by youthful kids that had no intentions of making the same mistake. He barked out orders like Hitler's little love child and I took an immediate dislike to him. But a job was a job, and I kept my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.
If memory served me correctly, I started work on a Wednesday evening; after school. The store closed at nine, by the time we cleaned up and closed it was ten; do the math! That left about 2 hours to drive home, shove something in the ol' pie-hole, and hit the books with a vengeance. I worked Wednesday, Thursday and Friday; I'd done well on the quiz Friday, and after work that evening, Dave, Al and I decided to have a few beers and relax......I had to work Saturday as well.
Except Dave had been busy drinking most of the beers while I was working (which sorta pissed me off, since I'd bought it) but hey, what're roomies for, if not to take your stuff? So after a couple beers, I realized we were on "empty" and I volunteered to light off the rocket and orbit myself down to the U-Totem and pick up another 12. Now, the U-Totem was on Pine, down the street from the school, which was several miles away. This left me no option but to romp on it, as the traffic at 10:00 was non-existant. What a cruise! It was late September, the damp, cool night air felt good for the soul, the car was running like a raped ape; what more could one want? I made the U-Totem in record time, picked up a twelve of the nasty 3.2 swill that Okies passed off as beer in convenience stores (you could only buy "real" beer (5%) in "drinking establishments" or liquor stores) and headed home, Jeff Beck doin' the Freeway Jam from the back seat. The little minx was teasing me again, taunting me to drop the hammer. I didn't need to be coaxed. I turned left onto Mingo and let the horses run free!
And run they did, probably leaving a good 6 feet of rubber hoofprints in their wake. I throttled 'er back about 65 and leaned back in the seat, my left hand loosely gripping the wheel, and my right palm draped over the trembling Hurst, my fingers feeling where the suede had worn through to the cool metal underneath. This was not a car, this was a living, breathing thing I had created and it was talking to me, singing Songs Of Thunder and responding to the slightest pressure of my right toes the way a champion racehorse responds to it's jockey; we were in tune, baby, carrying on a conversation in Metalspeak and she was hanging on my every word. There was not a better car in the world; ever. I was sure of it!

What a great story....That last entry really caught the essence of a young man(or old in my case) and his mopar. I have increased my visits to this page just to see if you have posted another piece of the pie. I know it's going to taste good when it's finished. Thanks for sharing too!

Journey's End
In the days we sweat it out on the streets of runaway American dreams//At night we drive through mansions of of glory in suicide machines
Bruce Springsteen; Born To Run
Here was the turnoff into the MHP. I down shifted to third, and then the minx whispered in my ear;
"You don't have to go back just yet..."
Well, I was thinking; the guys are waiting....
The two beers spoke up; " They drank up your beers. Let 'em wait!"
Two Beers had a point. Still....
"It's a cool September night. You worked hard today. What's your hurry?" taunted the li'l red minx.
Two Beers chimed in; "Romp on it!"
Uhh...if you insist.....
I blew by the MHP at 60 and found fourth again. Or shall I say, it found me.
A short distance ahead, Mingo narrowed from 4 lanes to two. I eased over into the left lane. A little further on down was in intersection with another 2 lane highway. I thought about hanging a Leroy (left) at the intersection, and then the minx spoke up again;
"Why don't you check out what's straight ahead?"
That was a kind of stupid question for a li'l red minx, or anybody else to be asking; what lay ahead was a two-lane gravel road that went to..... who knows where?
"No sense of adventure?" taunted Two Beers.
Shut your pie-hole. I'll go where I damn well please.
I went straight.
This tendancy was to rear it's ugly head again recently when I resumed riding street bikes. It's like mind-control; bending spoons and whatnot. You see the intersection, your conscious mind says "We turn left here, to go home" and the bike says "The hell you say!" and blows right on through and you wind up in lower North Fork, Idaho when all you were doing was going for a quick ride.
Try explaining THAT to your wife.
Anyway, it was obvious the minx was driving now, not me. Now, class, does anyone know what happens when tarmac meets gravel at 65 mph?
Two Beers spoke up from the back of the class; "Loss of traction?"
Teacher; "EXCESSIVE loss of traction"
Ever been on a Tilt-A-Whirl? Well, that's kinda like what I was feeling......frantically I countersteered the fishtailing rearend; first one way, then the other. The minx was nowhere to be found; She'd punched the "EJECT" button and I was driving again. Two Beers was uncharacteristically quiet. Bumps, jars, a large crunching sound like a pile of books dropped on concrete, and then....
Silence.

.....You were too fast to live; too young to die, Bye Bye.
Eagles, On The Border
Gradually, like waking up on a Saturday morning after sleeping in, I became aware of my surroundings. I don't really think I was out, perhaps just in shock? Anyway, the first thing I noticed was that I was alive and not in a lot of pain. That was a Good Thing. The second thing I noticed was that I couldn't see; my glasses were gone. It was unearthly quiet; like when you're sitting in the woods, and suddenly you become aware of a cacauphony of noises in the background that were really there all along. I became aware of the hissing of a ruptured radiator; mortally skewered like a jousting knight who has just received his comeuppance. I could smell the sweet smell of glycol and taste it in the steam that drifted in through the driver's window, which had disappeared as if by magic. Hell, I could see the steam in the glare from the one remaining headlight, which glared out at the treetops in a fantastic absurd angle; a mortally wounded cyclops on it's deathbed. I reached over and switched off the light switch.
The door didn't open at first. Once, twice, three times with my shoulder, and it grudgingly popped open. Gingerly, I unbuckled the lap belt and stepped out of the car.
The engine was pinging and ticking, shedding the heat from it's death-gauntlet like a mortally wounded animal, green blood pooling beneath it. In the full moon's light I could see the huge buckle in the hood, the scoop I'd labored so hard on cracked and peeled back. It was then I noticed the telephone pole leaning crazily to one side, wires drooping low like the clothesline of a fat man, loaded with wet laundry. Things were not looking so hot at the moment.
I reached back inside and rummaged around in the glovebox for my flashlight. Finding it, I switched it on and searched for my glasses. I finally found them, twisted and bent, between the passenger door and the seat, on the floor. They'd hit the windshield and cracked it on the way to their new burrow. I twisted and bent them enough to make them somewhat fit. Then I surveyed the damage.
It was a mortal wound; you could just tell. Like in the movies when the medic tells the sarge; "Aw, it's just a scratch...you'll be up and around in no time!"
You can't BS the old Sarge. "Tell my wife....(whatever) and hug little Timmy for me......." Then he sighs, closes his eyes and rolls his head. You couldn't BS me either. If this was a quarterhorse, I'd be tenderly pressing the muzzle of my .44 against her head. They shoot horses, don't they?
I spied the unopened Refreshments in the back seat. Well, they were unopened. I sat down in the ditch on the wet, dewy grass and popped one open. :drinkers:
Two Beers appeared out of nowhere. "Hell of a thing, eh?"
Shove off, mate.
"Suit yourself."
Alone again, I polished off the beer, chucked the can in the ditch and opened another. And then I did what any other full-grown, testosterone-stoked, musclecar-building Sonofabiscuitmaker would do.....I broke down and sobbed like a freakin' baby.

This is the first time reading this and I couldnt stop. I read the whole thing, great story. I want to go do something to my cars now. I know their is more to this!!! :book:

Keep it coming. Love the story! I too am guilty of wasting hours of company time reading this,... its better than a good book, and no way I can put it down now!

http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f98/triggerjay/DSC01701.jpg

Triggerjay

NOOOOOO!!! Don't let it end this way! :sad2:

End??????
We've got a long way to go yet. I'm just getting warmed up. :thumblef:

:clock: Don't worry boys, he's just whetting your appetites. :happy1: :drinkers:

more, more!!!!

Triggerjay

I can't wait for the next installment of "As the Wheel Spins". That's a heartbreaking story you just told. I've been lucky enough to never wreck one of my cars (although the ex wife was another story, she would total one about every three years. Thank God that they were all just "cars" ). Keep it coming Cap!!

Rats.......in changing over to the new server, the next chapter got lost. Sorry.

Sweet. This $%#@*&^ server just destroyed an hour and a half's worth of work.
I'm not pissed...I'm FURIOUS.
But notice how this post showed up. :angry4:

CaptainKirk, If I were you, I would type them up in word or wordpad, and cut and paste them so you have a saved copy on your PC. That way if something happens like this, it is not much effort to cut and paste it again. Just a suggestion.

Triggerjay

I'm open to suggestions. I'm going to try a test tonight where I'll write something up in Word and attach it. My only reservation is that some people might not have Word, therefore might not be able to open it. I'll try it and we can see what happens.

Just type it in any text editor, save it. then while it is open, right click, and pick "select all". It should highlight everything you typed, and then right click again, and choose copy. Then come here, and start a new reply, click on where you would normally type your story, and right click again... then choose paste, and it will transfer everything you typed in the text editor. Hope this helps.

Triggerjay
http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f98/triggerjay/DSC01712.jpg

this is a test to see if I can attach a Word file

This is aggravating as well; the attachment limits keep me at about a paragraph at a time; but here goes.....

For you CaptainKirk : <--- This was written by CaptainKirk, NOT ME. Just thought I would cut and paste it so it would be easier for everyone to read..

“Once you’ve hit Rock Bottom, there’s no where to go but up.” Unknown

A lot of things happened over the next 48 hours, but most of it was a blur. Call it shock; call it trauma, just don’t call it late for dinner. Two guys stopped to see if anyone was hurt when they saw the li’l red minx smoochin’ with the telephone pole. I think they gave me a lift home. I say “think” because I just don’t know for sure. Anyway, I got there. I must’ve looked a mess; bent-up specs, shiner in the works and all. Either Dave or Al (or both) drove me to the ER to be checked out. I had a shiner under construction, bruised ribs, a huge purple welt across my abdomen (from the seat belt) and a lacerated kidney, along with other miscellaneous cuts and bruises, but I was intact, at least. They released me sometime during the wee hours of the morning with an doctor’s note to stay off my feet a few days, although he released me to return to school Monday. After a few restless hours of tossing and turning, I woke early to call in to work. Old Mr. Toad was most understanding; if I may quote him; “ I hired you because I thought you were reliable…obviously you’re not. Don’t bother returning”. And you thought you had a nice boss! Thanks boss, I love you too!
At least I got to sleep in…….

“Once you’ve hit Rock Bottom, there’s no where to go but up.” Unknown

A lot of things happened over the next 48 hours, but most of it was a blur. Call it shock; call it trauma, just don’t call it late for dinner. Two guys stopped to see if anyone was hurt when they saw the li’l red minx smoochin’ with the telephone pole. I think they gave me a lift home. I say “think” because I just don’t know for sure. Anyway, I got there. I must’ve looked a mess; bent-up specs, shiner in the works and all. Either Dave or Al (or both) drove me to the ER to be checked out. I had a shiner under construction, bruised ribs, a huge purple welt across my abdomen (from the seat belt) and a lacerated kidney, along with other miscellaneous cuts and bruises, but I was intact, at least. They released me sometime during the wee hours of the morning with an doctor’s note to stay off my feet a few days, although he released me to return to school Monday. After a few restless hours of tossing and turning, I woke early to call in to work. Old Mr. Toad was most understanding; if I may quote him; “ I hired you because I thought you were reliable…obviously you’re not. Don’t bother returning”. And you thought you had a nice boss! Thanks boss, I love you too!
At least I got to sleep in…….
Somehow I managed to get the car towed back to the MHP. I got a real good look at it in the daylight. They say everything looks better in the light of day. They were wrong. This car was toast. The radiator had been cored like an apple, the motor pushed back into the firewall. The brand-new (and absurdly expensive) Mallory distributor cap was cracked and broken, looking like some absurd dead octopus with it’s black silicone 8mm tentacles splayed across the top of the motor. The distributor shaft was actually bent. The Hedman Hedders were “hedded” for the scrap heap, the tubes twisted and mangled and flattened closed. The right front wheel twisted out at a grotesque angle; I crawled under to check it and saw the tie rod sleeve was broken clean in two, leaving the wheel to flop about like a hand on a broken wrist. It was then that I saw the unibody rails were twisted and bent and I knew it was Game Over. I actually got a couple quotes over the next couple weeks, the cheapest of which was $2500.00; this just to make it driveable again. With no job and $300.00 as my life savings, it may as well have been $25 million. I began buying Auto Traders and looking for a suitable transplant patient…..preferably an A-body.

“Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?”
“It’s Fraaaahnkenschteen” Gene Wilder, “Young Frankenstein”

I found another job within the week, and got Dave to cart me around to work and school for gas money. I knew I had had to find another car, and fast. I answered an ad in the Auto Trader for a ’71 Duster and went to look at it. It was a piece of work. The owner was a piece of work, as well. It was ugly, gold, rusty, and ugly, a real CrackerJack prize. It had a worn out, wheezing 318 with an auto trans (which I didn’t want), butt-ugly bench seats that were all duct-taped, filthy carpeting, with an 8 track, to add insult to injury. It would’ve been like transplanting the heart of a young, vibrant football player into a doddering old man with one foot in the grave. He wanted me to buy it in the worst way…practically pleading with me. He’d come down a couple hundred bucks. He’d throw in his stack of old Mopar magazines and greasy old hat…. excuse me while I puke….
There, that’s a little better…..

As much as I wanted a car, I did NOT want that one. It was just waaaaay too much work. I told him I’d think about it and made the mistake of giving him my number. He must’ve called 3 times a day for the next two weeks, until I finally told him I’d found another car just so he’d leave me alone. I could’ve sworn I heard him stifle a sob as he hung up the phone. I kept looking.
Several extremely disappointing days later, I was almost getting desperate enough to call him and tell him the deal I’d had fell through. Everything I looked at was a rolling scrap heap; and overpriced, to boot.
I was starting to search outside of the A-body box, looking for ‘Cudas and Challengers, but nothing doing. Everything I saw was worthless or too expensive, or both.

It was October now, and the frost was on the pumpkin (or would be soon). The days were shorter and the nights cooler. The trees had begun to change, showing their brilliant hues of scarlet, yellow and brown. Winter was coming; not yet here, but ambling down the road towards us, anyway. I knew I had to do something with the Incredible Hulk out in front, but the landlady beat me to the punch. I went in to pay October’s rent and she backed me into a corner……
“Say, when ya gonna get rid of that car?”
Say, when ya gonna brush your teeth, lady……yuck!
“Ummm, real soon”.
“Have it gone by this weekend or I’ll have it towed and give you the bill!”
Zieg Heil, Mein Fuhrer.

I got right to work on it. I stripped that car like a coyote working a deer carcass. I took off everything….doors, fenders, rear end, seats, headliner…….HEADLINER, for Pete’s sake! If it came off, I took it off. If it didn’t , I tried. I snuck around back of the trailer and removed a handfull of the 5/16 cap screws and peeled the yellow sheetmetal back like a rotten banana and stuffed all the large parts under the trailer, safe from Broom Hilda’s prying eyes. The smaller stuff I boxed up and stacked in my room.
I rented a cherry picker and pulled the motor. I’d found a storage unit nearby big enough to shoehorn it into and keep it out of the elements….heated storage, no less! On of the guys from school hauled it and the cherry picker down there and we stuffed it in there like a fat foot in a too-small shoe. Aside from the Mallory, everything else looked intact.
And the search went on……………..

I really think that you should try to publish this. It is such a great story!You could start a series of mopar books lol!! Seriously though awesome story!!Keep it up!!

Thanks! Know any publishers? LOL :)

Next chapter tonight.....coming to a theatre near you! :wav:

It was a Saturday, I think. Dave had gotten a notice in the mail that there was a care package from home waiting for him at the post office. I had to work that morning and he picked me up from work; we headed out to find the Post Office. It was way the heck across town somewhere; we had no idea. We’d stopped to ask directions probably three times and been given three different answers. You gotta understand Okie to translate; “Fust ya go dayown theyahh, then make a raaaat…..”We knew what the address was, just not how to get to the road. After about an hour of driving in circles we finally found it; Dave picked up his package and we headed back. We immediately got lost again in some sprawling subdivision full of ticky-tacky, boxy, look-alike pre-fab homes. Dave made a right turn into a cul-de-sac to turn around, when….
“STOP THE CAR!!!!!!!!!!!”
He slammed on the brakes, , panicky, confused, and looking for a three-year-old on a tricycle in the street; seeing none, he turned to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing, but I was already out of the car and in the street.
There, in one of the nameless mundane lookalike driveways of the subdivision of ticky-tacky homes sat the Holy Grail of Mopar, sunning itself under a brilliant, robin’s egg- blue sky that was so bright it hurt your eyes.
The Holy Grail.
A ’72 Duster.
The sun danced off the silver-blue finish; blinding spears of sunlight shooting off the Argent Silver wheels with their brushed-aluminum trim rings; at that particular moment I saw it; it sucked the breath from my lungs.
I was all over it.
Peering through the windows, I saw a nicely kept black vinyl interior with high-backed buckets and a manual tranny. The top of the hood and fenders had been blacked out, save for the narrow wedge down the center of the hood, the black on the fenders continuing back along the tops of the door skins and curving around the rear windows like licorice candy canes. It was a nice touch. It had the ’72 grille I liked so much on the li’l red minx also.
Now, normally, this kind of activity in a stranger’s driveway would get you on a first-name basis with an 870 Remington before you could say boo. All was strangely silent, though. Not seeing anyone about, I quickly stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. Nobody answered, but I could hear a dog barking inside from deep within the bowels of the house. Trying again with no response other than Rex Live! in Concert, I knocked on the screen door. Finally I heard stirring from inside the house and the grating sound of a deadbolt sliding back. The door opened a few inches, and this (Native American) Indian dude poked his face into the opening between the door and the jamb, his chin resting on the still-attached security chain.
“Yeah?”
How. You sell-um motor-wagon?
“ Uhhh, is this car for sale?”
Geronimo pondered a moment, blinking owlishly in the bright October sun, then unlatched the security chain and opened the door.
“Could be”.
The guy was huge. Not fat, mind you; all muscle, with no shirt or shoes on and raven-black hair down to his waist.
I rather hoped he wasn’t low on his quota of scalps for the week.
He stepped out onto the stoop and walked over to the car.
We walked; we talked. He popped the hood to show me the motor; I didn’t need to ask if it was a 340; it was. It was old and dirty, to be sure, but at that point I wouldn’t have cared if it was a slant six; Dr. Frankenstein had other ideas. Strangely enough, I noticed it was topped with a Carter AVS instead of the standard Thermo-Quad, and was dumping the spent gases through early-style 340 Hi-perf. exhaust manifolds. Strange. The color of the intake and valve covers was off, too; more of a Ford Blue than Mopar. He unlocked the car and I opened the door and stepped in; I sunk down into the high-backed buckets, as they wrapped their tendrils around me…..and had a strange feeling I belonged here. I worked the shifter through the gears; yup, four speed. I’d swallowed the hook now; just waiting for him to set it.
I could feel my heart pounding. I managed to croak out, “How much?”
Geronimo pondered a bit more. Perhaps if I offered him a peace pipe…..
“Nine hundred”.
Nine hundred. Geez, and I was only short six hundred! A mere bag of shells!
“How about six hundred?”
He looked at me with these unwavering coal-black eyes as if I’d just offered to buy Manhattan Island for a handful of beads……
“Nine hundred”.
Right. Had he been in on the original Manhattan deal, I’d be going to school in a London suburb.
“OK; nine hundred.”
It was Custer’s Last Stand all over again, and I was old Yellow Hair himself. ( I did have long blond hair at the time….this was getting scary.)
Now all I had to do was find six hundred bucks.
Custer never had it so good.

you were hooked im hooked what year did this take place? 900 sounds good to me!!!

you were hooked im hooked what year did this take place? 900 sounds good to me!!!
Late '78...........A.D. LOL

my god cap'mn

i just sat there for about an hour reading this whole thing in one wailing swoop finally and i think the hello phone donned its melody in the background a number of 4 or more times. ignored i had to continue this tale of a man and his soul mate.

It is a hooking story and i commend you on your tongues vibrations.

music to my ear and i hope my car makes memories in tiem as yours has to you.

Cerwin

my god cap'mn

i just sat there for about an hour reading this whole thing in one wailing swoop finally and i think the hello phone donned its melody in the background a number of 4 or more times. ignored i had to continue this tale of a man and his soul mate.

It is a hooking story and i commend you on your tongues vibrations.

music to my ear and i hope my car makes memories in tiem as yours has to you.

Cerwin

It will....if it hasn't already. Think about some of your past adventures, trials & tribulations and let 'em spew forth......you'd be surprised at how many people here might be interested!

Chapter 7

“Hello, Mom?”
Now, I wasn’t one to be borrowing money; I felt bad enough that Mom and Dad had forked over enough just getting me down here and set up. But this was an emergency. I needed a car…..I needed THIS car, and it was there for the taking. Mom didn’t even hesitate. She said she’d mail me a check…$600.00 Gen-U-Wine American Smackers; In God We Trust, E Pluribus Unum, et al. She told me not to worry if I couldn’t pay it back just now. Bless her heart. I called Geronimo and told him I’d be by tomorrow with a deposit.
I didn’t sleep much that night. The next day I got Dave to run me back over, and true to my word, forked over every last penny I owned. Geronimo asked me if I wanted to drive the motor wagon.
Did Custer want to get the hell out of the Little Bighorn?
We kinda just drove around the block a bit; I was nervous with him in the car; I didn’t want to tear into it with the rightful owner staring at me. I drove like a granny just out of rehab…past the police station.
It drove just fine.

Several days later, the check arrived. I got Dave to run me to the bank and cashed it; then off to Geronimo’s teepee and sealed the deal.
This felt surreal.
Dave up and left after I’d given him the OK; probably glad to have this particular monkey off his back.

I motored my way out of the subdivision, in command of my new ship, feeling on top of the world again. As I headed out toward the freeway, I had thoughts…..
One of my friends believes in fate. For example, he doesn’t wear a helmet when he rides. His philosophy; “If I’m meant to crash and die, there’s nothing I can do to change it. So lean back and enjoy the ride.”
B.S.
My philosophy is a bit different. I don’t believe in “fate”.
I also don’t believe I’m some nameless organism twisting about in a faceless, cold orb of a world twirling about in outer space….
I believe in The Big Boss Upstairs.
And I am sure, in my own mind, that The Big Boss Upstairs knew exactly which road the li’l red minx was taking me down, and so He grabbed me by my wide ‘70’s lapels and shook me like one of those Jibber-Jabber dolls they used to sell.
Wake up, fool.
You’re free to make your own choices….just make sure they don’t get you killed.
They damn near did.
This was in the forefront of my mind as I rolled on the power pulling onto the freeway.

Don’t get me wrong…….once a motorhead, always a motorhead. You just get a little more choosy about where you pick your battles.
This looked like a good spot for a fight.
I merged with traffic, signaled left and deftly slid her into the left lane.
Then I romped on it.
For an tired, old 340 (the odometer read 80,000 miles) this thing got up and smacked me with the whammy stick. Holy Moses! Did I say “tired and old?” I was wide awake and paying attention now! Not the kind of smacking I’d get from the Red Rocket, but impressive nonetheless. I took a gander in the rear-view, and wondered where the mosquito truck was…..there was a cloud of blue smoke hanging in the air that could’ve come from only Yours Truly……hanging in the breeze like the smoke from a thousand campfires, and I thought of the old cartoon they used to run in the Chicago Tribune each fall called “Indian Summer”….”Indian Summer, I thought with a grin….Geronimo, you rascal, You.” So she burned a little oil……Oh well, I knew of this low-mileage 340 laying low in a heated storage shed somewhere…….
“Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?”
340’s rock.
The thrumming, hypnotic lullaby of the motor crooned to me as I cruised home.

Chapter 8


It didn’t take long to get acquainted with my new friend. Oh, sure, there were limitations…(like how many quarts of oil one could carry in the trunk.) Seriously, though, it wasn’t that bad. It really only burned a lot of oil when I romped on it. I tried to behave myself; tempered by the memory of what happened last time I threw caution to the wind; and the fear of heaving a rod through the side of the block on a high-time motor. Let’s just say I was a little more……civil. As for the car itself, truth be told, I liked it better than Red Ryder. The interior was certainly nicer, the buckets were like sitting in a La-Z-Boy. The car was not nearly as loud. It idled nicely and played well with others. And it was really a nice looking car; unfortunately just not as good looking as the li’l red minx had been. I was spoiled, forever tainted by that stunning red paint job.
Speaking of which, Ol’ Red was long gone, hauled off to the crushing block,I presume, where old cars go to die. I tried not to think of it much; I had another car to concentrate on now, and school and work were really stepping up the pressure.
I’d left the part-time job in the store and now had a better-paying factory job. Of course, it meant more hours, and studying became more of a chore.

“Can’t we all just get along?” Rodney King
Roommates….ahhhh, what can one say about one’s college roommates? I truly appreciated their support during my crisis. But one‘s patience has limitations.
I mentioned earlier that “Al” was not the sharpest tool in the shed. He was no dummy; intellectually, but he had absolutely no mechanical skills whatsoever. I do not exaggerate. He was skimming through the classroom sessions by the skin of his teeth, but failing every shop class. By the time he got to “Basic Hand Tools and Shop Practices”, the writing was on the wall.
Now, the school policy was this; if you failed a class, having already paid for it, you were allowed to retake the class as many times as you saw fit to pass it, free of charge. Al put this policy to use beginning with Month 1 and faithfully following up with every class after. By the time we were 6 classes into the program, Al was still stuck in class # 3 and failing. Now, I ask you with all sincerity; HOW DOES SOMEONE FAIL “BASIC HANDTOOLS AND SHOP PRACTICES” 3 TIMES???????!!!!!!!!!
Answer: You have no mechanical skills whatsoever. But we covered that.
And this wasn’t his only handicap.
He was lazy, and he was a slob.
Before you jump in here and remind me that this description matches 98% of all college students, let me counter by saying, You don’t know Al.
First off, the guy wouldn’t work. Nothing pisses you off more than being gone all day; first at school, then at work, and coming home to find your trail…er, Mobile Home looking like Hiroshima a week after the blast; Al with that goofy grin watching TV with dishes piled up to the ceiling from breakfast…..his dishes, not ours…..we washed ours and put them away. And since he didn’t work, he never had enough money to stave off his voracious appetite, so he would descend upon my poor, innocent staples like a plague of ravenous locusts. Beer, macaroni and cheese, hot dogs; he showed no preference and no mercy. Now remember, this is the guy who resembled a giant ground sloth. He would poke that probiscus into the fridge and Hoover out anything that wasn’t bolted down. One time in particular; my sweetie had sent me a Betty Crocker Instant Brownie Mix box. I followed the directions dutifully, baking the mix in the box it came in, which magically turned into a brownie pan (how do they DO that?) and put them into the fridge to cool. By then it was oh-dark-thirty and I hit the books and before I knew it, time for lights-out. I dreamed about those freakin’ brownies all night. I lusted after them all day in class the following day, and at work afterwards. I walked in the front door that night with brownies on the brain. I went straight for that fridge like a shorthair on point, locked on to a big ringneck pheasant, opened it and……
No beer.
No brownies.
No Al.
The last beer bottle stood on it’s head in the overstuffed, overflowing wastebasket. Right next to the empty Magic Pan.
I stormed over to his side of the MH and knocked ( OK; pummelled) on the door. He opened it, blinking owlishly with his typical sh**-eating grin.
“Where are my brownies?” I shrieked hysterically.
“Brownies…….? Oh, yeah, yeah, I ate some. They were good” He added the last, as if that would somehow make me feel better; that they were good. That he’d ENJOYED them. And, some???? If he’d left me even one….
“I’ll bet they were, you freaking MORON! But then how would I know?”
The last, fairly dripping with sarcasm.
“Geez, you don’t have to get all bent out of shape.”
I mumbled something about his ancestors and primates having a common thread and stormed off to bed….

Al never did laundry in addition to never doing dishes or cleaning. Maybe he thought we had a maid. Well,if we did, I never saw her. Never doing laundry meant always having dirty clothes on and the guy could really be a total assault on your olfactory sensors when it got right down to it. In the summer, the guy was positively ripe. He did manage to shower on occasion, though. Eventually, we had to have a talk with him about his bad habits. We ended up dividing the fridge into three regions; woe to he who crossed the boundaries. Dave finally got pissed enough to divvy up the dishes (which were mostly his anyway) into three separate stacks. He could never have a bowl of cereal because all the bowls would be piled up by the sink with hard, crusty cereal glued to the edges like concrete and filled with clumps of lumpy, sour milk…all Al, eating our cereal. And to have cereal, one would have to wash the dishes first. I truly believe there was some devious, deep thinking behind this phenomenon.
The division of food and utensils seemed to work. Al eventually got a part-time job (finally!) to finance his junk-food monkey. This was a guy who could inhale a Super Size bag of Doritos and a gallon of milk at one sitting. This was OK, as long as they weren’t my Doritos. This festive ritual was observed time and time again by Yours Truly. He ended up buying paper plates and bowls with plastic silverware so he could avoid doing dishes. This was fine by us as well. It kept the flies down.

Dave, now this guy was a piece of work as well. He was not a slob by any means. He did dishes, did his laundry, and kept his space neat and tidy. Dave’s problem was twofold; first, he was a budding alcoholic. Second, he was insane.
Now, when I say “insane”, I mean he would do things that were just not right. Like, we’d be eating dinner at the all-you-can-eat buffet and some couple would walk in; Dave would make some lewd or otherwise inappropriate comment towards the Better Half of this couple at Public Address Volume which would naturally attract the Other Half’s attention, who naturally had biceps as big as my thigh….perhaps on his way home from the Nautilus club or killing tigers with his bare hands at the circus.……
I don’t know this guy….I’m just sitting here with him. Never seen him before in my life…honest. Please don’t kill me too…
There were some close calls. And then there was the driving. That was another reason I had to have my own car. A quarter of the time he was drunk. A quarter of the time he was reckless. The other half of the time he was drunk and reckless.
He found a new group of friends across town that were just like him, and began spending less and less time at the MH. This suited me just fine. His grades and attendance were starting to slip, and the writing was on the wall. Actually, the writing was on the fridge. One day I got home from work and found a note taped to the fridge saying he’d moved in with the cross-town boys; all his stuff was gone (including the dishes). Good riddance. I saw him occasionally at school (we were in different classes now), and remained on good terms, but I was relieved he had left. I eventually heard an (unconfirmed) rumor that he and a couple of his roomies had been expelled for having pot on campus. Whether true or not, I never saw him after that.

Later down the line, Dave’s spot on the sofa was taken by “Matt”. Matt was a curious individual; sort of a lanky, gangly, tall drink of water. He was OK at first; after a while he developed some peculiar peccadilloes that would chafe at me like a burr under my saddle. But at the time, he was a welcome relief from the insanity of Dave and the slothful sloppiness of Al. Matt drove an old, beat-up Ford F100 pickup. Though he was past the time of the Red Rocket, he became obsessed with my new ride, and eventually bought one of his own; a sky-blue Dart with twin scoops on the hood and a 318 that had seen better days. This motor later wound up in pieces in my living room(!), purpose of which unknown, for some mission which I don’t believe ever was accomplished. This was much too big of a project for a working student to embark upon. I have a sneaking suspicion that the mission involved having the resident Mopar King lend a hand in building the motor and put it all back together for him; I probably would have, but by that time we were barely on speaking terms. But the Mopar Net flings wide, and it’s not hard to envision why he would get caught in it, what with my car and magazines and all the stories and conversation. It’s said that the most sincerest form of flattery is imitation….we’ll just let it go at that.
Anyway, Matt and I would have long conversations late into the night involving Mopars and 340’s and good stuff like that. We actually made it down to the XXXX street I mentioned earlier in this story a few times. After pondering about the name of this street for weeks now, a name finally popped into my head; Peoria. I’m not sure if this is correct; but that’s the name that popped into my head so we’ll go with it.

Tulsa was not the way I’d envisioned it; Hicksville. It was different, to be sure. Yeah, the Okies were laid back, for sure. But they were cool, too. If you were into music and guitar (I was) Tulsa was a sort of back-alley Nashville with a whole sub-culture of budding musicians and such. You’d go to a guitar store to buy a pack of strings, or browse and drool, and some guy would walk in with his wife and kid and pick up a guitar and start picking and just blow you away. And I’d be thinking; this guy probably works in a factory and has an everyday mundane life with his family, and he could blow half my guitar heroes off the stage. And it was no big deal. The city was full of guys like that.
So it was with the car culture. Everyone was a shade tree mechanic. Hopping up cars was like baling hay to those people; they did it well and with little effort. And the interesting thing was, Tulsa was a Mopar Mecca back then. Oh, sure, you’d see your Bow Ties and your Found On the Road Dead’s, but what amazed me was the number of Mopars, and the pristine condition many of them were in. This became glaringly apparent the moment we hit Peoria on a Saturday night.

…Beyond the Palace, hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard // Girls comb their hair in rear-view mirrors and the boys try to look so hard…
Bruce Springsteen; Born To Run

This was Peoria on a Saturday night. Some of my mental snapshots; a Screaming Yellow ‘Cuda with it’s strobed black stripes speaking volumes without saying a word; no hood and dual 660’s stretching for the moon on the twin mountain peaks of a tunnel ram, dual velocity stacks perched on top as if to announce to the world that this was truly a King. A Plum Crazy hemi-powered rag top ‘Cuda that might dispute His Lordship. A dynamic duo consisting of an AAR ‘Cuda and a T/A Challenger parked nose-to-nose in a shallow Vee in a parking lot, their glass hoods propped up by 2 X 4’s and showing off their sets of triplet carbs like proud parents; both red, like two brothers, you could see the Mopar family resemblance; while the owners sipped liquid courage from long-neck bottles. The chrome. The smell of raw, unburned gasoline mingled with exhaust. The rumble and thunder. They would pace back and forth up and down this stretch of hot tarmac like a prowling pack of wild dogs, snarling and snapping at each other….. occasionally one would lunge at another, tires squealing, engine snarling and the acrid smell of burned rubber would sting your nostrils. Guys were shouting at each other through open windows and laughing, music was in the air. It was hot, it was Summertime in Tulsa, and Young America was on the prowl.
What was truly amazing was, there were no cops. At least, I saw none. These folks seemed to know how far to push it, and no further. I saw no fights, or anything like that, just a bunch of motorheads gathered together in a common cause steeped in Sun Super 260 100+ octane gasoline (yes, they were selling it there; at one of the gas stations on Peoria.) A big black Polara 440 rumbled down the street like an overgrown bodyguard, the big block barking out it’s deep rumbling thunder. Schools of Barracudas trolled up and down while Challengers sparkled and shone under the streetlights. There were Dusters, Darts and Demons. A white Super Bee with what appeared to be open headers would prowl up and down and then park by the T/A Brothers. After a little bit he’d get up and do it again. It was a magical place in a magical time. How could you see and experience this without being affected; without being infected?
Little wonder Matt bought the Dart.

Some chapters are like a good porno..

others are a good bedtime story for any motor head..

but like everyone has said already.. keep it coming, this is one heck of a good story.
:wav:

more more!

this is some of the best stuff. If there was a series of books like this, I would definetly be reading the whole series. And I hate reading

this is some of the best stuff. If there was a series of books like this, I would definetly be reading the whole series. And I hate reading
There might be, by the time I finish this :toothy7:

There might be, by the time I finish this :toothy7:

Not to pressure you, but we are all waiting.. :toothy7:

Patience, Grasshopper. The next installment is almost done.
There is a huge tug-o'-war going on between writing about times gone past, and the actual creation of Things Duster to be. Today.....you lose! :toothy7:

Chapter 9

But I’m getting ahead of myself……..We’ve jumped ahead to ’79 now, and the dial of the Wayback machine is still set for 1978. Come along Sherman, and follow Mr. Peabody back where we’re supposed to be….the fall of ’78.

You know this had to bug me; having a potent, yet oil-guzzling motor under the hood, while the heart and soul of the Red Rocket lay slumbering quietly in a storage unit. Yeah, it did. But I needed my car on a daily basis and with the new factory job I was working Saturdays as well. One-day engine swaps were not my forte.
So I, Dr. Frankenstein, carefully crafted a plan. I would have Dad drive down at Christmas break with the Jimmy and we’d haul the sleeping dragon back home with us; carefully, so as not to wake it.
I’d have 2 weeks to make the transition.
One of my teacher’s favorite sayings was “Plan your work, then work your plan.”
That’s how I planned it; that’s what I did.
But nothing ever goes quite the way you planned, does it?

All went well the first leg of the trip. We stopped in near St. Louis to see my uncle and stayed the night. Next morning, bright and early, we hit the road again. About two hours out of Chicago we ran into snow flurries, which began to get heavier and wetter as we approached the city bypass. Darkness was coming on early, aided by the heavy clouds and falling snow blocking out the sun like a dark cloak. By the time we’d passed the city it was coming down hard; wipers and defrost on “HIGH”. It was about then during one of my scans I noticed the ammeter needle on the wrong side of the gauge.
“Crap”, I thought; “less than an hour from home and I’m shedding electrons like a dog shedding fleas in a bathtub. I’ll cross my fingers, and maybe I can make it home…..”
No such luck, Bonzo.
First the wipers went; slowing down to the point where I just shut ‘em off. Then the defrost blower went. So now I’m driving through heavy, wet snow with no wipers or defrost, trying to follow Richard Petty in the GMC. I rolled down the window and was using my gloves inside and out to try to keep the snow off the outside and the fog off the inside…while driving. I made a valiant stab at it for a couple miles, but when the headlights started to go, I knew I was beaten.
Fortunately for me, Richard Petty noticed the headlights.
We were now about 45 minutes from being home free. Dad pulled off at the Lake Forest Oasis and parked. I pulled up next to him and the engine gave one last shuddering sigh, and then gave up the ghost, as the final electron in my ignition unit left the building.
There wasn’t much I could do. At least the car was in a well-lit parking lot off the highway. I grabbed a crescent wrench from the glove box, popped the hood, and yanked the battery. I figured if I charged it all night, I could probably make it home tomorrow without wipers or blower. I locked the doors and we drove on home. Besides, my fingers were totally wet, frozen and numb from wiper duty.

I was right, but just barely. The next day the front had passed, and it was brilliantly bright, without a cloud in the sky, and colder than a witches t*t. The car fired right up, all perky and rarin’ to go, and after about 2 miles I was beginning to feel like a Pop-Sicle. I didn’t dare run the heater blower, and without the fan, let me tell you, the heater in an A-body ain’t diddly-squat! I was actually sore from shivering. The car finally died at a stop sign two blocks from the house. Dad gave me a jump and I made it home; finally!

Dad had a spot cleaned out for me in the garage; the same spot where just a few months (seemed like an eternity) earlier, we’d survived Red WalrusFest/ Pearl Harbor. I would’ve liked to go visit some of my friends and all, but there was work to be done………

I knew the drill. The 4 X 4’s went in their usual place, and the Zebco 404 Drop-A-Motor winch was hanging from the chain. I think I had the motor out in less than two hours. I set it on a little four-wheeled dolly and wheeled it off into a corner like a dead man on a gurney, on his way to the morgue. I didn't have a sheet to cover it's face. The alternator was, of course, toast. I had to search high and low to find a rebuilt; all the local auto parts stores could order them, but had none in stock. There was a Farm & Fleet about 20 miles away that finally told me they had one over the phone….road trip! By the time I got back, it was cold, dark, and I wanted to see my girl. That was enough monkey business for my first day of “vacation”.

The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, the Frankenstein Motor was perched in it’s new home long before the sun had hit it’s zenith. I left the mounts loose for the exhaust; what to do about the exhaust? I wasn’t about to bolt up the HiPo manifolds to this motor!
But I was in sort of a pickle; I’d spent more than I’d planned on gas and that darn alternator. I still had Christmas shopping to do for my family, and for my girl as well. Headers weren’t really in the budget. And the Hedman’s I’d had previously had gone up in price considerably.
I sure as heck didn’t want to ask Mom; I hadn’t paid back the money I’d borrowed for the car yet. And Dad had spent a lot on gas, driving down to haul my motor up, and besides it was Christmas. I told my sweetie that night on the phone about my concerns; she said not to worry; that I would figure something out; I always did.
Well, who should show up next morning but Santa, looking suspiciously like the girl I’d spoken to the night before…..”Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!”……with a plain, unmarked box full of…….HEADERS!
She’d gone up to World Of Speed and knowing nothing other than “’72 Duster” and “340” had picked me up a set of Doug Thorleys. Now, that’s the kind of girl you hang on to! (I did.)
I marked the duals where the collectors would go and sawed ‘em off with a hacksaw, and bolted up the collectors; temporarily tying it all together with muffler clamps. Things were looking up.


The next ugly little problem to rear it’s head involved the radiator; remember, though this was a ’72 Duster, I had determined the motor to be of an earlier vintage. It was. And most of you who know Mopars know one of the changes instituted in ’72 was a higher-flow water pump with the hose on the other side, which required a different timing cover, and…..you know where this is going, right? I thought so.
“So”, you’re thinking, “just swap the timing cover and damper and water pump and be on your way……”
Right.
I started doing this. I had the timing cover off the “Valiant Little 318 That Could” and on the 340 before I had time to think about it. Easier done than said. I was getting set to bolt up the damper from the 318 when I saw the ominous mystic heiroglyphics scribed on the front of my 340 damper….”FOR USE WITH CAST 340 CRANK ONLY!!!!! This was not a kindly advisory or caution note; it meant business. What it meant, in a nutshell, was ONLY the damper from FrankenDuster could be used on the FrankenDuster motor. And the timing mark was in the wrong spot for this timing cover/water pump combo. Now I was stumped. Either go out and buy a different radiator
or……………..

I love mechanical problems. Especially when they kick your a**. You’re beaten, humiliated, and sent home in shame. And then you turn the tables…..
Such was the case. “What if”……I thought……”I reinstall the cast crank damper and realign the timing marks to the old-style timing cover using timing tape?”
Worked like a charm. Score one for the Captain.

The only issue left to deal with was the spark-box. I mentioned that the Mallory had been sent to the scrap heap by the accident. The 340 I’d just removed had a points-type distributor. The Valiant Little 318 That Could also had a points-type distributor. But I still had the original Chrysler electronic ignition from the Red Rocket when I’d installed the Mallory. On it went. This was too easy……
Time for the moment of truth. I’d burned up my first week of vacation and was into the second. I filled the pan with oil, the radiator with Prestone, crossed my fingers, and thumbed the key……..

As with the first time, it lit immediately.



Hello Old Friend, it’s really good to see you once again…..
Eric Clapton

Cold or not, I was in ecstasy. A few quick adjustments to timing, recheck the float height on the Holley and we were ready for a test-hop. Though it was cold with snow on the ground, the roads were clear and the sun was out. I slid in behind the wheel and eased her out of the garage and backed slowly into the street.
It was immediately apparent that there had been some changes. Gone was the “plays-well-with-others” friendly idle. Gone was the sloppy factory tranny linkage. Gone was the pleasant exhaust rumble, exchanged for a mean, lopey growl. The transplant was a success; Dr. Frankenstein was now an evil genius pariah, forever shunned by the world, and the long-slumbering beast was awake……and voraciously hungry. I motored casually through town, past the outskirts and out onto the open road.
“Psssst….pssst!” (in my ear) “……..wanna play around?”
It was the ghost of that pesky li’l red minx…..a phantom voice echoing from the past: a voice that had been eerily silent these past few months.
Go away.
She’d gotten me in enough trouble for one lifetime. Besides, this car didn’t seem, well, “minx-y”
Yet there it was.
I suppose I should tell you I behaved myself, driving like an elderly English gentleman out for a morning jaunt in his motorcar down by the white cliffs of Dover. What a great ending for a story, especially one to tell your children at bedtime! Bad boy builds fast car. Bad boy crashes fast car. Bad boy learns his lesson and drives like granny, until he’s as old as granny!



Get real.
I will admit my enthusiasm was and remains tempered by the Jibber-Jabber shaking I’d gotten about the time the li’l red minx made her untimely exit. Let’s just say I looked further down the road and was a bit more careful about where, when, and why. But you don’t keep a quarterhorse locked in a petting zoo. And like the “punk” said to Clint Eastwood, when asked the eternal question “……”Do I feel lucky today? Well….do ya…..punk?”
“I gots ta know!”
I found out. Real quick.
There was something different about this car, though. It was more of a….”gunslinger”, for lack of a better word.
It didn’t scream “Race me..I’m fast!” like the Red Rocket had.
It didn’t holler “Sheriff; I’m-a callin’ you out!”
No fancy cowhide vest with twin cross-draw holsters snuggling up to ornately engraved nickel plated .45’s with pearl handles, hundred-dollar boots with jangly silver spurs.
No, just an ordinary dusty cowhand with his well-worn holster, lackluster wood-handled .45 with the bluing worn down to shiny metal in all the right places. One who doesn’t talk much.
Ordinary.
But deadly.
And as I put my foot into it, I realized this one would put a bullet smack between your surprised, wide-as-saucer eyes before your fancy custom cross-draw muzzles ever cleared leather.
The Man who shot Liberty Valance…..John Wayne! I was driving John Wayne!

Man, I am addicted to this post :tongue9: . I never had so much fun reading at work :toothy7:

Congratulations CaptainKirk! I think you have effectively reduced this nation's productivity by at least 10%. LOL!

next chapter??

next chapter??
It's in the works! :wav:

It's in the works! :wav:

As my mother used to remind me..
"Rome Wasn't Built In One Day"
:wav:

ok ok i guess ill have to be patient!

Come on Cap, we need our fix!!! You don't want a bunch of Mopar gearheads going through withdrawal do you?? Keep up the story, it's still the best written automotive feature I've ever read, and believe me I've read thousands.

In-patiently waiting !!

Almost there, folks....I'll try to finish up the next chapter & post it tonight.
Can't thank you all enough for just enduring my drivel.....

We all really appreciate you writing your past for us. It definetly makes my day more interesting. I am checcking everyday, looking for the next chapter.

We all really appreciate you writing your past for us. It definetly makes my day more interesting. I am checcking everyday, looking for the next chapter.


Lmao, I think we all kinda look everyday for the updated chapter. the whole story is incredibly intriguing and im sure that if you read any of it you become hooked. Either 1. You've been down that road or 2. Its just a tantalizing story either way, and you became hooked.

Me myself, I check in the morning :coffee2: , at lunch, and when i come home.
I am addicted! :wav:

You guys are making me feel....delinquent? I'll try harder to get the next chapter finished, but you're really cutting into my "Family Time" with my Duster, ya know! LOL :happy4:

lol, you started it! we just got addicted..

Triggerjay

We're just a bunch of old dogs,waiten for you to through us another bone. Arf Arf!!

Chapter 10

Glory Days, well, they’ll pass you by//Glory days, in the wink of a young girl’s eye, Glory days………Bruce Springsteen, “Glory Days”

I’d finished with time to spare; a day, anyway. So I got to at least visit with a few friends for a bit. We met up at the old hangout; D***’s Coffee Shop to catch up on old times and for me to once again spin the tale of the li’l red minx and Two Beers and introduce John Wayne to the boys. The approval rating for John Wayne was about 50%; Bodyman Mike, of course was biased, as he’d done the stunning red paint on the Red Rocket. Who could blame him? We stayed up to the wee hours of the morning eating toasted pecan rolls and drinking coffee (which morphed to decaf sometime after midnight) and spinning tales, reminiscing about hot summer nights terrorizing the streets of Mudville and discussing our lives, our hopes and dreams, joking, and just plain shootin’ the bull. Little did we all know it would be sort of a last hurrah; never again would we find ourselves all together like this. By the time I got back from school a year later, our little group had scattered to the four winds; married, careers, raising families, dream cars parked and tarped or gone altogether, to make room for the Family Sedan and all American that goes with it. Not necessarily a bad thing, mind you, bartering your youth for the responsibility of adulthood, rather just a part of life that everyone eventually goes through (but at that time we were all blissfully unaware of it, though a few of my friends were already started on the journey.) Howard was already married with a baby girl, Dave as well. I would not see Dale, Bob, Mikey T. or Tom again; long since gone from Mudville to places unknown by the time I returned. But hell, we couldn’t know that as we sat there drinking the steaming hot cups of brew and snacking on TPRs. Life was good. These were our Glory Days.
We talked of Trans-Ams getting their clocks cleaned, clouds of smoke billowing off some nameless obscure guy’s red Duster’s tires and filling the restaurant with the pungent, acrid stench of burning rubber; of nervous, sweaty-palmed conversations with balding, rotund officers of the law, of wheel-hopping GTOs and tranny-busting Chevelles, yeah, we talked about all of that and more. And we said our Goodbyes with well-intentioned promises to keep in touch and do this again; soon.
We never did. Not like that.
….Glory Days, well, they’ll pass you by…..
So I loaded up The Duke and made the long trip back; this time without escort and all in one long haul (No stopping at my Uncle Jim’s this time). If you ask me, it was a rather ballsy move; driving a car that far that had just had an engine shoe-horned into it a few days earlier; but the trip was blissfully uneventful. I had complete faith in my own abilities and the condition of the car I was driving; this thing that I had created; perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I did; and so I just went on and did it.

Now we were out of the basics and really into the heavy-duty stuff in school. Between school and work, there was little time for anything else. Though the Tulsa winters were not really winters by Chicago standards, there wasn’t much to do except study (and read car magazines). School was going well for me, so-so for Dave, and terrible for Al…..he was on the verge of flunking out. Things between Dave and myself had deteriorated to the point where he moved out. Al found new hope through one of his counselors, who suggested he try NDT inspection instead of the course of study he was taking. He took to it like a duck to water. Like I said previously, he was actually a pretty sharp guy; he just had no mechanical skills. Given this new lease on life, he forged ahead, renewed.
With Dave gone, tensions eased up a bit between Al and myself. We’d laid the ground rules down and he knew pretty much not to eat my food or leave dirty dishes (he was still stuck on the paper plate thing, which, while it made for a lot of garbage, was OK by me. We had a pretty big dumpster right around the corner.) I was still struggling financially, though, and trying to find a way around it. One gets tired of Stokely/Van Camps Pork and Beans mingled with cut up hot dogs and melted cheese five nights a week rather quickly.
The answer came to me one Saturday at work. My supervisor was (again) complaining how another day guy had left and they needed another full-timer. I asked, just out of curiousity, how much the job paid; it was about double what I was bringing home due to the extra hours and the pay differential. And the lights came on. See, the school ran both day and night classes. If I could make the switch……
I did. And Lord, what a different world! The night school guys were, well…different. More mature, older. Married, family guys, guys with responsibilities, guys with more on their minds that floating off Mom & Dad’s dollars (or Uncle Sam’s V.A bennies). It was a new crowd; a new scene. And now I was a full-time day shift worker. Within 3 weeks I was a lead, then shift supervisor the following month. No more Van Camps, and at last I could actually save a little money!
It was in night school that I met “Matt”. He was a decent enough guy at first. His living arrangement wasn’t working out (I later was to discover why) and he assumed the sofa and a third of the rent. It sounded good at the time. About this time I also met up with “the boys”, also night students. The boys consisted of Jim, Lloyd and Dale, who had rented a house across town which became known as “The Homestead”. Now, The Homestead was famous for two things; Friday Night Post-Quiz parties and car-talk. All the guys at The Homestead were big-time motorheads. After working hard all week to study and pass the tests and quizzes on Fridays, what better way to end a successful week than having a few ( OK, a lot of ) beers and talking cars? Yeah, I couldn’t think of one either.
That’s what we did. Well, myself and Matt, we watched what we drank rather carefully as we had about a five-mile drive home. No repeats of MoPar Minx Mania for me, Thank You Very Much. We took turns being designated drivers long before we’d ever heard of such a thing. But now, the boys? Well, they lived there and had nowhere to drive. This is probably a good thing, as for the most part, these guys could barely navigate to the bathroom from the kitchen on a full head of steam (unlike myself and Matt, they didn’t have to drive home or work in the a.m.)…. I’m talking bouncing off the walls. But it was all in good fun. We talked motors and cars and school and blew off a lot of steam. Plus they had a really kickin’ stereo and neighbors that didn’t care. My, how we could work those speakers! The guys would get sh*t-faced and crank it up and start having these air-guitar contests (at least that’s what they’d call it now….back then it had no proper name, but I give Dale credit for inventing the whole Air Guitar phenomenon. Of course, being an axe-swinger myself, I sorta had an edge on the guys, and being a bit less, shall we say, “inebriated”, helped as well. Of course, there was the occasional Friday night “Air Jam” when Matt was Designated Hitter and I didn’t have to work next morning. I usually won those rare times by theatrics alone……me and Captain Jack, that is. Ooooooh….my head hurts just thinking about it. Dale was trying like hell to outdo me one of those nights and had ended this Ronnie Montrose “solo” on his knees, head flung back as if barking at the moon, with his eyes squinched closed…..then he lurched up and careened off the hallway walls like they were bumpers in some grotesque pinball machine, down to the Porcelain Temple (TILT!) where he paid homage to some “Ralph” guy…at least we think he did. He kept on repeating the guy’s name over and over…. “RALPH! this, and RALPH! that…. Lloyd was laughing so hard he sprayed a mouthful of beer everywhere in a huge Budweiser shower. Lloyd, Mr. “Barracuda”, the one true die-hard MoPar fanatic in the bunch beside myself. Bud foam clinging to his beard, the entire kitchen looking like a pipe bomb had detonated inside a keg. Lloyd was a big guy. Beer was dripping off the hardwood cabinets as if we were exploring deep in the bowels of a cave somewhere…… “Tom Sawyer” came to mind, halfway expecting to see Injun Joe lurking around the corner….. I’ve never regretted not having to clean up that kitchen in the morning.
Back down the hall, the homage to RALPH! had stopped and had been replaced by weak “urking” noises and the sound of a flushing toilet….after a bit, the bathroom door hinges creaked briefly, followed by the sounds of shuffling feet and of Dale’s bedroom door closing, and he was seen no more that night. We didn’t have the heart to bother him to tell him he’d won the contest for “Best Original Finish”……that could wait ‘til Monday.
But, we were talking cars, were we not? There was a guy-I’m not sure of the relationship with the boys-who had a nice Chevy II parked in the garage of the Homestead. I think the guy lived there sometimes, or maybe even owned the house….but I only saw him a few times. Martin, his name was. Anyway, this Chevy II had a real trick custom paint job with all kinds of overlapping colored lines and geometric shapes on a bright yellow basecoat, and a big rectangular hole cut smack in the middle of the hood with a couple 660 Holleys poking out from atop a tunnel ram. It had a roller cam…I forget the specs now…..and chrome Hooker Pro Race fenderwell headers (open, naturally) and the one or two times Martin fired it up in that garage, the noise was absolutely deafening. One night after a few beers Martin wanted to “show us something” so we all went out in the garage…….he shut the lights off and fired this sucker up and showed us these 12-inch rooster tails of blue flame barbequeing the garage floor…..too cool! I never saw him drive it, though. Matter of fact, the car had no plates. I rather think he might have bought it on a whim. But that dog would bark, let me assure you!
Dale, now he had a Gutless…I mean, Cutlass, faded red with a 350 Olds motor. He did some work to it….put a cam in it, Edelbrock manifold with a 600 Holley. Thing was, he didn’t know what the funny little toothpaste tube of cam lube was for so he chucked it in the gravel. He found out after about 1000 miles. Then he put another cam in it, this time with judicious use of the toothpaste, and it ran pretty strong for an otherwise-stock motor. He had a huge flat spot in the acceleration curve, and we fine-tuned those secondaries to where he’d chirp ‘em every time in second when he romped on it.
Lloyd had left his ’66 Barracuda back in California, but had brought plenty of pictures. I swear he wrote love letters back home to the thing. It was a bit rough, as all our rides were, but he sure loved that car! He drove around a little yellow MG that was a scream. One time for a kick, we got six or seven guys in the school parking lot and picked it up where it sat between two cars and turned it sideways, then went back inside to watch. The look on his face was priceless, but he kept his cool…..he turned on the stereo and kicked back and waited for the guys at either end to leave, then simply fired it up and drove off. One cool cat. He knew it was us that did it and gave us crap for weeks! With his scraggly red beard, Lloyd was a dead-ringer for Clint Eastwood in “The Outlaw Josie Wales”….only bigger.
Jim was a sandy-haired, freckly sort of guy who loved cars, especially muscle cars, but didn’t own one….he just admired from a distance. Jerry, one of my buddies from Mudville, had come down to T-Town to begin flight training as a professional pilot and brought along his ’72 Cowl Induction Chevelle and his sense of humor; he joined in with us and fit right in! All in all, we had plenty to talk about at the Homestead on Friday nights, believe me you!

lol, you started it! we just got addicted..

Triggerjay
I did......didn't I?
BTW....that car of yours.....you didn't happen to find it in a Tulsa boneyard, did you?!!!

Thank you,thank you. Now I can go to bed. Next installment?

No, the car was bought new in 71 by my father...But I am only about 2 1/2 hours from tulsa.....Keep it coming!!

Triggerjay

Thank you,thank you. Now I can go to bed. Next installment?
PU-LEEEASE!!! Give me a break!
(It's so NICE to be wanted!)
I haven't even started the next chapter yet. You guys are killing me!

:coffee2: Next up.......... :happy1: ...........Chapter 11. Let's get with the program there Cap'n! :director:

:coffee2: Next up.......... :happy1: ...........Chapter 11. Let's get with the program there Cap'n! :director:
You guys are ruining my whole summer making me slave over a hot keyboard! LOL

aaaahhh! I just got my fix for the day :sleepy3: Take your time, a nice long story of interest is much better than a rushed story. Thanks again :thumbup:

Just kiddin ya Cap'n. Take your time. It gives us all something,to look forward to.BTW,it's been worth the wait,so far.

I can't believe how many of you guys are viewing this thread! I guess I better get busy, huh?
What happens when I run out of "story"? Would you still read it if I started making it up? :homework:

Hopefully by the time ur done someone else decides to write their mopar story. But like they said, take ur time. We know you have other things going on in your life. I think that we can all relate to one part or another, so we just get a little excited sometimes. You should contact one of the mopar mags when its done a nd see if they will print it. Im sure they would shorten it or break it down into installments. Either way you should give it a shot!! :thumbup:

I think that we would all still read it if it was made up, just do not tell us that it was. Just keep on writing...let us assume that it is true :lurk:

I think that we would all still read it if it was made up, just do not tell us that it was. Just keep on writing...let us assume that it is true :lurk:
No....this IS all true. But one only has one Life Story to tell, and I was wondering what to do when I got to the end..........

OHHHHHHH.....I wouldn't rush to the end of your Life Story if I were you!! :hiding:

Great story I am hooked, but chapter 10 was a bit depressing, but this is a true story after all isn't it?

I can't believe how many of you guys are viewing this thread! I guess I better get busy, huh?
What happens when I run out of "story"? Would you still read it if I started making it up? :homework:

How about you finish out the true story,then maybe you can start working on fiction If you can make up as good a story,as the real one,I'll read it. Relax,and have a cup on me. :coffee2: :salute:

I can't believe how many of you guys are viewing this thread!
You've had 2400+ views on the thread already!

Great story I am hooked, but chapter 10 was a bit depressing, but this is a true story after all isn't it?
Depressing? Why? Just curious.........

I was depressed when the red minx was wrecked. But hey, that's what good writing is all about, being able to invoke emotion.

Theres been so many ups and downs.. quite the slalom of emotions in this story i will concord that i was a little into the story and was sad with the minxs' demise, But depressed is too strong a word a more appropriate thing would be .. heart wrench and completely turned up side down in a single moment. and i couldnt sleep.. but when i did i awoke in a sweat.!
depressed is too strong i think.

Its been a few days since I looked at the web site, and then I find this thread - too cool.

Cap'n - All I can say is: WOW ! What a great story, you should turn this into a short story, and see if someone would publish it. Brings back lots of memories, I grew up around the same time as you in the chgo area, I had mopars too, but nothing as hot as your duster(s).

What do you drive now?

Keep it coming ! BTW Im still in the western suburbs of chgo.

What do you drive now?



We're getting to that........ :headbang:

Depressing? Why? Just curious.........

The reality that we all grow up and move on and life is a series of ups and downs As I re-read chapter 10 I realized you were just telling us about the great memories you have, not dwelling on the fact its was the last time you had been together. The last chapter really reminds of the movie Stand By Me. keep it coming!! Here a couple quotes that made me realize I am getting older and thats depressing

Little did we all know it would be sort of a last hurrah; never again would we find ourselves all together like this.

the time I got back from school a year later, our little group had scattered to the four winds; married, careers, raising families, dream cars parked and tarped or gone altogether, to make room for the Family Sedan and all American that goes with it.

Here a couple quotes that made me realize I am getting older and thats depressing
That's the beauty of it, man...Getting older doesn't NEED to be depressing. Roll with it; go with the flow. Just because you're older does NOT mean you have to trade in your dreams for a walker and a warm spot by the fireplace....bear with me on this one and you will feel Happy Thoughts once again!! See, this thing is in the blood and can be repressed, but it's always there!
Stick with me, man, and I'll prove it........ :headbang:

"Shakin' the bush, Boss, Shakin' the bush............"
Paul Newman, "Cool Hand Luke"

Chapter 11


Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months. We got used to the patterns of school, even though each month was a different subject; different problems, the approach was the same. Mondays, new topic. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, drill it into our heads. Friday, quiz. Last Friday of the month, final exam. The days, though daylight was still fairly short, in themselves were long. 6 a.m., up, shower and quick breakfast. Into the Duke-mobile and off to work; start work 7 a.m. Work ‘til 3:00, back to the Duke-mobile and drive like hell across town to school. Start school 4 p.m. School until 11 p.m. Drive home to MHP. Eat dinner, study. Rinse, lather and repeat. It wasn’t exactly easy, but I got used to it. Saturday nights and Sundays were about the only times I had to play with The Duke, so most of the things I did improvement-wise were small. I did a lot of reading car rags and dreaming on weekends. As the days grew longer and warmer, we started going to Peoria Street, as previously mentioned.
The spring of ’79 dawned like a breath of fresh air. We were into a well-oiled routine at school, and were clicking off the classes the way your odometer clicks off miles on a long trip; when you’re finished, you gape open-mouthed with surprise at the mileage you’ve racked up and shake your head in wonder. As I mentioned previously, Matt moved in. He bought the Dart and turned the motor into the Land Of Many Small Pieces which found their way into our living room (?!!!) Imagine sitting on your sofa in the living room and turning to set your beer on the end table and finding…..a 318 block? Once you’ve taken a couple pulls off your beer, it will stand up just fine in the lifter galley. (Just as long as the fluid level does not exceed the angle of the dangle). Trust me on this one.
It also works well for holding Doritos and bean dip, as well. Things you didn’t know……
And probably don’t ever care to.
One of the biggest changes to come with the robins of spring was a new job; actually working in the field I was training for. Somehow or other I managed to get Matt a job with me; this was probably the beginning of the unraveling of our friendship, as he rode to school and work with me in The Duke, and like a tick on your leg, once you know it’s there, it begins to annoy the living hell out of you. Such was Matt; a veritable tick of a guy. I’m a fairly easy-going person. It takes quite a bit of effort to annoy me. Matt put more than a little effort into the task, and by the time I left T-town we were barely on speaking terms. Fact of the matter was, I never even said goodbye to the sorry S.O.B. and I’ll get to that part later; as it happened. Just suffice to say he began to annoy the living crap outta me, much more so than Al ever could have. We’ll leave it at that for now.
Spring brought other changes as well; for one, it meant the completion of the second phase of school. See, in order to take your first FAA exam, you had to have completed “General” with a passing grade, then either “Airframe” or “Powerplant”. This would allow you to take the FAA exam for the respective course. In my case, it was “Powerplant”. So in the spring of ’79 I finished up powerplant and went down to the local FAA office and took the exam. Results; passing, 98%. Shortly thereafter, I received my official FAA certificate in the mail; an Oh-Fishull FAA Aircraft Powerplant license. This was what opened the door for my new job.
This was Big Medicine. Although, in T-Town, licensed mechanics were a dime-a dozen. T-Town was a veritable A&P mill; flooding the local area with legions of aircraft mechanics of varied (and questionable) skill levels.
It landed me the job, anyway.
With a new job under my belt, and 2/3rds of the educational process down, I began to pick up speed and confidence.
Enter “Airframe”.
Powerplant had been a piece of cake……a motor is a motor is a motor…..be it 340 cube V8 or a 7, 9, 18 or 36 cylinder radial, sporting a pressurized carb and a rotary axial-flow supercharger, or even a turbine engine. Yeah, there were differences, but the MoPar-minded individual could deal with them. Pistons still went up and down, and valves still opened via cam lobes and whatever magic joo-joo went along with it. Turbines was a step off the “norm” path, but the concepts were all the same.
It was “flight controls”and aircraft welding, and the like that took a stretch of the MoPar Imagination to grasp.
But I did……and well.

:cheers: :salute: :supz: have a cup :coffee2: and keep it coming!!

Gee Cap, after aircraft repair, Mopars should be a walk in the park for you.. lol. Keep the story coming, I'm all ears. Or eyes I suppose.

I am getting worried, captain...where are you?

I am getting worried, captain...where are you?

prolli drawing another map :thumbup: .. but i am kinda wondering this too!

I'm alive & well, boys......just slowly working on the next installment. Should have some juicy tidbits for ya over the weekend. Hang tight!

captain i cant stop reading your storys! keep em coming at whatever speed that suits you!

Chapter 12

There’s something to be said for triumph in the face of adversary. Let’s face it; the powerplant stuff had been a snap for me, compared to some of my classmates. I’d been a motorhead long before this particular chapter of life had come along. I believe scientists will someday identify a motorhead gene on the DNA “spiral staircase” Double Helix of Life. My mom tells stories of me as a little kid following the neighbor around his back yard with the power mower making “bbbbbrrrrrr” noises with my mouth…see, my Dad had one of those reel-type push mowers. I knew where the action was. Even then the allure of a single-piston Briggs & Stratton thumping up and down had me mesmerized. By the time I was five I was taking sh*t apart and trying to figure out how to put it back together. I can just see about 50% of you readers grinning like a Cheshire cat, ‘cause you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, don’cha? Yeah, you do. You’ve got the gene too. For the rest of you going “What the bloody hell is he talking about…….?” Just read the story and forget I even mentioned it, OK? (wink, wink)
I took apart my American Flyer train. I took apart anything I could drag home out of the garbage. By the time I was nine I’d built a bike out of scrap-heap parts and painted it a deep, pleasant forest-green, constructed in the cool, damp confines of Dad’s basement workshop. Dad’s shop was the coolest place on earth (with the exception of Uncle Andy’s farm.) It was cool, even on the hottest summer days, and had a pleasant, dampish smell; not musty, like a dank dark cave, but rather a pleasant, earthy kind of smell. Dad had this plethora of heavy metal drawers full of nuts, bolts, washers; you name it, it was there. And there was every tool that Ward’s Powr-Kraft had ever made, I swear! It was the perfect place to incubate a young, developing motorling-cub and I took full advantage of it. Plus, there was the added advantage that mom & dad let me roam free in there….as long as I didn’t hurt myself, or break or lose any tools. The rules were pretty cut and dried.
Now, back to the bike; I sanded and rattle-canned the rusty old rims a bright, glossy Rustoleum White ( mainly because that was the only color there in the shop), long before this was considered cool, and shortly thereafter had the coolest (and fastest) Stingray on the block. I felt like a pint-sized James Dean….or Steve McQueen. This bike reeked badass!
And then on Bodyman Mike’s birthday, his mom & dad took us to see this movie……. Evel Knievel.
And so we started in with the jumping.


The jumping began innocently enough; first we built a simple ramp, probably about a foot tall; enough to jump a single garbage can laid on it’s side. We had a dogleg back road leading up to this field. The ramp was a straight run off the straight part of the dogleg, so we could get a good running start on the road leading up to this field, which would then dogleg right. We would continue straight, up the ramp, and jump into the field. The soft grass of the field would allow us to land and provide cushion in the case of a mishap, or botched landing…….(not that we would ever need it.)
Actually, the first couple of attempts went fairly well. Once we had developed a sense of balance and learned to keep the front end up, it became easier and easier to gain altitude and distance. One garbage can graduated to two, and the ramp angle increased as the height grew to two feet, then three. The jumps extended to 6 feet, then seven, and beyond. And this began to separate the men from the boys (well, the younger boys from the older boys, anyway). The first one to ball it up was Danny P., Mike’s younger brother. He caught a handlebar in the gut, bent a wheel and went home crying. Donny was the next casualty, loosening a tooth and giving himself a black eye in the process. The smaller kids went home, and the table stakes went up.
By this time it was impossible to land on your seat, banana seat or not, sitting down. The correct procedure was to stand up as you launched, lock your down-pedal knee, and flip the rear of the bike sideways, landing on the rear wheel and using your knees as the shock absorbers. Those of us remaining became pretty proficient at doing this and would spend hours practicing in the back field, after the road traffic had died down for the evening. We had a pretty good thing going until Billy came along.
Billy was an older neighborhood kid who was, shall we say, “special”. He talked like the cat had his tongue, (actually, as if the cat had eaten part of his tongue) and possessed all the intelligence of a dirty wooden tent stake. Being “special”, he was treated differently by people and as a result was used to getting his way; in actuality he was a bit of a bully because of it. So when Billy came around and discovered us jumping our ramp, he immediately insisted on giving it a whirl and would not take “no” for an answer, when we tried to talk him out of it, insisting that he, too, “Biwwy”, would “Dump Wamp”.
Have at it, Billy.
Well, there we were, with our custom Stingray-type 20” bikes and a couple hundred jumps under our belts, and here was Billy the Bully, with nary a jump under his belt on this huge Schwinn bike. Face it; the kid could barely ride a straight line. He rode all the way down to the very end of the street and came barreling towards our rickety little ramp, legs flailing wildly and the bike wobbling back and forth like some bizarre circus act, resembling a praying mantis on steroids. It was much too painful too watch, and far too entertaining not to.
Houston, we have a problem.
The Eagle has landed……on his head.
We were in stitches. We were rolling on the ground in gales of laughter while Billy flailed around like a fish on a dock hooked to a ….bicycle? If we’d had a video camera, I’d be living off the royalties yet today. Billy flailing around, blood gushing from his bloody nose and shrieking unintelligible “special” words in that language only a mother could translate. His front wheel was bent over almost double, spokes poking out like a chrome cactus. His handlebars were skewed at an absurd angle, and he was pissed. Wet hornet pissed. Billy was pissed at us and our ramp. And the fact that we were howling and shrieking with laughter didn’t help…much.
He finally got untangled from the mangled wreckage and began chasing us around in a Benny Hill sort of fashion. When he couldn’t catch us he turned his fury toward the ramp that had struck the blow of indignity, then onto Mike’s garbage cans after making kindling of the ramp. We rode away, leaving him to his destructive ranting, and our ramp-jumping days were over. But we had all learned a little bit about chance, about daring, about pushing the envelope. About free flight, baby. And we kinda liked it.

Captainkirk, It's been 6 days since the last chapter, I figured I'd be the one this time bugging you about the next chapter. O:)

I second that request. I've been reading this at work since I found it. Great story Captain. I wonder if you're an avid reader of Stephen King. He begins some of his Parts of books with lyrics from songs too. Or maybe it's Koontz, I read em both.

Keep it coming. :read:

[QUOTE= I wonder if you're an avid reader of Stephen King. He begins some of his Parts of books with lyrics from songs too. [/QUOTE]

Guilty as charged!
Gee, has it really been six days? Try to be patient; I'm working away at it slow but sure. I hate to leave you guys in the lurch, but no chapter gets posted until it's ready.....
Summer "free time" is hard to come by.
Glad to know you're still reading tho............ :hiding:

Chapter 13

School was hard, but we were all getting quite used to it by now. And with 6 months to go, there was light at the end of the tunnel. We were able to gauge, pretty well by now, the delicate balance between work, study and play. The other motorheads and I spent lots of our spare time in the motor boneyards, bargain-shopping, and in the huge discount auto warehouse across town. I can’t remember the name of it. Some Saturday nights we’d go down to Peoria street and just breathe in the atmosphere of American Muscle. Other nights we’d take up a collection, fill up the tank of whomever’s ship we happened to be crewing that night, and prowl up and down Pine like swashbuckling pirates looking for a stray Z/28 or something of that sort to pounce on. Occasionally, we’d see a couple nice cars at the A&W and we’d pull in and just shoot the sh*t for an hour or so……any conversation about any car was a Good Thing. But truthfully, the majority of our time was spent hitting the books and staring at the light at the end of the tunnel.
One of my newer school buddies was Steve; Steve had a sky blue ’74 Dart with a 360/auto that he just loved to romp on. Steve was a true, dyed-in-the-wool Mopar fanatic. We had many deep conversations over a cold one about Mopar history; the guy was a walking dictionary. He was able to tell me quite a bit about my Dusters, One and Two, that I never knew. He had the VIN decoders and gave me a little insight as to where my car was built, what year, options, and helped confirm the fact that the original engine was not the one I’d bought the car with. He was a Good ‘Ol Kansas boy, and went back to his hometown after school. We all meant to keep in touch, but then, well…..you know the rest.
I found the new job fascinating. I was working for an aircraft crankcase and cylinder repair outfit in Tulsa. My job was to strip, degrease and ZyGlo inspect the crankcases for cracks (Ultraviolet dye-penetrant inspection) and in a very short time, I got quite good at it. I learned quite a bit about the construction of the engines I would later be working on for a living by doing this as well. I learned where the stress points were, where the cases normally cracked, and this helped me in later years find cracks on engines that normally might have been missed or overlooked. This job would carry me through to the end of school.
Now, I mentioned that I’d managed to get “Matt” a job with me. He got hired as a cylinder repairman; his job was to grind the cracked areas of the aluminum cylinder heads for the welders to repair. The process was to use a pneumatic grinder with a rotary burr; they would dip the burr in wax to keep the aluminum from clogging up the teeth on the burr. What this also made was one hell of a mess on the floor. Matt would stand in this crap all day, then hop in my car to ride home after work. If I go out in my garage right now, I can pick wax and aluminum chips out of my carpet. I repeatedly asked Matt to clean his shoes before he got in the car, take ‘em off, or use a floor mat. He chose None Of The Above. And so was born the beginning of a huge rift that would have us on non-speaking terms before the end of school.
…….that, and the fact that the guy just plain got on my nerves. You try to be yourself….and it kinda freaks you out when somebody else tries to be you, too. It got to the point where I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without this guy inviting himself and tagging along. Now, they say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, but….
Oh, who the hell cares what they say! The guy was irritating; plain and simple. The boys at the Homestead began calling him “Shadow”. He never caught on, but I certainly did.
Now, when Matt “drug home” the Dart and took the motor apart and put it in the living room, that was really about the last straw. I couldn’t really ask him to move his junk out, because, after all, the living room was his “space” and he paid rent. The parts were all degreased and all, and nicely laid out like a dinner table set for the Queen Mother, everything neatly lined up in rows like fine silverware on a napkin. And I had boxes of car stuff in my room….but, the living room? Methinks he went just a wee bit too far. Besides, asking him to move his crap out meant having to speak to him, to communicate, and by now most of our communication was transmitted via grunts and gestures…..
“Working Saturday?”
Mmmmmph.
“Can I catch a ride with you?”
Evil eye. Scowl. Squint and a nod.
“Ok, then….I’ll ride with you……if you don’t mind.”
If I don’t mind. If I don’t mind……”Say, you mind if I borrow your spleen on Monday?”
I’ll make sure to jimmy up the pax door latch and go around a corner real fast, Matt.
Well, OK, it wasn’t always that bad. But my patience was wearing thin. Say, did you know that the distributor hole in a Mopar smallblock is just the right size to lovingly cradle a can of beer? I do, and I have Matt to thank for it.

After Billy and the jumping fiasco, I was once again seduced by the siren song of the lowly Briggs and Stratton….on a mini bike. I always wanted a mini bike….and Dad always wanted me not to have one. Dad always won…..go figure. I had the hots for this little Rupp mini bike because it looked like an honest-to-gosh motorcyle (to me, anyway). I sent off for a catalogue and when it arrived a few weeks later, I tore open the manila envelope with trembling hands, and there lay the mother lode…the whole lineup of Rupp (“Live it Rupp!” screamed the tagline on the catalogue) mini bikes in full glossy color; the stuff dreams were made of! I slept with the damn thing under my pillow until it was crumpled and dog-eared. I don’t remember exactly which model I fell in love with, but when I anxiously showed my parents, hoping against all odds that they, too would be stricken by the agile beauty of this tiny, sensuous, metal-flake minx, they both calmly said “No” and went on to explain why not with a thousand reasons which I never heard because I wasn’t listening anymore.
I was crushed. But there is, as we all know, more than one way to skin a cat. If you can’t own a mini bike, make friends with someone who can…..
I’d had this thing about motorcycles for some time. They made noise. They went without pedaling. They spewed noxious fumes and pissed off old grandma-ladies and various assorted house pets. Evel Knievel rode one. And my cousin David (who was about the coolest dude I’d ever laid eyes on) had one. It was a Honda single, probably a CL-70 or something on that order. He’d let me ride it around the machine shed at Uncle Andy’s farm. I was too short to put my feet on the ground, so David took the seat off and let me ride. Around and around….I never wanted to stop! I didn’t know how to shift the gears, but who cared! I was riding a real motorcycle! And that’s something you don’t just walk away from……..
So I made some new friends. It started out with a family who used to live down the block but had moved out “to the country”; a farm with land you could roam, and a horse that kicked the living snot out of any kid that came near it. They called the horse “L.D”. Hell, we all called the horse L.D…. because that’s what his name was. It wasn’t until a year or so later that out of curiosity I asked why they called the horse “L.D”. and Kevin, the younger brother, explained that “L.D”. referred to a description of the measurement of a particular appendage, which we will not discuss here. After that, I always referred to L.D. as “that horse”, when I referred to him at all.
But I digress….the major attraction of the farm was that both Kevin and his brother had gotten mini bikes for Christmas. No, not Rupp mini bikes (“Live it Rupp”!) but mini bikes just the same. And as long as we could find gas (or “hock it” out of the tractor) we were good to go.
All that summer I spent as much time at their place riding the mini bikes as I could. But like Lisa in “Green Acres”, the farming life was not for them either, so they moved back to town.
I’m not going to attempt to recall every mini bike or motorcycle I ever rode; suffice it to say, if the opportunity arose I took it. I was fascinated by every aspect of motorcycles and motors in general; but mystified by the black magic that went on from within. Bicycles I understood, having built one from nothing but a handful of old parts. Motors were a different subject. They oozed mystique and whispered tales of speed and adrenaline rushes. I knew I would own a motorcycle of my own someday, but with the advent of pimples and pitchy voices I suddenly began to start paying attention to cars.

Hey Cap, you out there?? We need our fix.. lol. Don't be like Stephen King and make us wait years for the next installment!!

Been a while... Can't wait till the next one...


Triggerjay

Hey Cap, you out there?? We need our fix.. lol. Don't be like Stephen King and make us wait years for the next installment!!
Sorry.....this has been an absolutely miserable week. I'll try to get something posted ASAP. Thanx for hanging in there...........

Sorry it's been a bad week for you - we'll try to be patient.

Hey Cap, you out there?? We need our fix.. lol. Don't be like Stephen King and make us wait years for the next installment!!
If I had Stephen King's money, you'd have a new chapter every day LOL!
Almost done with the next installment despite life's little speed bumps........

Hey Cap, I sure understand about those unexpected speedbumps that life throws you. I've had more than a few but am still alive and causing mischief much to the consternation of those who pray fervently for my ruination.. lol. Being a nice Irish boy myself I'll let you in on a little secret.. I'm sure you've heard of the fabled luck of the Irish. Well believe me, it's just a fable. Hope things have straightened up for you, and we're all looking forward to the next installment.

Hey Cap, I sure understand about those unexpected speedbumps that life throws you. I've had more than a few but am still alive and causing mischief much to the consternation of those who pray fervently for my ruination.. lol. Being a nice Irish boy myself I'll let you in on a little secret.. I'm sure you've heard of the fabled luck of the Irish. Well believe me, it's just a fable. Hope things have straightened up for you, and we're all looking forward to the next installment.


And I thought the cloud of crap just landed on me this past week. Must have been a huge cloud. Hopefully this week is better for us all. Just found out the Dart I bought was seriously misrepresented on Ebay and I probably overpaid by a large sum. Next time I'll have to remember to bring an adjustable mirror to read the engine stamp before handing over cash. :pain10:

Well, I wasn't really finished with this chapter, but you guys are making me feel bad, so I'll give you what I've got.....enjoy!

……I’ve got a Hot Rod Heart //Got a one way ticket to the open road, c’mon //Got a redline engine and I’m rarin’ to go, put the pedal to the metal, if you wanna ride, if you wanna ride, let’s go!
John Fogerty, “Hot Rod Heart”


Two things happened that really piqued my interest. First, two guys moved in across the street with built machines; one a Chevy II with a built 327 and a tunnel ram. This got my attention, like, immediately. The other was a Mach 1 Mustang. I think it was a 351 Cleveland, but I’m sorta foggy on the details. The second, and biggest eye-opener was my cousin (well, I’ll call him that; he was a relative on my dad’s side and called Dad “Uncle”) coming to town, unannounced and just showing up on our doorstep, like stray dog. None of us knew him from Adam, but we all took an instant liking to him; he was a likable kind of guy. He had just moved to town to be the manager of a tire store and had found us in the phone book….our last name was not exactly “Smith” and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to make the connection…….
Anyway, Steve had this car…….it was a ’68 or ’69 AMX, 390 four speed, painted pink of all things with a huge mural of the Pink Panther on both sides and “Pink Panther” graphics…all hand-painted by some incredible auto-artist; very professional looking, and to me, very cool.
Steve, in addition to being a nice guy, was also a drag racing fanatic. Being both, he offered to take me and my little brother along up to the Lake Geneva drag strip. You didn’t need to ask me twice! Here it was that I got my first whiff of nitro-fuel, got to walk with Steve in and around the pit area, and feel the Heavy Metal Thunder of Pro Street motors rattle and buzz my teeth and rock me to the very depths of my soul. I was in absolute awe of these machines, being 14 and not yet driving. We sat in the stands and watched Steve race; in total awe of this 11-second AMX we had just driven up here in(!!!), with little more changes than throwing on a pair of slicks and a few tweaks of the Holley perched atop the manifold. I was instantly smitten with the little pink vixen and became an instant muscle car nut and AMC fanatic. (Think about this the next time you have the opportunity to reach out to a kid with your own car.) Here were two people; Steve and cousin David, who had let me ride the little Honda around the machine shed, who had no idea the profound impact their simple acts of generousity would have on a kid.
We probably went with Steve to the strip 3 or four times in all, each trip indelibly etching my mind with unforgettable sights and sounds and smells and vibes. After those trips, I would lay awake in bed at night, tossing and turning, replaying the races under the hot summer sun in my mind’s eye and hearing once again the rumble of cast iron thunder; smelling the bleach and rubber and hot asphalt and feeling that excited squirm in my guts as the adrenaline began to flow when the pink missile would launch, clenching my fists and yelling “Go, Go, GOOO!” at the Pink Panther and beaming with pride when he’d win the heat. (“Hey, that’s my cousin!”)I would restlessly toss and turn under the sheets, unable to sleep, with my senses in full swing as the day would unfold over and over in my head; like a song you just can’t ditch, burned deep in your brain’s CD drive on a permanent loop.
It was still all magic to me; this motor stuff. I watched intently and listened with my full attention to Steve and the other guys talk; I learned to discern the mild rumble of a street machine from the lumpy loping idle of a hi-lift roller cam; the crackle and pop of a nitro-fueled rail spitting two-foot blue rooster tails from open headers from the throaty roar of a Z/28 with dual Thrush’s, and the athsmatic, wheezing whine of a blown, nitro-fueled motor from the moaning whoooosh of a Rat motor sucking open the secondaries on a Q-Jet. I hungered for the knowledge, the expertise of these guys; to know what made these awe-inspiring Goliaths tick; and what made one tick better than the next. And somewhere, during one of those sleepless, tossing-and-turning nights, I decided that I would have to find out. It called to me, beckoned me…..a muscle motor Siren’s song.
A trip to the library fixed me up in short order…..several books about cars and opened some mental doors that had been previously shut. Slowly, the mechanics of the automobile began to reveal themselves….with the exception of the “black magic” of the motor. This was beyond my grasping of the Simple Contexts. But as summer waned to fall, and a new era began, (that of High School), I was bound and determined to crack the code.

There was this “Thing” in high school, called “prerequisite”…..translation; you can’t take that until you take this”. And so it was for auto shop. You had to be a junior and have taken (and passed) Industrial Arts. OK; where do I sign up?
Industrial Arts started off innocently enough with “Drafting”. Drafting was interesting, but not very exciting. The next course to come down the road was “Woods”. This was more like it. Using sharp, dangerous and potentially deadly power tools was most definitely OK in my book…..I learned what a lot of the big stuff in Dad’s shop could really do, like routers and table saws, and put it to use, building a gun cabinet and other useful gadgets. Then came “Metals”. Suddenly I was getting close to the Holy Grail. I was using lathes, mills, and then gas and arc welding. Next came “Power Mechanics”. I had no idea what this was supposed to be…perhaps electricity? (power?)

The first day of power mechanics found us in a small classroom full of…..could it be….Briggs and Strattons?!!!!!!!! Row upon row of used and abused thumpers begging to be disassembled! I took notes and listened attentively to the lectures like a P.I. on a murder case, while most of the other students napped or spaced out. (You have to understand, spacing out was a frequent occurance during the seventies.) It was like, Week Two, after covering cylinders and pistons, moving on to camshafts and cam timing, that the light finally came on and the Great Shroud Of Mystery was lifted. It was like a miracle healing. Suddenly, I understood! What was once black magic, Mumbo Jumbo, and Jibber Jabber suddenly clicked and made sense. We were given these pitiful Briggs motors to dissect and reassemble like so many biology frogs. The other three guys in my group could care less, frankly; it was interfering in their nap time, so I wrested control of the Briggs away from them and disassembled it by myself in minute detail, then slowly reassembled it like Michaelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I couldn’t wait to hear it run!

Man oh Man, you're making me remember quite a bit of my mis-spent youth with this story Cap. I remember tearing apart my first derelict briggs and stratton when I was about 12. Grandpa gave it to me to play with, and it was a learning experience in how to actually use those shiny wrenches and sockets and how things fit together. It never ran again of course, but I'll always remember my first engine teardown. And my first busted knuckle.. lol.

Man oh Man, you're making me remember quite a bit of my mis-spent youth with this story Cap. I remember tearing apart my first derelict briggs and stratton when I was about 12. Grandpa gave it to me to play with, and it was a learning experience in how to actually use those shiny wrenches and sockets and how things fit together. It never ran again of course, but I'll always remember my first engine teardown. And my first busted knuckle.. lol.


.......And you said you didn't have any stories to tell....... :toothy7:

I am waiting rather impatiently for your first installment. :homework:

Hang tight- next installment coming soon!

Hang tight- next installment coming soon!

:happy1: I'm ready Cap'n :drinkers: Bring it on,my beers gettin hot,and the corn's gettin cold.

Fate is fickle. After reassembling the entire motor (practically all by myself) and dreaming of the day I could light it off, the instructor just gaped at me, slack-jawed, when I asked when we got to run the motors. Then he laughed. “Oh, no,no,no, we don’t run these things……. We can’t use gasoline in a school!”
Right. And auto shop was down at the end of the hall, where everyone and their brothers were working on cars chock-full of leaded premium.
I was crestfallen. I’d wanted to hear that thumper pop soooo bad.
And then, as usual, Dad pulled off one of his zingers.
I swear the guy was a freakin’ mind-reader. Only a few weeks after this disappointment, he comes home from work with not one, but two motors; big honkin’ cast-iron block Wisconsin side-shaft engines, one a seven horse and the other an eight horse. Seems somebody at his job had run the eight horse out of oil, and the seven just wouldn’t start or run. He handed me the two motors with a repair/overhaul manual and basically said “Have fun!”
Boy, did I ever!
I ripped into those things like a monkey on a cupcake. I tore them down to bare nuts and bolts, taking care to make lots of notes, funky diagrams and cryptic pictures and to keep the parts from the two engines separate from each other. One thing was clearly and painfully obvious; the eight horse motor was junk; scrap iron. As soon as I opened it up I noticed the sharp, pungent odor of scorched motor oil; a smell I’ve never forgotten. The crank was actually fractured and the rod was welded to the crank journal. It was the first time I’d ever seen blue cylinder walls, looking almost case-hardened with a magical rainbow of different hues. This one was toast, all right. The seven horse turned out to be a horse of a different color…..(no pun intended. Well, OK, I did intend it)…the flywheel key was sheared, setting the timing off by 20 degrees or more. As long as I had it apart, I went through every aspect the manual offered, measuring, inspecting, and reassembling by the book; torqueing and checking everything as I went. Dad sprung for a new gasket set, and in a few days it was back together…knock on wood. I still remember filling it up with Havoline oil from the garage. (Dad was a big Texaco/Havoline fan) and how nauseating that Havoline smelled. Man, that stuff smelled horrible; like dead fish in a garbage can or something! I still won’t use it today. I’ve morphed into a big Castrol fan, myself. Anyway, I hauled this big old (heavy!) motor out to the garage and bolted it to a pallet, fabricated a pull-rope from a length of clothesline, tied a knot in one end and looped it around a sawed-off hunk of broomstick. I poured about a cup of gas into the tank from the lawn mower gas can (Dad had upgraded to a power mower by this time; the 20th Century had arrived!) , wrapped my homemade pull rope around the sheave, crossed my finger and pulled. Nothing. Lots of compression, though! Again, and nothing. Hmmm. This was not supposed to be the way things worked. Again. again, and again. Nary a pop. Maybe it needs a bit of choke?
POP, POP, POP! And then it was roaring, full throttle, farting and backfiring…..I eased off the choke and it settled into a rhythm; surge, tip in the governor, throttle itself back, then surge again. Over and over! It was running, and I had made it run. I had dissected the damn frog and brought it back to life! It was a magical moment; to be cherished, dreamed about, remembered……..”SHUT THAT DARN THING OFF!” came the shouts from the house. Oops. I guess I had gotten a bit carried away………
The motor was pinging and ticking as it cooled, the smell of scorched paint and fresh baking Permatex mingled with the nauseating smell of Havoline on my hands and clothes and the ripe, rich fumes of fuel-laden burned exhaust that stung my eyes. My ears rang like a five-alarm fire. The Seven Wonders of the World had just unfolded in front of my eyes; if I was a chick, I would’ve cried. But I wasn’t a chick, thank God, so I did what any other motor-mad misfit would do…….I fired it up again. (duh!)
“WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THAT THING OFF!” Oops. Sorry!
There was no turning back from here, you see. I was in way too deep to save at this point and I knew it.

…At the dark end of this bar, what a Beautiful Wreck you are//When you’ve gone too far, what a Beautiful Wreck you are//What a Beautiful, such a Beautiful, what a Beautiful Wreck youuuu are…
Shawn Mullins, “Beautiful Wreck”

Now, I s’pose if you’re a kid, the coolest thing your Pop can do for you is give you a car to play with. Well, nothing doing; not in my family, at least. I was still several years away from my license anyway.
The next coolest thing he could do is give you a motorcycle. And when he dragged home this wrecked Honda CL350, you coulda knocked me over with a feather. Not like in, “Here’s a brand-new, shiny motorcycle for you, son”, but rather “See what you can do with this wreck”.
And what a beautiful wreck it was. Some guy had T-boned a car with it. The fork tubes were bent. The frame was bent and buckled. The front wheel was a pretzel. The lower motor mount lugs were broken off the cases. But on the bright side, it was only two years old! Dad had traded a Motorola short-wave radio for it.
Well, there’s no way I could’ve done it myself. Dad gave me free rein to take the thing apart, though. Like, here’s your project, now go to it. I got the motor off; he took it and the broken lugs to a welding shop, had them TIG welded back on and re-drilled. Next he found a junk frame. I got to remove every nut, bolt and widget from the old frame and transfer it over to the new frame, starting with the complete wiring harness. Now, I couldn’t have managed any of this without the Oh-fishull Honda Shop Manual, painfully translated from Japanese to English and full of such exuberant euphemisms such as “Upper seat cover don’t attached”. Dad got a hell of a kick out of that one. Anyway, as the winter dragged on into spring and it became much more enjoyable working when you could feel your fingertips, things began to come together. Dad found a couple of used fork tubes to replace the bent ones. He brought the tank and side covers in to the basement workshop and made that his pet project, sanding, priming, and applying a really cool looking green candy-apple metalflake paint, highlighted by his own hand-pinstripe job. (OK, it was tape; but it looked really good). He found a serviceable front wheel, and we gave it new shoes; on/off road tires; semi-knobbies. By the first of June that year, it was ready to rock.
I was so excited, I could’ve pee’d my pants. I remember we had some trouble getting it to fire, and when it finally did, it needed some fine tuning, but within a couple of days it was ready for a test hop. I took it out on the front lawn, fired it up, and pulled in the clutch. I snicked ‘er down out of neutral and noticed with smug satisfaction that the green neutral light was out. I rolled on the power and eased out the clutch……..
Just about that time, the throttle cable stuck WFO and I did my first wheelie, in front of a crowd, no less! The bike heaved me off like a dog shaking off a flea, and lurched to a halt on it’s side like a mortally wounded buffalo. It embarrassed the hell out of me, but pride notwithstanding, the only damage done was some overturned turf and a bent turn signal. I could feel my cheeks burning like hot branding irons as I slunk back to the garage dragging my wounded Japanese buffalo.
After a brief autopsy, it was discovered that one of the two throttle cables had been damaged and badly kinked in the T-bone accident. So, Dad went up and bought a new cable assembly and I had it back on in a jiffy. The next day, I tried it again, not feeling near as smug as the day before, and this time it went well. Soon I was cruising up and down the street, until Dad hollered at me to get it off the road without a license. No problem. Flushed with success, I asked if I could take it over to The Field. He nodded his OK, followed by “Be careful!”
Now, The Field was a bunch of vacant land with an abandoned railroad bed running through the middle of it. Somebody must’ve owned it, perhaps the railroad, but we neither knew nor cared. The rails and ties had all been removed years earlier, leaving behind a rail bed-sized swath of pea gravel running down the middle of hills and grassy fields. Now, you weren’t supposed to ride motorized vehicles on this path, but this was The Field, and we were in Mudsville, and we pretty much did whatever the hell we wanted.
I pushed the bike over to the Field, mindful that Dad was watching to make sure I didn’t ride on the street again. When I got to the field, I fired it up and took off down the trail. I thought I’d died and went to heaven! This was my own bike and I could ride it as much as I wanted! Never mind the fact it was heavy, and far from an Mxer; it was a bike and it was mine and I was riding it and just you try and stop me. Yeee-hah! I rode that evening until the sun had slunk below the horizon, a huge, red rubber ball in a sea of violet and it was too dark to see. I pushed it home hearing the crickets chirping, mosquitos dive-bombing any uncovered inch of flesh, smelling the hot engine smells and raw gasoline and thinking that it didn’t get much better than this. And I rode just about every night after that; all summer long. Rain or shine, dry or muddy, I tore up the trails and made new ones of my own, learning to jump the lumbering beast and not do a Billy, fishtailing through mud holes and sending up huge rooster tails of mud in the summer breeze. I beat the hell out of that bike, flogging it relentlessly and taking a few spills in the process, but I kept it clean and well-maintained, changing the oil regularly (yuck…Havoline…gross!) and keeping the chain and sprockets lubed and adjusted. That year was the Summer Of Honda. My buddy Dave bought an XL125, Howard had his DR125 and we would ride until it was dark, every single day that we could! None of us wore helmets or protective gear, which was pretty stupid now that I think about it, but we were just untamed horses running free on open range and no cowpoke was gonna put his lasso around us!
The one thing that did take the wind out of our sails some was the Great Arab Embargo of 1973. Gasoline jumped to $.50 cents a gallon! (gasp!) IF you could get it. I remember the cars lined up down the street and around the corner, the signs on the pumps blaring out their shocking news in hastily-scrawled magic marker signs; “NO GAS!”. No Shit! Look at the lines down the street and tell me something I don’t know. Now, I plead guilty to hocking gas from the mower, but it didn’t really hold all that much; a gallon at best. So we rode when we could the rest of the summer until things slowly returned to normal, school began, and the fun was done for the season.

Well I have followed this story aside from vacations and my normal life, I look forward to hearing the memories of another moparinians youth. I was hoping more was posted as I wrecked my Valiant the other day,will need new front drivers fender and hood as well as drivers side grill for my 67. any leads would be appreciated
keep it up
Bruce

ahh i miss my yz125

so fun so funn

Thanx for the feedback, guys. Ya know, it's worthless to write if nobody reads it. Hope you're enjoying Life in Mudsville.
Ya know, there are still YZs for sale out there, Cerwin. Life begins Today.

Thanx for the feedback, guys. Ya know, it's worthless to write if nobody reads it. .

:hello2: Keep it coming Cap'n. Over 4200 looks,I think you've got some readers out here. :thumblef:

Stay tuned....next chapter almost finished! :toothy7:

Good, that gives me something to look forward to!!

:glasses9: The readin glasses are on, :happy1: the corn is popped, :coffee2: and the coffee is made. Bring it on,Cap'n.

They've moved me........maybe they're trying to tell me something? :toothy7:
Next chapter almost ready to post....maybe tomorrow night?

Chapter 16

…….Meanwhile, back at the ranch……..
School labored on, and we with it. The light at the end of the tunnel grew larger, and brighter. It looked as if I was actually gonna make it. By late August I was four classes from finishing. I was talking with some of the guys from school and one of them mentioned “doubling up”. I responded by asking him what the hell he was talking about. He explained, that in some cases, students with a B or better GPA were allowed to “double up”; to do one class on the day shift and one on the evening shift! This was terribly intriguing as, if they would allow me to do this for the next two months, I could be home by Christmas! I had enough in my bank account to live on for two months. My sweetie and I had talked often about getting married once I’d finished school. Maybe, if I could pull this off, we wouldn’t have to wait until spring…….
So, I sat down with my counselor, and gave him the scoop. He cautioned me that it would be extremely hard, and that if my grades dropped in either class below a B the deal was off; plus, he’d have to get administrative approval. Well, for those of you younger readers who don’t feel that grades matter much, here’s an example to prove you wrong. I got the green light to start up in September, and so gave my notice at my job and excitedly called my girl and gave her the news; she was thrilled!
Was it easy? Hell no. But it was a challenge, and I loved challenges.
I dug into this one like I’d dug into the Duster. And I pulled it off. I’d planned my work, then worked my plan. My other classmates thought I was nuts. Why would I want to double the work load, quit my job (loss of income) and rush back home to get married, when I could kick back and skate?
Let’s just say I had my reasons; one of which involved trying to get a job before most of the small airports were buried under a foot of Chicago snow and were sending people home instead of hiring.
So early that November, I proudly received my diploma, two months ahead of the rest of my class. My class photo was shot with a bunch of people I barely knew….the guys I’d worked and studied and hung out with for so long still had several months left to go. Including Matt. Now, one Saturday morning just after graduation, I was home packing while Matt was at work. I made myself a bowl of Cheerios and a cup of java and sat down at the kitchen table; a rarity in those times. Usually it was grab a Pop-Tart on the run and wedge it down your craw as you were driving to; a) work, or b) class (as in the last couple months.) There were plenty of Pop-Tart crumbs on the floor of my Duster, and no doubt there was filling and/or frosting on the Hurst T-handle. Anyway, here I was, relishing a rare quiet moment, when the morning sun, which had been lurking behind some morning clouds, popped forth like a jack-in-the-box; (Pop Goes the Weasel!) and shone forth in all it’s radiant glory, streaming in the kitchen window over the sink and warming my back; fall was a wonderful season in Okie land, and……What the hell……..?
A quarter-sized sunbeam danced upon my bowl of Cheerios, like the spotlight in some Mousie Floor Show. I stared at it, watching it dance; mystified. I waited in vain for the little mousies to come out dancing with their little canes and hats, but no dice. The sunlight must be reflecting off a mirror outside, or something; you know how it does that with, say, a wristwatch. Many a cat I’ve driven to the brink of insanity by simply flicking my wrist back and forth while they madly pursued the sunbeam across the carpeting, vainly trying to kill it with their paws, always (mystically) just out of reach. I looked around, like that cat, trying to locate the errant sunbeam and it’s reflective source, but couldn’t find it. Then, slowly, I looked up. And as oft-times happens when you gaze at the heavens, things come into focus. But not usually like this……..
A quarter-sized hole in the roof let the sun shine in, right above the kitchen table. Perhaps this was why the kitchen light no longer worked, and not a bad bulb as I’d first assumed? This was totally bizarre; how did a hole get there? How long had it been there? And how was this going to affect my security deposit?
Al came home from school in the early afternoon and was as baffled as I was. The mystery didn’t get solved until that night when Matt got home from school. When we asked him about our Mousie Spotlight, his cheeks turned the color of my first Duster, and he spilled the beans….He’d bought himself a shotgun, unbeknownst to us, had been cleaning it at the kitchen table and forgot to remove one of the rifled slugs…the one in the chamber.
Now, I must confess, at this point I seriously pondered which would be the most effective way to remove him from the gene pool; strangulation, blunt trauma to the head, or the simple, effective merciful placement of a steak knife. In the end, I just shook my head and went off to bed mumbling and shaking my head in disbelief, thanking the Lord that the muzzle had been pointing up, rather than left or right, towards either bedroom.

That was the last exchange of words I had with Matt; ever. The straw that broke the camel’s back. I resumed packing the next day, as Dad was coming down one last time with the Jimmy to haul everything back home. I spent the next couple days unzipping the skirt of the trailer (it was OK to call it a trailer now; I was leaving) and hauling out all the Duster parts I’d stashed under there.I hauled ‘em off to a boneyard and took what they gave me for them; I think fifteen bucks. I had no time and no leverage to bargain. Everything was packed and ready to go, just waiting for Dad to show. I said my Goodbyes to Al; despite all our troubles he was really a decent guy at heart and I wished him the best of luck. I never said jack shit to Matt; the weasel that he was.

After Dad arrived, we loaded all the stuff we could into the Jimmy and my Duster. We had a late lunch at the Pines restaurant and headed out. I left without saying anything to Broom Hilda and forfeiting my security deposit; I’m sure the damage to the trailer roof and the kitchen wiring was more than the sum of my deposit. I left that for Matt to settle up with; after all, it was his fault. We got a late afternoon start on the road, heading for St. Louis and Uncle Jim’s. It was dark by 5:00 pm and we drove on in darkness, a tiny wagon train heading for gold country. By darkness that evening I was already in trouble; it had been a very late night, followed by an early morning and I was driving behind Mario Andretti on a two-lane highway threading my way through the inky darkness trying to keep up with two tiny pinpricks of red when the first wave of exhaustion swept over me. The droning rumble of the engine thrumming through my body and soul didn’t help matters; the heat was on defrost and the warm air swirled around my head, making matters worse.
Initially, it was OK; I shook off the first wave and pressed on. But the second wave sorta snuck up on me, and I jerked back to consciousness just as the front wheel touched the gravel on the shoulder. I could just pull over, but Mario would probably not even notice until I was twenty miles behind him. Feeling a twinge of alarm, I hunched forward and dropped the hammer. The Duster leapt forward, eager for a scuffle, and I took a bead on those tiny red dots and just rolled it on. Holy crap! I was pushing ninety and didn’t seem to be catching up at all! How fast was he going, anyway? To make matters worse, my eyes were burning, watering, begging me to close them, if only for a second. I shut off the heat and rolled down the window, letting the cold night air blast my face. I popped in “Frampton Comes Alive!” and cranked the volume, hoping to fight off this invisible enemy. Still, my eyes screamed for sleep. And the cold air was making them water. Every time I blinked, they wanted to stay shut. This wasn’t working. Now I was pushing one hundred and finally the dots began to grow a bit larger. I had to roll up the window to shut off the firehose in my eyes. I found them closing once again and I slapped myself on the cheeks and started pinching my leg like some lewd office pervert to keep from going out again. I felt like I was seconds away from “lights out, game over”. Then I got an idea. I began stomping on the bright switch, on, off, on, off, over and over, and finally I saw the brake lights come on like the appearing of angels or something; Mario Andretti slowed and pulled over. I got out and told Dad I was on the verge of being the next Oklahoma traffic fatality, and could he please find a restaurant, truck stop, fire hydrant, anything with coffee….soon! Fortunately, there was one less than ten miles down the road.
Now normally, I drink my coffee black, but I was dumping in as much sugar as I could tolerate to get my energy level up. I think I had four steaming mugs of java within twenty minutes; I was so jacked by the time we left I was babbling like the village idiot. I also filled my empty Thermos, just in case. I didn’t need it; I was wide awake all the way to East St. Louis, and for quite some time after we got there!

keep it comin'

i have to say that everytime i read a piece of the pie im affraid of blinking and missing something, it is such an overwhelming desire to read it all in one massive gulp that my eyes get so dry like a desert and begin to burn but leak like a broken faucet in a cheap motel.

its great. im hooked
:wav:


Cerwin

Yeah......what's really cool is, when I go back and re-read what I've written, I can't believe I actually wrote it. Life is stranger than fiction! :toothy7:

The sugar in the coffee part of the last installment reminds me of finals week in college. I worked full time selling auto parts in the evenings and went to school full time in the morning and early afternoon and there was just never enough time to study until the finals freight train was about to run over me. My roomie and I would always end up at the local Jolly Pirate Doughnut shop that stayed open all night eating sugar doughnuts and drinking from their bottomless cup of extra-strong black coffee. I took one 8am final during which my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely write. Not to mention the racing thoughts from the extreme caffiene buzz.. lol. Between coffee and the old Jolt Cola (remember them? Their slogan was "All the sugar and TWICE the caffiene") I always seemed to make it through and actually managed to get pretty decent grades. Ah, the things we did when we were young.....If I drank that much coffee and cola today I'd probably have a heart attack!! Not to mention a burst bladder.

...........and you said you had no stories to tell! Bring 'em on!

That's twice now you've goaded me to write something, one of these days soon when I'm done working on the God-forsaken house I live in I'm going to take you up on it.. and THEN you'll be sorry!!!

.. and THEN you'll be sorry!!!

Oh, I don't THINK so.....I've got a four month head start on ya!LOL \\:D/

Rust Never Sleeps

….It’s better to burn out; rust never sleeps…….
Neil Young, Hey Hey, My My

I’d beaten my friend Dave to the punch; he’d been working his tail off at the local Ace Hardware to buy a motorcycle. He came running up to me down the halls of Mudville High all full of piss and vinegar to tell me that he was going to the Honda shop that evening to buy a motorcycle; would I like to come along? Of course, being best buds and all, he wanted me to help him out loading it, etc, etc. But part of it (more than a little) was, of course, to rub my nose in it. See, there was this covert, unspoken competition between us each; we were each bound and determined to get a motorcycle before the other one (so we could rub the other’s nose in it, natch, and prove ourselves superior to the other). This is rather on the order of one dog marking a tree in another’s territory. Now, I’d been busting a gut trying not to tell Dave I had a (slightly bent) motorcycle in the garage already. But I knew that he knew that I didn’t have enough saved, and I knew that he knew that he did, and was going to try to trump me by getting a bike first, ( he’d been talking about it for days) so I’d gone mum the whole week about it, just waiting to blow his Grand Trump…a trump of a trump, if you will.
It was spectacular; shooting him down in flames! When he told me about getting his bike, with a vicious, cruel gleam in his eye, I told him sure, I’d go help him. What are buds for? Besides, I needed to order some parts for my bike tonight, anyway.
You’d think I told him he had polio, or a terminal disease or something, the way his face fell. It was spectacular. Of course, he immediately called me a liar and demanded to know what bike I was talking about. He knew I didn’t have a bike. How could I, and remain silent? And so the floodgates burst and I spewed forth excitedly everything I’d been sitting on quietly (and most unbearably) for the last couple of weeks. He promptly reclaimed his place at the top of the heap by reminding me that my bike was not rideable and his was brand new….Touche’. But I’d gotten my digs in at least, anyway!

So, I went with him. I must admit, my (slightly bent) 350 didn’t seem quite as cool next to all those shiny, new bikes, especially in the condition it was in at the present time. Dave was buying a brand-new Honda XL125, red tank with new-style vented fuel cap, upswept black pipe, serrated aluminum enduro pegs, trials-type handlebar crossbrace and semi-knobbies on the wheels, quite an upgrade from the SL125’s we were used to seeing around The Field. Sure, I was green with envy; who wouldn’t be? But I managed to hide it and stay cool, and found a couple Elsinores (remember them?) to drool over; a 125 and the Mother Of All MX bikes, the Elsinore 250. Tall, silver, slim; I was in love. Oh well, maybe someday!
So Dave got his Honda, we all got to ride it and that really added the fuel to the fire for my winter bike project, which I’ve all ready covered in avid detail…..which led, of course to the Glorious Summer of Honda…but we covered that.



Now when we’d gotten to Uncle Jim’s, me being all jacked up on coffee and sugar and all, it was pretty late, but we were ravenous. So Uncle Jim went out and bought a box of Church’s Fried Chicken (which, at the time, I’d never had before) and we ate until I thought we were gonna puke or pop. Fortunately we did neither. What we did do (well, at least, speaking for myself) was sleep well. Nothing like a half a box of chicken to switch off the lights; despite the sugar/coffee cocktails I’d had earlier. We all slept in the next morning….no need to rush this time, as it was a one-way trip. Uncle Jim had a big house with a swimming pool and this huge St. Bernard in the back yard, and a dark metallic blue AMC Matador station wagon in the driveway (presumably to haul this monster-dog around in; Jim had no wife or kids). Jim was a high school teacher; theatre his forte, and all the kids just loved him, from all accounts. He was hysterically funny, friendly, with an incredible sense of humor and seemed much younger than the mid-forties he was. He loved Santana and The Beatles, which made him extra cool to the younger nieces and nephews. Jim was a rather large man, who loved to eat as much as he loved life…and that was a lot. He walked with a very pronounced limp due to a severe accident he’d had in his ’67 Corvette (see; told you he was cool!) that had left one leg pretty badly mangled. Anyway, back to the Matador: the car was a behemoth, rather like the dog it was chosen to haul around. Full size, big 304 V8 with factory brushed aluminum mag wheels; for a wagon, it looked pretty cool. It fit Jim’s image and demeanor. Anyway, we bid Uncle Jim goodbye after a huge breakfast of pancakes, sausage, bacon and O.J. and motored on our way, having no clue that, in less than a year, Jim would succumb to a massive heart attack in the parking lot outside his favorite restaurant, following a triumphant celebration after a brilliant rendition of a play his theatre class had put on at the high school; with his friends, fellow teachers and students helplessly milling around trying to save him, to no avail. Ahhh, if we only knew some of life’s dark mysteries. Little did I know that this was the last time I’d see Jim alive, that I’d come to own that Matador wagon with the mag wheels, and that I would later christen my firstborn Christopher James after this great guy. Maybe it’s better that we don’t know………

Along with the motorcycles, sophomore year at Mudville High also ushered in new things mechanical; Metal Shop II, in which I learned to use lathes, mills, and do gas and arc welding. After a while, I learned to wear the same old T-shirt under my shirt, so when it came to gas welding, I could doff the regular shirt and have the torch backflashing merrily away, blowing tiny meteors of molten metal onto the same old perforated, holey T-shirt. (we didn’t have such niceties as flashback arrestors back then; you wore goggles and learned to duck). This way I only ruined one T-shirt at a time, until it was so full of holes it went to the garage for grease rags and I would start on a fresh one. I also took Woods II, where I further learned the mysterious dark secrets and incantations of Power Tools (Watch that; it’ll take your fingers clean off!). I built a gun rack; it turned out fairly nice, if I do say so myself. Sophomore year also introduced me to Howard (that motor-dropping son-of-a-biscuit maker!) who had a Yamaha DT125 and became one of my best friends through my high school years. I still yearned for auto shop, but you had to be a Junior for that, as I mentioned previously, so I continued my self-educational process on my own.
Dad had bought this car; a ’68 AMC Javelin with a 290 V8. Now, for those of you who know anything about AMC motors, they are basically all the same; 290 through 401 used the same block; just bigger pie-holes. I knew the 290 was a rather lethargic engine, but I had plans. (This is the way a sixteen year-old thinks; his dad buys a car and HE has plans for it! Go figure.). It was pretty cool; metal-flake blue with buckets and a console shift. I envisioned this car (after I would purchase it from my Dad at some ridiculously low price, of course, like….free?) with a bored-to-the-max 290, hi-comp pistons, huge roller cam, aluminum hi-rise intake topped off with a big Holley (like a cherry on top!) and a street/strip shift kit in the trans; a true blood-brother to Cousin Steve’s pink AMX! I did my homework diligently; I researched all the high-perf. info available to me (which at the time, without the use of the not-yet-invented internet, wasn’t much, frankly) and had all the goodies picked out in my mind’s eye. This would be a 12-second car; at least- maybe less!

At least, that is, until, my sister Jill (who had just gotten her license), drove it into a farm road ditch and mortally wounded a fence post. We were visiting my aunt downstate and Dad let Jill take it for a spin. The damage wasn’t that bad; the hood got bent and the grille cracked and the radiator and water pump became kissin’ cousins; skewered like a cast-iron shish-kabob. Dad got it fixed and runable with a re-cored radiator so we could get it home, but there was still the hood/grille issue. He straightened it out, Bondo’d and primed it, but it kinda spoiled the looks of the car, which, prior to this, had really been pretty cherry.
So, I’d been reading my automotive repair books; learning by the day. Dad had to go overseas on a business trip for a month or so, and Jill seized the opportunity to try to right the wrong. She asked me if I could paint the hood if she paid for materials. I was game; I’d been reading about this kinda stuff. I borrowed a compressor and paint gun from Howard (that motor-droppin’ son-of-a-gun). Jill bought all the paint and materials. We pulled the hood, sanded and prepped it, and shot it on some plastic sheeting in the driveway one fine afternoon. I followed the instructions to a “T” and consequently used, I believe, too much air pressure at the gun (45psi) so the paint finish came out a bit rough, but I did OK for my first time painting, and with metal flake at that! I took the grille off and glued the broken plastic with 2-part (Holds Two Tons!!!!) epoxy. When it was finished you could barely notice the repairs, even when you knew where to look. When Dad got back, he was surprised to say the least; even a bit moved, I think, that his kids would think to do something like that. I had taken the opportunity to install the optional instrument cluster he’d bought from a boneyard as well; it replaced the speedo/gas gauge with a sport package cluster with speedo/tach and a much smaller gas gauge. It looked pretty tuff, and now it had a tach so I could really wail on it (after I learned to drive) and I think he was rather pleased.


The trip home gave me plenty of time to think. I figured it was like this; we could wait to get married in the spring, per the original plan, or just jump in, once I’d found a job. In the end, we just jumped. Surprisingly enough, I found a job on the second week I was back. That was the good news. The bad news was, the job was paying less than the factory job I’d left over a year earlier to go to school. It also paid less then the last job I had in Tulsa. But I knew I had to pay my dues, and beggars can’t be choosers, so I took it. Right away, I knew this was something I could do for the rest of my career. It had intrigue, romance, and mystique built in. And I happened to be working with several guys who were willing to show me the ropes. I listened, I learned. I also asked a hell of a lot of questions. They say the only stupid question is the one that goes unasked. I won’t go that far, as some of the questions I asked were stupid whether I asked them or not, but never mind that. Long story short; we got married, found a little apartment, and I went to work each day like a real live working stiff. My job was not quite an hour away; maybe 50 minutes if traffic was decent, and driving to work was a real pleasure when you’re behind the wheel of The Duke. There was the usual rush-hour congestion in the towns, but there were stretches of highway that were relatively congestion-free where I could open it up if I felt like it. I felt like it a lot. My major budding concern was the salt on the roads. The Illinois D.O.T. must have some kind of a deal worked out with the new car dealers; We’ll dump tons upon tons of salt on the roads so that any new car will be utterly destroyed within a ten year period, if you’ll give us a kickback for every new car you sell. Rarely does a car last ten years in the Chicago area without showing major rust damage. I was determined to keep my Okie car as rust-free as possible. Okies don’t use salt……they believe salt belongs on pork or on the kitchen table. (I concur….people around here oughta learn how to freakin’ drive instead of crying for the Bad White Stuff to go away. People who can’t drive in snow shouldn’t). Once a week it was down to the car wash. On days when there was snow, slush or salt on the roads, I tried to drive my wife’s car as often as possible. I knew the winters would take a toll on my Duster, so I began to plan ahead. Step One would be to prime and undercoat the car over the summer…like the Red Rocket. Step Two would be to repair the tiny rust areas (!!!) that were beginning to show around the taillights. As luck would have it, we found a house for rent 3 miles from the airport at which I worked, which would spare me the salt and highway miles (though I’d miss my morning romps) with a 2-car garage, no less! Things were falling into place!
The next unexpected (and unwanted) surprise was Uncle Jim’s untimely death. Dad went to the estate sale (it was his little brother, after all) and wound up with a bunch of furniture and stuff and the Matador wagon, which he gave to us. I promptly pulled the Duster into one side of that two car garage and parked it for the duration of the winter and began working on the rust around the taillights….to hell with Step One! The car was running fine; no need to mess with the motor. I’d decided to prep and prime The Duke over the summer and shoot it a candy apple red with white stripes, ever since I’d seen this gorgeous Camaro on Peoria Street one time….it had remained stuck in my memory like a chicken bone lodged in my throat. Over the summer, I began the bodywork in earnest. There were several areas where the paint was bubbling with rust underneath. I attacked these with a vengeance and soon had all the trouble areas taken care of. I had to patch a couple of quarter-sized rust holes around the taillights….Rust Never Sleeps in the Land Of Lincoln….but I’d caught it in time and made short work of it. I spent the early part of summer pulling the front fenders off, priming and undercoating them, and reinstalling them.(Fun with Shims And Washers!) I also undercoated the problem areas forward of the doors (where salt likes to hitch-hike and hang out). I planned on taking my weeks’ vacation and shooting the car in August.

I'd like to take a moment to thank whoever just read the 5,000th hit on this thread. You guys are awesome! Thanks for reading my drivel and for your support and comments; all are appreciated! :love4:

I know,I know, it's been a while. Hang in there, please! Should have the next installment by this weekend.

A while? LOL.. cant wait for it!


Triggerjay

:coffee2: Having a cup while I'm waiting,Cap'n. However,the corn is popping :happy1: and the beer is getting iced down :drinkers: the glasses are cleaned :glasses6: Ready to read another chapter. Can't wait.

"One Day it will be red"........Must you taunt me? And you too, Jay, with your copycat picture. One L'il Red Minx in a lifetime is enough, but oh, how I miss her.......(the b!tch!)

Chapter 18


Sophomore year had come and gone; summer was upon us once again. I managed to snag my first “real” job, if you could call it that. My sister Jill’s boyfriend David worked at a pet cemetery (no, not a “Pet Sematary”, as in Steven King, where dead things come back to life horribly, well, wrong , like Hanratty’s bull or Church the cat, or even worse yet…Gage……this was a real, honest-to-gosh pet cemetery). David’s brother Jack ran the place. David worked as a groundskeeper, and got me a job as an additional groundskeeper, as well as “other things”. I wasn’t too keen on the idea at first, but, hell, I needed a job if I wanted to support my motorcycle and soon-to-be car habit. It started out OK; I began in the spring just working Saturdays, making vaults. Now to make vaults, you have this steel form, consisting of an inner and outer form. We would lift the outer form off with a chain hoist (this thing weighed a freakin’ ton!), then get a 5 gallon pail of grease and a brush, and coat the outside of the inner form, and the inside of the outer form with a layer of grease. Then we would lower the outer form back down onto the inner form and secure it. We would shovel in appropriate amounts of sand, gravel, cement and water into the cement mixer and fire it up. After mixing, we’d shovel the cement into the form, then walk around the perimeter pounding on the sides with rubber mallets to remove all the bubbles. After drying, we’d pop the outer form off with the chain hoist, then lift the cured vault off the inner form and stack it off to the side for further curing. Likewise, there was a form for lids, which we cast the same way. The finished product was like 2X4X2 feet tall. Once we got a stack of them ready and cured, we painted them with a tar pitch to make them waterproof, then stacked them outside to dry. It was dirty, smelly, hard work, it tore up your hands, your clothes and your shoes, but it paid fairly well at the time. So what were these cement vaults for? Guess….it was a pet cemetery (duh!). That’s right, Fido’s Final Flea Emporium. State law prevented you from dumping Ol’ Roy into a four-foot gopher hole (not that this stopped most people)…there might be an underwater spring nearby or something (now there’s a comforting thought!) Now, with that in mind, a show of hands please…..how many of you have ever buried a pet in the back yard? Mmmm, I thought so. Let me put my hand down and continued typing.
Anyway, once the weather broke, spring had sprung, and things greened up a bit, I was shown how to use The Mower. Now this was more like it; driving a tractor pulling a gang mower! It was machinery (how cool was that?), it made noise, and I was driving (sort of). Now, this was nothing new as I’d been operating farm machinery at Uncle Andy’s farm since I was about 13, going up for a month each summer to help bale hay. By the time I was fourteen, I was driving one of the tractors, sometimes the 520, and more often the 3010 (both John Deeres), for days on end. The actual baling took about a week in the field, then another week to get everything stacked in the haymow. Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled program…….so driving the tractor/mower was nothing new, but I loved it. Ahhh, the sweet smell of freshly mown grass! I had my transistor radio in my shirt pocket, single earpiece stuck in one ear, sleeveless shirt on, working on a major tan and groovin’ to whatever it was we grooved to back in the mid-seventies. Some days I’d lose the shirt altogether. The cool thing was, in June and most of July, the mowing was constant, most every day. Especially when it rained. Things didn’t slow down until the dog days of August when the blistering sun nearly scorched the life out of every living thing in sight and the grass quit growing….and then we reluctantly got back to making vaults. I was stashing quite a few bucks in my bank account; not for that Elsinore, as you might think…….Oh no, I had my sights set on bigger game!


***

So, I had planned my work, and was set to work my plan. I’d requested an August vacation. The car had been carefully prepped for prime and paint; the paint and primer bought. I’d borrowed Dad’s compressor and bought a paint gun. I’d hung the plastic in the garage. This should be child’s play for an old pro like myself.
It was all set. The fenders had been primer, undercoated and reinstalled, then carefully shimmed and aligned with the hood for near picture-perfect alignment; better, in fact than they were before I’d started. I had bought a gallon of sandable primer/sealer premix, for speed and ease of application. All was ready. But as they say, sometimes the best laid plans of mice and men…………
It started off great. The primer seemed a bit thick….(strange?) But I imagined that was due to the sandable qualities, and shrugged it off. I started with the roof and worked my way forward, laying a smooth, consistant (yet strangely heavy) coat; across the hood, front left fender and worked my way down the left side. So far, so good! I’d used probably ¾ of the gallon by the time I’d shot the right rear quarter. As I filled the cup for the last quart, it seemed, well, thin. There’s a reason for that: it was. My mistake; it being a gallon can, I should have poured the whole thing into a large container and evenly mixed it with a paint stirrer. Instead, I’d shaken it upside down, for what I considered to be an adequate period of time. It wasn’t. The lighter filler material had risen to the top, or something to that effect. Anyway, what I ended up with was primer that was too thick in the beginning and too thin at the end. The right front fender came out almost see-through. This was tough. I had absolutely no money left and the primer was like $25.00 a gallon. Crap. Now what?
I’ll tell you, now what! Now it was time to discover that why you should not have attached garages! My wife, in the house, had been breathing the second-hand fumes for hours now, and got very lightheaded, dizzy, and almost passed out. Concerned, I dunked the gun in the bucket of cleaner, left it, and drove her to the emergency room. Ever have to wait in an emergency room? By the time we got home, she had a blinding headache (but was OK) and it was late. The next day, with only a couple days of vacation left, I viewed the thin primer disaster and realized that the car would have to be sanded and another gallon shot (this time mixed better!) Seems the last quart of thin stuff had burned through the sanded paint on the right front fender and wrinkled it. Plus, I didn’t have the money for the primer, and wouldn’t have it for a couple weeks, ‘til payday.
I can’t recall the exact sequence of disastrous events that followed, but they involved overtime at work, miserable, rainy weather followed by a major cold front, unexpected financial difficulties, and the like. What matters, is that the beautiful Carmine Red metal flake enamel never got shot that fall before Old Man Winter moved in. Let’s just say that marriage, folks, is quite different than single life, and when you have a wife and a baby and financial obligations, sometimes you tend to overestimate your ability to perform certain tasks within a particular time frame. And all you married-with-kids guys need no further clarification on this, right? Been there, done that? Well, the end result was that the car sat all winter, cold, forlorn, and lonely, with a tarp over it, all the bumpers and trim removed, waiting for the Robins Of Spring……..

***

Now, the money I was saving was for, as I mentioned, bigger game; that being the Javelin. I’d pick it up for a song, then tear into it. Imagine my surprise, then, the day I came home from work and saw this green GMC half-ton pickup in the driveway…now who could be visiting, I wondered?
Imagine my horror when I found out that it wasn’t anyone visiting at all; Dad had bought the Jimmy and used the Javelin as a trade in. I was, of course, properly horrified. Now what?
Well, I’d had my driver’s license for a bit now, had driven the Javelin, and found the handling qualities and acceleration were not quite “all that”. So I guess I wasn’t too disappointed, after all. By this time, sister Jill had a car of her own…a ’69 SS Nova, deep metalflake blue, these huge L60 rear tires and Cragars all around. The car looked like it was going 100 miles an hour sitting in the driveway. Which is where it needed to stay, if it was gonna win any races. This thing was the Ultimate Pig-In-A-Poke. Under the hood lurked….not a 396, not a 327 or even a wimpy l’il 307, but a straight six hooked to a Slip ‘n Slide Powerglide 2 speed auto. What an absolute embarrassment of a car! When I’d drive this thing (which was often; Jill let me take it when I couldn’t drive the GMC) and dudes would pull up next to me, get a gander at the tires and wheels, and start gunning the motor, I’d slink down in the seats in utter embarrassment, knowing this car couldn’t get out of it’s own way. I don’t believe it really ever was an SS Nova. I think the guy that owned it just slapped the badges on it. Jill never really liked the car after about the third day of ownership, and a new plan began to formulate……as in; big block Rat Motor. Chevy. Nova. Mine. Cheap. I knew you could pick up a used 454 for a couple hundred bucks out of a truck or something. Once I found a 427 Rat Motor in the paper for 600 bucks out of a ‘Vette, and drove 30 miles only to find someone had stolen it out from under me an hour earlier with cash on the barrelhead. Rats!

The highlight of Junior year was, of course, Auto Shop. I’d been waiting on this for years. Howard was in the same class, and I think it took the teacher about two weeks to figure out who knew what, and we sorta got the run of the place after that. We were all assigned engines to work on. Howard and I got not your run-of-the-mill Chevy 6 or VW engine, but a Ford big block with a four barrel to work on. Pretty soon we were the darlings of the junior auto shop class, helping the other guys get their motors back together and such. When we got into suspension and driveline later that year, it was all new to me and terribly fascinating. Later that year, Howard got his license and his mom gave him the use of one of the family cars; a Chevy Impala with a 350 that needed a valve job, so we yanked the heads and did valves and guides right there in auto shop! It was not unusual for either of us to walk into any class with an armful of books in one hand and a Quadrajet in the other; sliding the Q-jet into the basket under the desk seat with our books made us feel cool and somewhat dangerous, sorta like James Dean for some reason. (I think the chicks dug it as well, although all they did was complain about the stink). Chicks are like that, though. They complain about your dirty, gas-smelling, oil-soaked holey blue jeans, but all the while they’re digging it. Anyway, we became known as the “Motorheads” or “Gearheads” around the school. I didn’t mind. Everyone needs something to identify themselves with; for us, this was it.

Hey Cap, where have you been?? I'm missing out on my fix here, and starting to get grumpy.. lol. Hope you have something for us soon, and that all is well with you and yours.

Sorry, guys! I'm up to my eyeballs in alligators again, with work and home stuff. I'm plugging away whenever I can. I'll try to post whatever I've got sometime this week. Thanks for caring....and reading!

As always,looking forward to it Cap'n. :coffee2:

Likewise!


Triggerjay

Chapter 19
“Lady In Red”


My dreams of building the Javelin had been whisked away like a leaf in a windstorm, and I was still scavenging about for a decent Chevy motor to build for the Nova; preferably a Rat motor. Jill was willing to let the car go, for a price, and I had about 600 bucks in the bank earmarked for this purpose; but not without a decent motor! No way was I gonna drive that lethargic, wheezing pig the way it was, so the search continued. Back in those days, there was no internet, no eBay, or any of your modern conveniences; no, if you wanted a motor, it was dig through the want ads, word-of-mouth, or go to the boneyards. The boneyards wanted too much for anything that resembled a performance motor; 454, 427, 396, or 327's. I probably could’ve picked up a used 350, but I didn’t want one. Hell, everybody had a 350. I didn’t like being like everyone else. So I kept searching….
Until that day in October. Senior year. I would spend my study halls in the library, reading. (They would give you a Library Pass for this kinda thing; I guess they figured you’d be studying. Me, I was reading fiction or Hot Rod magazine). So, I walked into the library this fine October day, and there sat Superman. No, not the dude in his underwear and a cape, but this guy we called Superman. (His name sorta sounded somewhat like Superman-someone hung the tag on him and it stuck). Anyway, there sat Superman at one of the tables, so I sat down and struck up a conversation (quietly; this was a library, man, and “Andy” the librarian would throw you out if you disturbed him from reading his ever-present newspaper). Superman was the once-neighbor of David (my sister Jill’s then-boyfriend), yes, that’s Pet Cemetery David, and that’s how I knew him; from David. Superman had shown up at David’s house that past summer driving what was, to him, a new car; a 1972 Plymouth Duster, 340, 3 speed floor shift, Tor-Red, with black stripes, numbers, and little pissed-off looking tornados on the rear quarters and by the tail lights. I was not much of a Mopar fan at that point in time (still searching for a Rat motor for the Nova); in fact, I knew next to nothing about “brand-X” and didn’t care to. I did go for a ride down the street with him though. He turned around in a guy’s driveway, then trounced on the gas and left two huge black stripes shrouded in acrid clouds of rubber-smoke. I remember being fairly impressed. Maybe this Mopar stuff was something to be respected after all…We got back to David’s and performed the Sacred-Open-The-Hood ritual. I remember this huge orange air cleaner with a decal shouting 340 FOUR BARREL! Afterwards, he left, and I don’t remember seeing him the rest of the summer……
Until that day in the library. Seems Superman had a little “car trouble” that summer. Accidents. Tickets. Court. Lawyers. And he was looking to get rid of his little red toy to help get him out of trouble. So, he asked me (quietly, so Andy The Librarian wouldn’t look up from his paper and blow a gasket) if I knew anybody looking for a car. Cheap. $500.00 would do. I told him I’d ask around and get back to him.
I think I actually did ask three or four people if they were interested. And then it dawned on me…..Duh! Maybe I should check it out for myself…..
I ran into Superman in the library later that week. I arranged to meet him at this truck repair shop, where the tow truck had brought it after his last little, er….”incident”.
And so I did.
The car wasn’t as bad as I had pictured it in my mind, from the description he’d provided. Yeah, the grille was cracked a little, the front fenders a bit dented on the sides; should pop out fairly easy. The left rear quarter had a huge dent in it; something about rolling on it’s side in a ditch, and swerving to miss a dog…yeah, OK. Maybe swerving to grab a Red Dog. Anyway, he popped the hood, and there was that big orange cylinder shouting 340 FOUR BARREL! at me again. It had headers….I hadn’t noticed it last summer. He fired it up. Hmmm. Sounded pretty good. I opened the door and crawled in. Comfy. I wrapped my right fist around the shifter knob and worked the linkage. This car had a smell…vinyl, rubber, and gear oil. And something else I couldn’t put my finger on. It was somehow…alluring. Low miles, too. Less than 20K and the car was only 3 years old, give or take a couple months….I peered at the odometer….and then she spoke. Softly, almost inperceptably….”Well, Hello again….”
Hello Kitty! You talkin’ to me?
She was. I’d never heard a l’il red minx speak before, but when you hear one, well, you know it.
Well, that was pretty much that. She’d taken Superman for a wild ride, and now she had her claws in me. And was not about to let go. Meow!
***
Well, for those of you who’ve been following this from the beginning, you know how this part ends up. And if you don’t, go back and refresh your memory….it’s a long, emotional story. But, as Jim Croce once said in a song ….”But let’s forget all that”…..

……and so Mr. Peabody said, “Come along Sherman, we’ll leave the ‘70’s behind us for good, and use the Wayback Machine to fast forward us to 1981, where we left off.”

And so we arrived. Primered car, cold weather, new baby and a new career coupled with a demanding job. With little or nothing left over after payday. I managed to keep The Duke licensed and insured, but with all the window trim off and wearing primer, I didn’t drive it. Oh, sure, I’d back it up in the driveway and let the motor warm up to temp, but that was about it. I’d lost the momentum; the wind was down and the sails lay slack against the mast. Oh sure, something would fire me up, and I’d feel that sea breeze stirring, but something always seemed to interfere.
Then I got my new job. It was a job I’d been hoping and praying to get hired on to for months; writing letters, making phone calls, trying to grease the wheels. And that January, I succeeded! The job was about an hour and a half away, so we found a house to rent near my new job, and began packing. This meant packing The Duke, as well. Actually, The Duke was one of the last things to go. I shoved all the trim parts in the trunk, gassed it up, and hit the road. I made it without incident, enjoying the thrill of the open road once more. I let the horses run free, as the roads were dry that day. I pulled in the driveway and nestled it into it’s new 2 ½ car stable, and cut the ignition. There was a lot of unpacking to do, and I started my new job on Monday!

***

Sadly, that was the last time The Duke ever tasted the thrill of the open road. One thing leads to another; money was still very tight, work was demanding, as were family issues. I still had my paint, and I kept thinking and talking about painting this car; getting it back on the road again. But it just never happened. Dave and Jerry had sold their cars long since. Howard still had his Goat, but sadly, it got rattier and more run down every time I saw it. It was really depressing. The old gang drifted further apart, the wedges of family, debt, work, and obligation driving us further apart every month and the memories of wicked musclecars and Glory Days fading like the distant memories of summer as you hunker down against the chill of a bitter cold winter. I made a pact with myself, then and there- I would never sell this car. I would let it rot away under a tarp, into tiny orange hills of iron oxide before I’d sell it. Now even Howard was talking about getting rid of the Goat. Not me, I vowed! When we would get together occasionally, invariably the talk would drift, sometimes rather awkwardly, to cars and Glory Days, and someone would ask if I still had the Duster. Still, I would tell them, and always. And their eyes would go glassy; their gaze would go somewhere distant-far off to a time long ago, when they had their early youth, and the world by the tail. And again I would silently vow; not this one. If I let it go, I’ll be like those guys; staring off into the distant past, reminiscing and wishing they’d have managed to hold on just a little bit longer, a little tighter. You could see it in their faces, their eyes. You could hear it in their voices. And then the talk would shift, and it would all be swept under the rug, hidden from view, too painful to dwell upon.
The years passed, and I would go out dutifully on the weekends and fire up The Duke, back it out of the garage, and occasionally even spin it around the block, though the license plates had long since expired. But these little jaunts got further and further apart, and pretty soon I was having to charge the battery on Friday night, just so I could get it started on Saturday. And in the winter, it would sit for months at a time, waiting for the first warm spring day to stir my blood. I remember the last day vividly. July, 1986. I fired up The Duke and he swaggered out of the garage, both guns swinging low and daring any cowpoke to draw. I ran it that day until I’m sure the neighbors were quite pissed off . The air cleaner was off, the hood open, and I was checking the timing (just because), goosing the throttle and listening to that hungry dragon snarl, the Holley gulping down huge gulps of air with it’s characteristic Whoosh! It sounded good; it sounded mean! When I finally pulled it back into the garage, I sat there for just a minute before I switched off the key, taking in the vibes and the thunder and exhaust smell and watching that hood shake the rhumba. Simply wicked! I was, for some reason unknown, reluctant to shut it down that day. It was almost as if it were a premonition, a harbinger of things to come. And when I finally reluctantly thumbed the key off, that soulful, angry little motor gave a shudder and a sigh, and I swear….what sounded eerily like a death rattle.

YOU CANT LEAVE US HANGING LIKE THAT!!>??????

Can't wait for more!!!!

Triggerjay

YOU CANT LEAVE US HANGING LIKE THAT!!>??????

Can't wait for more!!!!

Triggerjay
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^What he said!

YOU CANT LEAVE US HANGING LIKE THAT!!>??????

Can't wait for more!!!!

Triggerjay


Oh, yes I can! :toothy7:

:salute: Hey Cap'n. This story is like McDonalds. I'm luvin it. Here's to ya. :drinkers: Part of what makes this story so great,is the suspense. Keep it comin!!

I've sat here for about 5 hours reading it, start to finish. Every chapter has brought back memories. You just can't end it on a note like that :cry: . You know you want to write another chapter with a happy ending! (please) If you don't, we will all come to your house and have to resurrect it!

Kirk.. where did you go?????? We need our fix!

Triggerjay

I'm still here, guys. Working (slowly, painfully,) at gettting the wording just right. You'll see why. Stick with me.

You guys ready for the next installment yet?
(It's a killer!)

Yeah, I read this entire thing in early dec. and have been waiting for more, I check it every time im on here. You have a really great story going. Thanks for sharing it with us.

You guys ready for the next installment yet?
(It's a killer!)


Bring it on Cap'n. I got the the corn :happy1: and the cold drink :drinkers: ready. All I have to do is shine up the glasses :glasses7: and I'm ready to read. :thumbup:

You`ve got the gift of storytelling Kirk, definitely a highlight of FABO!

Chapter 20
“The End”

“This is the end, my only friend, the end”……..
The Doors

Marion Michael Morrison; a.k.a. John Wayne, a.k.a. “The Duke”. He was a Hollywood icon, one of the true immortal stars of the silver screen. The man just oozed toughness. It didn’t matter what movie you watched; you knew how it would end. And you didn’t care. It just seemed…right! But as tough as John Wayne was on the screen, he was equally tough in real life; a real fighter when it came to life’s challenges. But he finally succumbed to the cancer he fought so valiantly. As did another “Duke”….

This was a different cancer; but no less deadly. Chemical name, Iron Oxide, a.k.a. “rust”.
After that fateful July day, I dutifully charged the battery a few weeks later, with the intent of pissing the neighbors off yet again. But this time it would be different. When I thumbed the key this time, The Duke complained, but wouldn’t fire. And then I smelled fuel….lots of it. I jumped out and popped the hood, and much to my dismay, saw a river of Leaded Premium gasoline floating atop the Torker. This time I’d waited too long. The float bowl gaskets had dried up and shrunk, pulling away from the sealing surfaces of the float bowls and leaking like the proverbial sieve. This totally sucked. I knew a rebuild kit for the Holley would go for around fifty bucks (back then they were only available from performance stores); and that was about fourty-nine more than I had lying around looking for an excuse to be used on. I felt a real need to get The Duke running that day, so I slapped the AVS onto the Torker using the adapter I’d originally bought for the TQ and cobbled it together. Dead end. For whatever reasons, (probably the fact it had been sitting on the shelf for oh, seven years or so, untouched), it didn’t work either. Well, scratch starting the car that day. I’d have to wait ‘til I could kit the Holley. See, back in those days, the parts stores didn’t sell individual bowl gaskets. Not around here, anyway.
In the meantime, an event of epic proportions came to be. In front of The Duke sat a steel workbench with a heavy formica countertop on it that I’d picked up somewhere. The top should have been screwed to the counter, the counter to the studs on the garage wall. But they weren’t. The countertop hung over the edge quite a bit, as well, making it a bit unsteady and front-heavy. And so it came to be, that my son was out in the garage “helping me” when he climbed up and sat on the edge of the countertop……
You can probably guess the rest. The whole shebang tipped forward, and whatever had been on top (including Chris) was pitched forward towards the car. Fortunately, Chris was unhurt (though a little shaken up) and the car sustained no damage….except for the rapidly growing green pool of car-plasma beneath it. You guessed it. Something (I don’t remember what) had shish-kabob’ed the radiator. Run it through. Given it “Green River”, as the mountain men would’ve said. This gave the phrase a totally new meaning…..but I failed to see the humor in it at the time. Now I had TWO problems to contend with. I made a few calls; nobody local had any exchanges, and a radiator re-core job was going for around 150 bucks. Great….now I was 200 smackers in the hole.
It was spring before I got the money up for the carb kit. I went through the entire carb and bagged it. Unfortunately, my luck didn’t hold as well with the radiator. Due to the damage incurred along with it’s age, it just sort of fell apart while moving it one day. The solder holding the seams together just crumbled. Fixing it would no longer be an option.
I’d begun to get worried about the motor sitting for so long. I pulled the plugs a few times, squirted oil down the cylinders and pulled the engine through. But time finally got ahead of me, and the Duster under the tarp in the garage got fewer and fewer visits. It sorta reminded me of the song “Puff the Magic Dragon”; Puff lost his power as little Jackie Faber grows up and stops playing with (and believing in) him……so Puff slinks off to his cave with his tail between his legs and disappears into the dank, mossy nooks and crannies of his lair, so to speak. That’s kinda what happened to The Duke as well.

***
Out of sight, out of mind they say. A very true statement. Once you lose your mojo, the game is over. Once you stop CPR, the guy on the ground is legally dead. And the same goes for the car under the tarp. I tried to keep it on life support; I really did. I’d go out every so often and pull the plugs, squirt oil into the cylinders and wrench it through a couple times (the battery was long since dead and buried now). Still, the spectres of rust and decay haunted me, to the point where I finally cracked under the pressure of the fear of the unknown and pulled the rocker covers and intake to have a look-see. Now I could see what I was up against. A little rust on the cam, mostly surface rust, but the valve stems had a thick, scaly growth of rust on them. The cooling system had been open for quite some time now, with the radiator gone, and I envisioned the water jacket all full of hard scale and rust. And I knew if the valve stems were rusty, the cylinders with the open valves couldn’t have fared so well either, well-oiled or not. I knew in my heart that at the very least, the heads needed to come off. This drove the ever-enlarging wedge even further in, between the Duke and the open highway. My son Chris, who as a three-year old used to scream and run into the house when that dragon would snarl and snort, breathing fire in the driveway, now referred to it rather matter-of-factly as “the gwage-cow” (garage-car). Fitting; as that is exactly what it had become. A dinosaur in a museum, to be viewed with respect and a little awe while remembering it’s former fearsome presence, but just a harmless skeleton of a beast that had once been nonetheless, held together with wire and bolts but no longer breathing, no fire in it’s eyes; it could no longer strike terror into the hearts of children, let alone adults. Like John Wayne, The Duke was dead; only to be remembered on celluloid and in the mind’s eye of it’s creator…me.

***
The difference between the Li’l Red Minx and The Duke was this; the Li’l Red Minx was physically gone; removed from my sight, and barely even there in my memory. The Duke was just as gone to be sure, but like the mummy of King Tut, there was still a lifeless presence to look at, to remember, to dream about, a sarcophagus full of gold, spices and untold rare gems all surrounding one very dead guy in an Ace bandage. The garage had become my pyramid in the Valley of the Kings. (The Procol Harum song “Conquistador” comes to mind.) Over the years, there were numerous fits and starts; I would get fired up at a car show, a conversation, or by reading a magazine, go out and spend an hour or so doing something insipid and meaningless. But the reality of the monstrous size and cost of the project held me back. At last, I conceded to logic, deciding I would no longer allow myself to take pieces off that could be lost or damaged until I could launch a full-scale assault on the Duster. (I no longer referred to it as The Duke; The Duke was just as stone-dead as the Li’l Red Minx and probably deserved a fitting burial). Over the years I encountered quite a bit of flak over this; old friends would razz me about it (You still got that hunk of junk?). My wife gave me grief about getting rid of it and freeing up that half of the garage. (Suuuure…..when you can pry the keys from my cold, dead hands….).Even my kids ribbed me about it. Chris, now grown up, told me I might as well just give it to him to fix, as it would sit there until I died, at which point he’d get it anyway. (I told him he’d just have a damn long wait, then!). I remembered my vow and dug my heels in……..and waited. For what, I wasn’t sure. I’d know it when I saw it. This much I knew.
Funny thing was, it didn’t happen like that. There was no voice in my head, or a light bulb going on. In fact, it all started with a screw and a motorcycle.

Great ending to a great story Cap'n.

What you talkin' about Willis? It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings!
(And she is stuffing her face at the moment)
Every time I try to finish this thing, more just comes bubbling forth. Besides, we have part II to contend with.....

Or, let's just say it's finished when I roll the credits.......OK? :thumbup:

P.S.- "The End" referred to The Duke, not the story!

Keep it comin Cap'n. Great story,full of thrill and suspence. I'll be looking for the next chapter, (and "part ll") :thumbup:

Or, let's just say it's finished when I roll the credits.......OK? :thumbup:

P.S.- "The End" referred to The Duke, not the story!

You got me on that one Cap. :oops:

Kirk! I have read some real stinker books in the past. How they ever got published, who knows, but dude, you have writing talent. I takes a special brain to put paragraphs together like that. No, joke, you should seriously think about submiting this story to a publisher. I would buy it.

BTW, since you are an AMT, you ever deal with Aviall? I work for them and Chicago and Pontiac are my field offices.

I deal with Aviall all the time!
Glad you enjoy my ramblings. Hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them!
As for submitting this stuff...I don't know. Publishers can be brutal. And I'm not inventing this stuff....it's as it happened. So I need to keep creating real-life adventures in order to feed the fire. (No problem there!) In the meantime, I'll just keep trying to keep you all entertained. :)

Well, then, next chapter PLEASE! By the way, you owe my company about 2 days of non-productivity. :)

Well, then, next chapter PLEASE! By the way, you owe my company about 2 days of non-productivity. :)
...and what, your company might ask, were you doing cruisin' the FABO website at work, hmmmmmmmmm?
I am not responsible for lost productivity, influencing adults to behave like children, or ignoring your spouse to work on your iron mistress. Sorry! :toothy7:

...and what, your company might ask, were you doing cruisin' the FABO website at work, hmmmmmmmmm?
I am not responsible for lost productivity, influencing adults to behave like children, or ignoring your spouse to work on your iron mistress. Sorry! :toothy7:

I cannot confirm or deny that statement. :thumbup:

Chapter 21

“Awakenings”

Question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Answer: Who the hell cares, as long as we get breakfast and dinner out of the deal!

So, which came first, the motorcycle or the screw?
Actually, it was the motorcycle.
My younger brother had gotten the motorcycle bug from me at a very young age, as had I, but never conquered it. I don’t believe he ever DIDN’T own a motorcycle from the time he got his driver’s license. He started out with a Honda MiniTrail 50 (remember those?) and ended up owning Captain Dave’s Turtle Chaser Honda XL125. He then bought a year-old Yamaha Seca 550 while doing a stint as a motorcycle mechanic for a local dealer. He proceeded to flog this poor steed mercilessly for nearly 40,000 miles and across three states (he made numerous trips from Mudsville to Fargo and back, while attending school there!) until 1998, when he decided to get a little newer bike with a little more, ummm, get up and go, shall we say?
He did. He bought a year-old, 1997 Buell M2 Cyclone.
For those of you not acquainted with the M2, it’s basically….how can I describe this?….a motor with a seat attached. Scratch that; a BIG motor with a seat attached! 1200 cc’s of Harley-Davidson V-Twin Sportster motor, massaged and tweaked by Buell to pump out 70-something HP and 70-something foot-pounds of torque. By my own definition, it's a two-wheeled Hemi ‘Cuda.
Naturally, after riding something like that, the Yamaha goes to the back of the garage and begins to collect dust. And become a homeless shelter for down-on-their-luck mice. That is, until Big Brother works a deal with Little Brother.
And so it came to be, early in the spring of ’99 that I found myself busting knuckles away from work voluntarily. For years, the thought of wrenching out in the garage after wrenching on aircraft all day just didn’t trip my trigger. It’s like eating too much pizza. I mean, how much pizza can you ram down your craw before you say, “Enough!” It doesn’t mean, I found out, that you no longer like pizza. You just save some for later! First I did the carbs. Complete strip and clean, with new carb kits. (and you thought Holley parts were expensive!). Homeless mice had been at the air filter, leaving liitle bits of fuzzy paper mixed with mousie turds, topped off with the pungent aroma of Eau d’mousie…liquid form, of course. The battery was, of course (of course!) junk. So, a couple weeks, a couple hundred bucks and……Houston, we have ignition!
Now, if you’re wondering why this guy is prattling on about bikes in a car story, I’ll come right out and tell ya. It’s about the speed, brother! The need for speed! I re-discovered it that summer, not in the heavy thunder of Mopar Muscle, but rather, in the screeching banshee wail of four Mikunis stuffing atomized fuel and air through a Gemini four-into-one exhaust with a four-cylinder motor sandwiched like aluminum-flavored Oreo filling in between. Never mind it wasn’t that fast compared to so-called “modern” bikes…..it was a 14-second missile of fossil-fuel rebirth, and the feelings that I long feared dead and buried burst into flames like a peat bog fire long believed to be extinguished….NOT!
I attacked this new curiosity with relish…and Flitz. When I brought the bike home, it was rather, shall we say.…neglected? Corrosion and dirt covered the wheels and frame. Aluminum surfaces were dull and lusterless. (Little Brother was a rider, not a cleaner.) Nothing a good bath and a can of Flitz couldn’t handle, though. I remember the first time when my brother came over to go riding after I’d cleaned it up. I wheeled it out into the sunshine, polished aluminum and paint glinting in the bright sun, and said, “Well, whaddya think?” After a long pause, he mumbled…”I think I sold it to ya too cheap.” Now, that, folks, is a COMPLIMENT!
We did a lot of rides that summer. A lot of rides. And all the time, there was this rumbling in my soul…..this whispering in my ear; incomprehensible babble that I couldn’t understand or comprehend, but urgent, nonetheless. It was like the gunfighter who, horrified and haunted by his past, changed his name and identity, moved far, far away and became a farmer, swearing to himself to put it all behind him and start a new life. And then one day, by chance, he comes across a gun. Quite by accident, you understand. He picks it up; his fingers unconsciously caress the cold steel, and it feels good; natural in his hand. And then, as if by magic, it comes to life in his sweaty palms; wheeling and darting back and forth, like a snake, dancing; his thumb unconsciously cocks back the hammer and naturally as a newborn baby drawing a breath, he points it at a tree, or a leaf; the gun barks and thunders and bucks in his palm and the object of it’s deadly destruction lies blown to bits and mutilated, drilled dead center, without intention, without will, without malice, without thinking…….naturally. As if meant to be. And his trembling hand recoils and drops the gun in revulsion and horror, unable to fathom the idea that this cold slab of wood and steel becomes a living, breathing thing in his grip…and his alone. It is a part of him that cannot be denied, no matter how hard he tries. Oh, Lord, how he tries!
You could say it was like that. Yeah, you could.

***

I knew I was in trouble the first time I whacked that throttle open hard against the stops and heard the wailin’ of the banshee trumpeting out through that Gemini four-into-one. Just like that gunfighter-turned-farmer, I knew. Thought I could put it all behind me; forget it with the help of time, live a quiet, sedentary life without the need for speed. Not hardly.
And then came The Big Turn. It started out as a simple ride. Me and my brother; he on his Buell, and me on the Seca, with my 14 year old son on the back. It was innocent enough; a simple, easy country-road ride. My brother was a good riding partner; he led the way but never pushed, never forcing me to overextend my abilities; his were far beyond mine at that point. That particular day he’d flagged me on ahead to the lead position. I had no idea where we were going; I just followed the road. Then, out of nowhere, he swung out around me, that Vee-Twin thundering out it’s hemi-reminiscent song, pulled in front of me, signaling a right turn with upswept left arm and gloved hand, leaned the Buell deep into a side road right apex, and simply……. vanished!
I barely made the turn.
It was if he had been abducted by aliens; gone, vanished, went Bermuda Triangle on me.
I found him waiting patiently at a stop sign, several miles down the road, taillight winking a friendly “hello!”
“I WANT ONE OF THOSE!” my mind shrieked.
I’ll see what I can do, said the gunfighter….

***
The gunfighter was true to his word. Early in ‘02, I rolled my own M2 off the trailer; a ’99 with less than 7000 miles on it. The ‘99s boasted 91 HP and 89 ft/lbs of torque…..all right where you need it; down low. It came with the Buell Thunderstorm heads and pistons (a true hemi-head design) and a lightened crank. There was no wanting for torque on this monster. But the real difference was in the handling; if the Seca was an athlete, then the Buell was an Olympic ballerina on steroids. “Flickable” is the word Buell used. Un-freakin’-believeable is the word I used. Nimble and graceful are some other words that come to mind. Just a nudge on the bar ends and it was leaning peg-deep deep into the turns; whack on the throttle on the exit and it would stand right back up like one of those Weebles and lunge out of the corners like a tiger springing on a gazelle! This was one scary-fast machine. It sounded mean as well, the vee-twin giving off a low, guttural growl. At idle, the whole bike would shake, much like a drag car in the pits, rumbling out it’s baritone hemi thunder.
True to form, I immediately made a wish-list. My brother’s bike was far from stock; he’d upgraded the cams, carb, intake and exhaust, with an oil cooler to boot. He’d also replaced the pistons with Wiseco 10:1s and installed the Thunderstorm heads. This all made for a pretty potent package.
Not to be outdone, I began searching eBay for my own entourage of performance goodies. I ended up finding everything I wanted by patiently waiting, watching, and buying the parts I was looking for. I ended up with all the components used in the Buell race kit including race header and muffler, carbon fiber K&N air filter kit, and race ignition unit….for less than half the retail price. To this I added a Mikuni flat slide HSR carb and Andrews N8 cams. In the fall of ’04 I put it up on the lift and, with some trepidation, dug in.
I say with some trepidation, because frankly, the bike was running like a dream. It started and ran well, idled lumpy but evenly (like any good Harley), had great throttle response, and leaked no oil. Well, I had a small rockerbox leak, but nothing serious. But what I was doing was pretty major surgery for a low-mileage, great-running bike. Honestly, I just couldn’t help myself. I had to do it. And so, I rolled up my sleeves and dug in.

Here's a pic of the Seca taken last summer

(2) Little Brother's Buell

(3) My Buell...Pre-metamorphosis

Chapter 22

“Distant Light”

“I fear we have awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve….”
Admiral Yamamoto, on hearing the news of the attack on Pearl Harbor

Like the first rays of sunlight venturing bravely forth at the end of the cold, dark night, I began to see something, hear something, feel something. I had that bike spread all over the garage in a heartbeat, going where I didn’t think I had the guts to go; deep into the cam case. First off came the airbox, followed by the exhaust, fuel tank, bodywork, then I dove headlong into the engine. Like Marie Antoinette; off with it’s carb! Rockerbox covers, push rods, ignition box and pickups, then on to the cam cover, boys! Soon all four cams and lifters lay in my oily palms. I stood back and surveyed the carnage.
Was I clinically insane? I had just taken the stuff dreams are made of, financed to the hilt, and scattered the remains all over my garage like a raccoon in a dumpster on Saturday night!
Oh well. No turning back now.
Once I’d leapt this mental hurdle, I found my pace and settled in. I bled down the lifters and began scraping gaskets and cleaning parts. Soon the new cams lay nestled in their spots, timed, clearances checked, and slathered in white lithium grease like vanilla frosting on some bizarre aluminum birthday cake. New gaskets and seals all around…nothing second best here. Was the cam timing right? I checked and re-checked it; yup, right on. I cautiously reassembled the cam case.
The ignition unit was a snap; a simple Deutsch plug connection and a couple of screws. That was easy. The carb took a little bit of engineering to finagle the enrichener, fuel lines, bowl drain line and VOES switch. Common sense prevailed here. The throttle cable Ty Wraps had to be cut and the cable re-routed to the other side of the frame as the entry angle was different. The air filter kit also took some engineering to get the PCV vent lines set up properly. Finally, the exhaust. The race kit instructions were pretty explicit and all the hardware was actually there. I reassembled the rocker boxes and she lay complete, and ready for the tank and bodywork.
I don’t mind telling you I was just a wee bit nervous. If I roached this thing, I would be kicking my own ass for weeks to come. I lowered the lift down to floor level and turned on the fuel petcock. No leaks; a good sign.
I opened the garage door about halfway and grabbed a fire bottle. Drawing a deep breath, I cracked the throttle and immediately smelled gas. Good…..accellerator pump working….switched the key to “on”, gritted my teeth, squinched my eyes, and tapped the starter button….click-thunk-hmmmmmm! I released it. What the…..?
Cam timing off? Valve train assembled wrong? Naw, couldn’t be. I know my own work better than that.
I tapped it again……..click-thunk-hmmmm………RAR…RARR…..RARRR….
The motor exploded into life…three times as loud as it had been before…and three times as lumpy on the idle. It sounded BITCHIN’!!! The whole garage shook as it filled with thunder and lightning and I stood there reveling in the sensation. I could smell the new gaskets burning in and the pungent ripe exhaust smell, feel the shaking vibes running through my right hand as it curled around the throttle and feel the exhaust pulses assaulting my eardrums. I sucked it all in, relishing the victory. And somewhere far off, deep within the bowels of a dark, dank cave, a sleeping dragon’s eyes flickered open and he raised his head, shaking off two decades of deep, restless slumber.

***

Some people take days or even weeks thinking up clever names for their pet machine. It wasn’t hard to hang a name on the li’l red minx or The Duke; their personality traits were readily apparent after a short time. In the case of the Buell, however, post- metamorphosis, it strolled right up and introduced itself to me; “Hello, Captain, I’m Buellosaurus Rex”.
Indeed. Now, “Tyrannosaurus Rex” in Latin translates as “Terrible Lizard”. Buellosaurus Rex would translate roughly to “terrible Buell”, or something to that effect. I was not about to dispute his choice of moniker. B.Rex fit; B.Rex it was.
And the similarities between a T.Rex and a B.Rex were soon apparent…..on the first post-morph shakedown ride. Gone were any scattered fragments of good manners and civility that might have been; this was now a hooligan bike bent on frightening small children and animals, and eating them if it could catch them.
There was a slight “dead zone” down low now, between two and three thousand RPM. It used to pull strong from about 2000 on up, a strong, gradual increase in torque, up to 5000 or so, where it leveled out. Now, the train began pulling at about three thousand, and switched on violently at 4000, pulling like a Clydesdale right up to redline (about 6,800), where I would have a close encounter with the rev-limiter built in to the race ignition unit.
WOW!
What a rush!
You could now pounce on this thing off the lights and blow through 90 before hitting fourth gear….with fifth still waiting in the wings…..and never hit the throttle stop. In fact, it wasn’t until mid season the following year I actually did put it against the stop. It just wasn’t necessary. Besides, it scared the living crap out of me. And all the time there was this unearthly thundering howl in your ears that made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Rolling Thunder, I call it. Whacking the throttle had now become somewhat akin to poking a grizzly bear in the butt with a sharp, pointed stick….and nearly as dangerous.
I had to re-learn the lost art of “curbing my enthusiasm.” This was like riding an electric-blue powder keg.
Oh, it wasn’t all wine and roses…I had a fair amount of jetting to address, but one of the beautiful things about the HSR series Mikuni is that the main jet is accessible without removing the float bowl; simply by removing the hex drain plug at the bottom of the bowl. A couple of jetting experiments and I was in the ballpark, anyway.
And what of that poor Seca? Was it doomed to the back of my garage now, until some poor slob rescued it, overthrown by yet another Buell?
Hell no. It became my daily summertime driver; my “work” horse. It’s on my lift as I write this, getting new shoes.
But, I had other, more serious problems to contend with. A particular dragon had been awakened; a sleeping giant of incredible stature. I knew it, I could sense it, feel it in the thunder and lightning that day in the garage. He had been sleeping for over two decades. Now he was awake….and ravenous.

Some photos from the O.R.

1) Patient on the table

2) Lungectomy (old airbox removal)

3) Patient undergoing surgery prep

4) Pre-Thunderslide amputation

5) Thunderslide amputated

6) Old ignition unit ready for amputation

You ever hear that old joke, How do you keep an asshole in suspense?................................

More pix of the Buell in the OR....

1) The new Mikuni HSR in place with new breather vent setup

2) Andrews N8 cam profile (compared to original)

3) New cams in place

4) Cam lobe profile

5) Rocker box cover off

6) Cams old vs new

7) Old cams in place

8) Rocker arms exposed

9) Old muffler (affectionately known as the "tractor muffler") removed

10) New Lightning ICU in place

More pix....and the finished product!

Chapter 23

“To Build A Fire” (With apologies to Jack London)

…..And then one day you find//Ten years have got behind you//No one told you when to run//You missed the starting gun……..
Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon

Not to steal any thunder from Jack London, but I’m sure most of you at one time or other during your lifetime has either had to build, or tend a fire. You can’t build a fire by simply grabbing a log, or several logs, and touching a match to it. Even if you dump lighter fluid on the logs, once the fuel burns off, the flames go out. You need tinder; something to light easily and get the flames burning.
Tinder won’t do the job by itself, though. A properly built fire is structured with several large logs at the base, usually in a square, with a small pile of ultra-fine tinder in the center, surrounded by larger tinder (small branches and sticks, etc). Once the tinder is lit and the larger tinder begins burning, you have to sort of hand-feed the fire; keep the tinder coming as it’s consumed, until the large logs begin to burn. Soon you’ll have a roaring fire, with intense, hot flames leaping into the air and forcing you back away from the heat, perhaps singeing your clothes or hair. But, a roaring fire will quickly burn itself out, exhausting all the fuel as fast as you can heave it on. Not only is this counter-productive to the guy who spent all afternoon gathering or splitting wood, but it can be deadly if you are relying on the heat to sustain you. Far better to let the roaring fire ignite the big logs, then bank it down. The warmth won’t be as intense, but the fuel will last a whole lot longer; it will sustain you.
Quite frankly, most of us approach our car hobby like the first fire; we get it burning and then heap so much fuel on it that it becomes a roaring, raging blaze that quickly consumes all the available fuel (time, money, family and job patience) and leaves us, well…cold. In a way, this is what happened with the li’l red minx and the Duke. All the intensity of those years makes you want to rest, let the fire just burn out lazily and slowly smolder out.
One time, while on a camping trip, I kept a campsite fire going nonstop for seven days. At night, when the flames had died down to gently flickering orange embers, I would pile the embers up in a tall pyramid. Next morning, I would spread the pyramid out evenly, throw on some fine tinder, and with a little air, the still-warm embers would ignite the tinder and soon I’d have a blaze going for cooking breakfast. It was much the same with the Duster. For over two decades, the ashes had been piled high under that tarp, cold as a stone on the outside, but maybe still warm at the core? It was time to see if there was enough warmth to ignite a little tinder.
***
Time had caught up with me, so to speak. You can leave a car under a tarp for two decades. Double that time and the car may still be there, relatively unchanged. But will you be? I was reliving the Glory Days with one of the guys at work, spinning yarns about the minx and The Duke, and reminiscing. We laughed and joked about it, and I defended my stance on the hulk under the tarp with a bold statement; “Hell, it’s been sitting there for 25 years, if it sits there another 25, I’ll still have it”
He replied; “Yeah, but will you be able to even drive it?”
We laughed it off, but later that evening, the truth of what he’d said began to nag at me.
How long is too long?
Will you even be able to drive it? Nobody knows what the future will bring.
Even if….will you even want to drive it?
Time to find out.
Better to die of exhaustion halfway through the trek than to never start out at all.

***

I raised the hood and stood there staring. It was not a pretty picture. No carb, no distributor, the old Offy manifold perched on top to cover the lifter galley, Mickey Thompson/Edelbrock rocker covers perched carelessly over the rocker shafts, dirty, corroded, lusterless. I grabbed a trouble light and just started looking, like an undertaker sizing up his next client.
The first thing I noticed was that the left header had a hole rusted through one of the tubes the size of a finishing nail. I grimly noted that I’d be needing new headers. The Pontiac Blue paint was covered with grease and dirt, that is; where it wasn’t rusty and peeling off. The water jacket freeze plugs were covered with a white, powdery corrosion. I gingerly lifted off the manifold and looked at the cam. A little surface rust. Some on the lifters and push rods as well. I lifted off the loose rocker covers and was relieved to see the rocker arms and shafts still looked good. But it was still winter, cold and damp. I decided to grab a notepad and begin listing what I wanted to do and what would need replacing. I still had several months to think about this. I put the pieces back and held my hands over the pyramid of ashes. There was warmth in there yet. Yeah, there was.

***
I fed the small, feeble flame all through the winter, reading Mopar Muscle magazine, searching websites, and thumbing through catalogs. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing a full concourse restoration, rebuilding the 340 to stock ’72 specs, but soon chucked that idea in the gravel. It just wasn’t me. My car had to be, like my Buell, different. Stock just wouldn’t do. Relieved to have put that rather disturbing thought behind me, I earnestly began planning the build.
The first thing to do was convince myself that a total teardown of the motor was necessary. It didn’t take that much convincing. Low mileage or not, I wanted this thing done right. Next thing was to find a good engine shop. I had no idea whether Sexton Automotive was still in business, and besides, it was over an hour drive, even if it was. No good. My son Chris had found a shop in nearby Kenosha, a guy by the name of Tony who seemed pleasant and knowledgeable on the phone, and he invited me up to see his shop.
Not only did I see it, he gave me the grand tour! Not only that, he spent a great deal of time responding to my emails and questions, and seemed to have a genuine knowledge of the smallblock Mopar. I was sold. Relieved to have found a shop I could trust, I pushed forward.

***
June, 2004.
I had just attended a car show the weekend before. Not much in the way of Mopars, but enticing nonetheless. Spring had come late this year, with winds, rain and below-normal temperatures that pushed my timetable back some. But the weekend of the car show had been sunny and warm. All systems go.
Now, I mentioned earlier that it started with a motorcycle and a screw. I told you about the motorcycle. Now let me tell you about the screw.
It was a little screw; one that held the fender tag on the left fender well. There were two of them, to be exact. June 27th, 2004. Once again, I raised the hood and stared. I lifted off the manifold and rocker covers once again…….but this time I didn’t put them back. As I pondered the project ahead, my hand unconsciously picked up a Phillips screwdriver and undid the two tiny Phillips screws holding the fender well tag to the inner fender. I popped the screws and the tag into a Ziplock baggie and labeled it “FW tag”…..and we were off and running. Just like that.
Four hours later, a heap of similar-looking baggies and assorted parts lay at my feet. The headers, oil filter adapter, alternator hardware, and everything else I could see or reach were loose, including the driveshaft, linkage, cross member bolts and engine mount bolts. I’d brought the engine hoist home from work in the back of my car; I assembled it, then pushed the car halfway out for some working room. Deep breath; I was ready.
My son and his friend were there to help. Hang time was about 15 minutes, start to finish, then I set the motor and tranny on my four-wheeled dolly and pushed it out of the way.
An hour later, it was perched on my virgin, never-been-used engine stand and I was tearing into it like a cat on a tunafish sandwich. I knew I had to be careful not to put too much wood on the fire, but the heat felt good. Damn, it felt good!

***
I didn’t have a lot of spare cash to play with….still don’t, for that matter. There was a lot I could do without the use of cash early on. There were motor parts to be cleaned, an engine bay to be cleaned and painted, decisions to be made. I succeeded in getting the engine apart, down to the block with just the crank resting like a sleeping baby in it’s cast-iron crib. I did some cleaning and degreasing of the engine bay and front suspension, trying to decide which way to go with things. At last, a plan emerged through the mist. This car would be redone from the axles up. The front suspension was in poor shape; the rubber bushings dry rotted, brake lines rusty and corroded, tires old and hard. It would hardly make sense to make a 12-second run at the strip, tromp on the brakes, and have the pedal go to the floor, squirting DOT-3 all over the track and me pissing my pants and doing a Fred Flintstone. That meant pulling the entire front suspension, removing the K-frame, and priming/undercoating every piece of the unibody, and painting or powder coating every single piece of suspension. At this point it dawned on me that it was academic whether or not I ever finish the car. It’s the journey, not the destination, I tell myself. I also want to avoid the poseur trap so many fall into today. Guy buys a car. Guy sends out the motor, tranny, body and suspension, has the motor built and assembled for him (or worse yet, buys a crate motor), has the whole car assembled, then off for paint and interior, then parades it down Main Street with his chest all puffed out; Look at me! I have a musclecar! I’ve spent thousands! I’m important, and Oh, So Fortunate!
Ummmm…..Excuse me…but you’re a poseur…nothing but a chucklehead in my book. You did nothing except sign the title and exchange greenbacks for someone else’s talent. I’m impressed by your machine, but not by you. I’m dazzled by the art, not the artist. That gangly 17-year old in the gray-primer Dart next to you…..now, he’s the one that impresses me. See, he did it all by himself, with the help of his family and friends. No, the Bondo’s not perfect and it won’t win any awards for concourse restoration, but the kid has a heart the size of New Jersey….just look at the sweat and blood and emotion he put into this thing!
That’s how I see it. Maybe, now, I could afford to have somebody build me a car. Maybe not. No matter, I won’t. If I can do it myself, I will. Because I can. So someday, I’ll have a hard drive full of digital pix that detail every nut, bolt, every drop of paint, and…every drop of blood that goes into building a car like this. I might even paint it myself (although I wouldn’t feel like Benedict Arnold by having a pro shoot it……this time around. One “Battle Of Midway” with kamikazi walrus-flies is enough!) This is not about the car…the finished product. Not at all. It’s about the garage-therapy, the struggle, the busted knuckles and the empty wallet and the triumphs and victories, however small, that make up a project. And if I never quite finish it, the journey will have been sweet. And I hope you will share it with me. :toothy7:

EPILOGUE

It’s been a grand ride down memory lane, but I guess we’ve arrived here….in the present time. I’d like to thank you all for riding along. Now don’t get all weepy and teary-eyed on me…there’s a whole lotta fun left to go and an entire car to build……..from the axles up! Part II of this story is gonna go where Part I never had the big brass gonads to; uncharted waters, so to speak. As I promised, this part will be full of pictures, a luxury I didn’t have back in the days of minxes and Dukes. The really cool thing is, I have NO idea where this will end up….so the surprise will be mine as well as yours. An interesting footnote; this car does not yet have an identity; or shall I say, it has not yet seen fit to introduce itself yet, as did the l’il red minx, the Duke, B.Rex, or his l’il sister, the Banshee. It will happen though, and as soon as I’m introduced, I’ll do the same for all of you. I had a lot of fun burning rubber back in the day, and almost, I think… more fun telling you all about it. There are memories in this thread I’ve dredged up from who-knows-where that were long forgotten until you all coaxed them to come out and play, and I thank you for that. Now, get in; my motor's getting overheated….and lets go! :axe:

Thanks for the story Captain. Really appreciate you sharing it, looking forward to the current build.

Way to go Cap'n. Now, let's get going with the current restification. :)

Great story Cap'n. Looking forward to part II.
Dave

Part II chapter one is already in the works, stay tuned!

I've just finished the whole escapade(took a couple of weeks) start to finish, and really enjoyed your story. You've got great perpective and descriptiveness.
Good luck with the old Duke project!

By the way, I transferred your story to word, just copy and paste, with putting in one space between paragraphs. I came up with 78 pages with 10 point font! Thats a long story! I don't think I have ever known of anyone, on any forum that did as much writing as you did, I can see why it took several months for you to write it.

Good job!

Please, post a picture or two of "The Duke"

By the way, I transferred your story to word, just copy and paste, with putting in one space between paragraphs. I came up with 78 pages with 10 point font! Thats a long story! I don't think I have ever known of anyone, on any forum that did as much writing as you did, I can see why it took several months for you to write it.

Good job!

Please, post a picture or two of "The Duke"

........and I enjoyed every damn word of it! Honestly, I don't know what to do with myself now.
Guess I'll have to really kick in the afterburner on part II.

A TALE OF TWO DUSTERS…….PART II

…Don’t know where we come from // Don’t know where we’re going to // But if any of us should have a reason // we would be the last to know……..
Steppenwolf

Straight out of the chute, this project got off on the wrong foot. Once I got the engine stripped down to the bare nubs, I realized I didn’t have enough money to complete the block work. Start it, yes. But this was more than a simple dip-and-hone. I’d left the crank in it’s cast-iron cradle to keep it from warping, but had removed the pistons and rods. Good thing I decided to open it up; several of the compression rings were stuck completely closed and one oil control ring broke as I removed the piston. I bagged and tagged everything and covered the block up on the stand, and set to work on the engine bay.
My first attempts at cleaning the rust spots off were wimpy and futile. I used an air grinder with 3M RoLoc discs, but it was like pissing on a forest fire to put it out. I tried to work around the K-frame, but it slowly dawned on me that it….along with the rest of the suspension…would have to come out, if I was gonna do this right.
Right then and there, the magnitude of this project smacked me right between the eyes.
Again, the hurdle was all mental. Once you’ve made the decision to shoot or not shoot, all that’s left is the squeezing of the trigger.
I squeezed it.
Meanwhile, the lifeless carcass of the motor had sat unmolested through the winter as I saved up my pennies and dimes for the engine work. In the spring of ’06 I finally called Tony and told him I’d be delivering the block.
I went to pull the crank, and was properly horrified to discover a film of rust on the rod journals as well as the cylinders. I silently (well, OK, aloud….though nobody was within earshot) cursed myself for leaving the opened-up motor sitting so long. My bad. The crank had been the one and only pristine part left on the motor…..nice going, doofus.
I delivered the motor to Tony and set upon the suspension, removing the entire K-frame and everything that attached to it, including the torsion bars in about a two week span. By this time, I’d found the FABO (For A-bodies Only) website, and the help the members gave me was (and remains) invaluable. After some suspenseful moments with the torsion bars, I got everything, including the K-frame, out.
Now I had room to work on this thing. I climbed in, sat down on an overturned 5 gallon pail, and got busy.
***
I had tried using brush-on rust converter on the bare metal pitting once I’d removed the surface rust. It hardened to a rough, hard black finish, but I was not happy with the end result. I happened to be up at the hardware store, looking for something different to use, when I saw a new product; Rust-Oleum spray-on rust converter.
Now, this was the ticket. It went on like flat black paint; in fact, that’s what it looked like. So, I bought a couple cans and headed home, gung-ho to try it out.
Now; how to get rid of the rust and the rough surfaces? I pondered this a while. Sandblasting? No….I’d have sand in every nook and cranny of the garage (not to mention the car). Chemical stripper? You’re nuts. Too much mess, plus you’ve gotta neutralize it. Electric drill with wire wheel? Naaaah….too much surface area. I’d have to buy ‘em by the gross (the wire wheels, that is). DA sander? Body grinder? Yeah, right….look at all the humps and bumps everywhere…that’ll go over like a lead balloon.
In the end, I settled on the old tried and true…..sandpaper. Regular old 100 grit rough-cut paper. I was amazed at how quickly it cut down the rust and peeling paint to bare metal, and smoothed out the rest of the paint. Once I’d got the rust off, I went over everything with 320, cleaned it off with denatured alcohol, and started spraying. It was a vast improvement. As fall and winter were coming on, I knew the rust converter would keep until spring, when I could shoot a coat of primer sealer. Maybe by then I’d have made up my mind for sure on a color.

***
The problem with the color thing is this; I want to paint this car the color it was when it left the factory; Winchester Metallic Grey. That’s the color of the doorposts, the underside of the deck lid, etc. And that’s the color it should be. It’s a nice looking color, although somewhat rare, from what I understand. All the more reason to go with the original, right? So what’s the problem?
The problem is, the l’il red minx looked so hot! I guess I need to keep telling myself that this is a new project; not the minx or the Duke, but an individual with a persona all it’s own. I wouldn’t even be worried about it at this point in the game; except that I have to decide on a color and shoot the engine bay before the motor goes in. What I mean is….I need to convince myself that painting the engine bay Winchester Metallic Grey is the way to go. And I know that it is. I just miss that red car so much sometimes…….

1) Engine, ready to yank like a bad tooth
2) Another shot
3) A dismaying sight...looks like I have my work cut out for me.

I decided I needed to get everything off the firewall and fender wells; proportioning valve, heater core, brake lines, master cylinder......you name it. The word here is "ground up" restoration. Off it came....

Here are a few more pictures taken after the motor was out.....and before I decided to really tear into the restoration. You can see the damage caused by battery acid and just plain sitting around under the tarp. You can also see that the brake lines and priority valve, while leak-free, intact and holding good pressure, are none too confidence inspiring. Better to do it right the first time around.

With a little bit o' luck and some help from the FABO team, I finally got the K-frame out!

Here is the K-frame as removed. I have a bit of work ahead of me.......

I'm new to the forum and have read the whole story in a couple hours, great reading can't wait to read the next chapter. There is definitly something in this story for everyone to relate to. Countless times while reading this I have found myself grinning and remembering times in my past.

Keep up the good work

Brambles

Countless times while reading this I have found myself grinning and remembering times in my past.


I'd love to hear about 'em! Don't be shy....you're among friends!

Chapter 2

Trouble in Motor City

Once I’d made the decision to yank the K frame, my life got a little easier. It’s agonizing over the decisions that make up the hard part. So I dove in to the deep end and started dismantling things.
It felt good to jack up the front end and yank off the wheels that hadn’t squealed on tarmac in twenty-something years. The front discs were surface-rusty but still in very good condition. This was a good thing, because I had every intention of using them over. I must admit I had some challenges when it came to extracting the torsion bars. I was a little unclear on the concept of how they actually bolted in, never having seen the business end of one before. And then, once I got the clips loose, I had to figure out a way to back them out of their respective hexagonal receivers without nicking or damaging them. Common sense told me to order the removal tool sold in the Year One catalog I had. Impatience told me the hell with that; I want these freakin’ things out NOW! In the end I compromised by jerry-rigging up a tool. I used a strip of ¼” thick rubber sheeting wrapped around the torsion bar and clamped a Vise Grips around it. Do I recommend this method? Nahh. Plan ahead. Buy the tool. But fortunately for me, the bars, while being a bit stubborn, weren’t rusted in and popped loose after a few good smacks on the Vise Grips with a ball-peen hammer. No damage done, no money spent. Now that’s my kind of bargain. And the best part was, they were lying out on the concrete the very same night I started on them, no waiting for tools to arrive. Pretty good, for having been in there for 35 years, no?
I had to break down and buy a pickle fork to separate the steering parts, but that was no big deal. I went to the Auto Zone down the road and was back wailing away within fifteen minutes. All in all, I had this thing gutted within a week or so and was ready to start in on the rust and corrosion.
I did have a few minutes of real fear when I put that big, honkin’ socket on the K-frame bolts with a ½” breaker bar and pulled…..to no avail. I hosed the threads on the four Big Mamoo bolts down with AeroKroil and scurried off to scrounge up a nice long piece of pipe from the basement. By the time I got back and put my cheater bar to use, it was almost anti-climactic; the AeroKroil had done it’s job, and they eased out with just a hint of a sigh of protest, like a hot knife through butter. My nightmares of snapped off bolts vanished like a leaf in a windstorm. Whew!
Then came the little stuff; all the “bits and pieces” attached here and there and everywhere, that were, quite frankly, in my way. Such as the clutch bell crank pivot, the front brake lines, priority valve, fuel line clamps, master cylinder, heater core, etc. It’s gut and slash, boys. Remove it if it ain’t welded on. It all went quicker than I expected, as did the actual sanding. Aside from making my finger tips sore as hell for the next three days, the sanding was easy, and done in a few days, as opposed to the chemical stripping or sandblasting that I’d considered previously. The primer/rust converter went on nicely as well. And before I knew it, I was looking at a primed/converted engine bay. Since I’d decided to wait until later for the primer/sealer and paint coats, and over the winter to do the front suspension/K-frame parts, I decided to turn my attention to the hunk of cast iron hanging mute on the stand. I was growing impatient.
***
Tony had now had the engine for a few weeks. Thankfully, the bores and pistons miked out fine, standard, which was a relief. Buying new forged slugs would’ve set me back a month or two. In the end, it really wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because a head-spinning turn of events was going to set me back, anyway.
The turn of which I speak involved the crank, and the original motor from The Duke. Remember that one? The early, oil-burning stove of a 340 that I’d yanked on my Christmas break way-back-when? I’d mentioned that the crank had sat with the rod journals unprotected over the winter. Well, Tony called and gave me the bad news; The crank was fine, but would have to be ground .010 under, due to the rust pitting. No big deal, but it was gonna set me back money-wise, and I was really pretty pissed at myself for allowing this to happen; it was, after all, my fault. I told him to do what he had to do. I’d come up with the extra scratch somewhere.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a thought struck me. Or, rather, kicked me in the ass. There on the floor of my garage sat the original motor from The Duke, sad, forlorn, neglected, and untouched since Jimmy Carter was in the White House, vintage unknown. I knew it wasn’t a ’72 due to the HiPerf manifolds and the Carter AVS perched on top. So, what WAS it? I got out a can of spray degreaser and started searching for numbers, with the Secret Ring Decoder chart provided in the front of my Year One catalog.
There on the side of the block was a date. I couldn’t quite make it out. I rubbed some more….still not clear. I grabbed a flashlight and angled the beam so the light would shadow the numbers…..could it be? No…..YES! They stood out clearly now, shaded in the light; 10-’69!
Holy Smokes! Jackpot! That means this block should have a forged crank, ten-and-a-half-to-one’s, and “X” heads with 2.02 intakes! But, what kind of condition would they be in after all these years? I might just have 400 pounds of scrap iron sitting there on the floor, for all I knew.
My heart was pounding now; it was late in the evening and I had to work the next day. But I just couldn’t wait. Not now. I turned up the volume on the radio and started spinning wrenches.
***
I worked late into the evening. I made short work of the rocker shafts and push rods, and began spinning out the head bolts. Then came the massive cast-iron square-bore intake. Uh oh…trouble here! Nestled underneath the manifold was one hell of a mousie nest, bathroom included. Little bastards….this could be messy. I cleaned up all the nest and mousie turds and carried on. I started on the right head first. It needed no coaxing to come off, and I could see the telltale blue signature of a FelPro gasket sandwiched underneath it. It popped right off with a simple tug, and I got my first peek inside the engine.
Eeeeewwww! Gross! The cylinders with the pistons down had a thick layer of surface rust on them ….resembling somewhat, the likeness of the inside of a boiler…from the Titanic, no less, dredged up from the bottom of the Atlantic, and thick enough that I’d never be able to rotate the crank. Well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I got started on the left head.
The left head took some doing. In fact, it was immediately obvious that the right head had been off once and the left head; never. Or at least, not for a long, long time. No tell-tale FelPro blue here; this one was…cheaper. My rubber mallet had no effect on it. A chunk of 2 x 4, likewise. Finally, I screwed a couple of intake bolts back in, and using these as a leverage point, and the 2 X 4 as a lever with the block as a fulcrum, the head gave way. But not without protest. The head gasket, which must have been cemented in place, literally tore itself asunder coming apart. The front left cylinder had entertained visitors. How mice were able to get inside a cylinder with heads on may still be a topic of discussion a thousand years from now, but they did.
Now that the heads were off, I flipped them over to examine them. They were, in fact 2.02 “X” heads. I’d seen ones in better shape, mind you. But they were genuine X heads, and that fact alone was encouraging.
I admit, that at this time, I briefly considered using these in place of my “J” heads…and then the voice of reason whispered in my ear that: 1) My J heads were already ported and polished, 2) they were cc’d to lower the compression ratio with those monster TRW pistons to a more…… reasonable… 11:1, 3) they were physically in much better shape than the X’s, with new guides and all and would be cheaper to rebuild, and last but not least, cc’ing yet another set of heads out for those piston domes would render them useless for any other flat top pistons I might choose down the line. A quick phone call to Tony in the morning netted yet another surprise; he told me the 1.88’s in the J heads would yield more torque down low (as in “street use”) and the 2.02’s wouldn’t help breathing much until you were way upstairs. That clinched it. I’d stick with the J’s with their 1.88’s and save the X heads for a rainy day.
But enough of this working on the floor stuff. I pulled the tranny and bell housing, then the clutch pack and flywheel. I bolted the rotator assembly from my now-empty-and-no-longer-a-virgin engine stand onto the back of the motor, and with the help of my son, hoisted it up and into the stand receiver. This was more like it! I placed a drip pan under the motor and swiveled it upside-down to let any remaining oil drain overnight.
***
I hardly slept that night, and work the next day seemed like torture; I could hardly concentrate, wanting to run home and rip into that motor like a monkey on a cupcake. I talked to Tony on the phone about the heads; that made me feel better. Then I asked him, that IF I found a forged crank in this thing, and IF it was any good, could I use it with this motor build? He said, absolutely, but I’d have to rebalance the entire rotating assembly. Cha-ching! Well, again, I’d cross that bridge….IF I came to it.
That night, after dinner, I trucked on out to the garage and turned on the radio. It was an unusually warm spring night; T-shirt weather, no less; and I ripped into that motor like a drug-sniffing canine working a Colombian “Jeffe”. The pan was off in about…oh, three seconds, give or take. Then the windage tray. The timing cover and gears followed suit. I stared at the counterweights, unsure of what I was seeing. They were certainly rough. Bits of casting flash were everywhere; on one of the rough parts behind a rod journal was a sharp stalagmite of iron that would probably take a finger off if you picked it up wrong. This could hardly be forged steel. I’d seen a forged crank once, and it was a thing of beauty to behold; all polished and smooth. The cast crank out of the Minx Motor looked better than this! Oh well, no stopping now. I was determined to get this motor stripped tonight.
It took a bit of doin’ to get the crank out without moving the pistons and rods to TDC, but somehow I managed. A kind of magical thing happened that night; electricity was in the air. I cracked open a Special Export, and then the radio did a funny thing; each night at 10:00 pm on this particular station they run a program called Ten at Ten; 10 songs from a particular featured year. That year that night just happened to be 1976….the very year I’d torn into the L’il Red Minx’s motor. The first song just happened to be The Boss, belting out “Thunder Road”, and suddenly I was thirty years younger, working on the Minx back in Dad’s garage in Mudsville; and my fingers began to fly unconsciously on their own as the oil smell and the music triggered memories long since forgotten and suddenly I was just there, man! Peter Frampton, Boz Scaggs, comin’ at me one right after another and I was so into it, so alive, my soul singing those Songs Of Thunder once again……. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
The disemboweled motor lay scattered in bits and pieces about me, with the exception of the pistons. Lord, it was after twelve o’clock! I sheepishly turned down the radio, which had without fanfare (or me even noticing) returned me to the present, hoping I hadn’t wakened the neighbors, and headed inside to clean up. It was, after all, a work day tomorrow. But not before turning the engine right-side-up again and filling the cylinders with copious amounts of AeroKroil. Do your work, I silently coaxed it. Do what you do, and save this block for another motor, another build, another day. I popped another Export, and as I turned at the door and looked at the Duster under the tarp, my finger poised on the light switch ready to engulf the garage in darkness once again, I thought I heard a gentle whisper….”Well, hello…….again”. But it might’ve been the breeze. Yeah, it might have been.
***
The Kroil might’ve helped some, but this piston stuff was no walk in the park. I wanted to be careful, as the pistons were in all probability nice 10 ½: 1’s and might still be salvageable. Several of them came out with little protest, some rather grudgingly, and then there were these two……well, let’s just say that after attacking the rust on the cylinder bores with coarse sandpaper, they still had to be literally pounded out of the bores with a five pound sledge hammer and a stout length of 2 X 2, wailing on it until the ends of the wood were splintered and mushroomed out. And even then it was not certain who would win. But give in, they did, at last; and as the pistons popped out of their bores one by one I marveled at the number of pieces the rings were in, some as many as six. I wondered if this was the cause of the oil burning problem, or the chunks of valve seals I’d found in the pan, or both? No matter. Once the pistons were out, I was even more amazed to find little or no “step” at the top of the cylinder. I certainly needed no ridge reamer for any of the pistons, broken rings or not. No way these cylinders had 100,000 miles on them. No way. So, somewhere in The Duke’s past, it had received a heart transplant; a ’69 340 with a Carter AVS, HiPerf cast exhaust manifolds and all that went with it. If cars could only talk. What a tale The Duke might have to share with me! But, dead men tell no tales, it’s said, and The Duke was long gone, nothing but this sun-bleached skeleton of a once-deadly gunfighter lying in state, silent as the grave, in my garage.

I'd love to hear about 'em! Don't be shy....you're among friends!


I definitely wasn't given the gift of entertaining story telling, quite often the words flow through my mind like an OPERA but when I open my mouth I end up with RAP????? eeewwwweeee

Its funny how a certain song will bring back memories as clear as they were ages ago. There is a certain song that reminds me of when I was 16 and installing a 8 3/4 diff under my 72 swinger laying on my back in the dirt driveway during summer break. The trunk open and inside it was the house stereo and an extension cord, tunes cranked and pullin wrenches. Sure miss that car..


Keep up the good work, glad to hear that work had started back up on "the duke" you had me worried..

Brambles

Some pix of the Mousie Motel 6... "We'll leave a valve open for ya".......

Damn, those pictures are depressing me, I can imagine how you felt. By the way, rust dissolver from Eastwood works really well, It could have helped you with getting those pistons out. Also, LPS makes a new rust breaker called KB-88, I tried some I got as samples, it works awesome! Best stuff yet.

Yeah, but bear in mind that this motor is nothing more than a parts donor at this point in time! Better things yet to come!

Here are a few pix of the forged crank, after Tony did his thing, and I after did my thing to the counterweights.

You know, you are like a $5 crack dealer, just giving us enough to keep us coming back every day!

You know, you are like a $5 crack dealer, just giving us enough to keep us coming back every day!


That's how he keeps his captive audience. :thumbup: Or his audience captive?? :sleepy3:

You know, you are like a $5 crack dealer, just giving us enough to keep us coming back every day!

That's the whole idea, my friend! :blob:

Here are a couple of pix of the engine bay wearing the Rust-Oleum rust converter, which sprays on in nice even coats like a flat-black primer; easy to use with good coverage.

Chapter 3

Yank my Crank!

Now that I had the object of my desire in my hands, the whole damn reason I’d begun this crusade in the first place, the crank……I looked it over carefully. Yes, it was a rough piece of metal, not nearly as smooth as the cast crank I’d pulled out of the Minx Motor. But it felt heavier, somehow; more solid. It might be my imagination, but I don’t think so. The journals had some minute wear-grooves on them; they’d need work, but definitely salvageable. My greatest fear of mousie-outhouse-induced corrosion was non-existent. After twenty five years of sitting, there wasn’t a speck of rust on the crank, anywhere.
The next Saturday I loaded the crank up and shot up to see Tony. I walked in cradling this thing wrapped in a towel like a newborn baby, and I didn’t even have to set it down on the counter for Tony to I.D. it. Tony took one look at it and said, “Oh yeah, that’s definitely a forged crank. Nice piece!” Wow. I’d hit the Mother Lode this time!
Tony called me the next day and said the crank had miked out fine; he’d have to grind it .010 under though, to remove the grooves. I gave him the go-ahead, silently wondering which bank I should rob. Now I had TWO cranks ground 10-under. I inquired about the flashing present on the counterweights. Tony said that it wouldn’t really hurt anything, but that cleaning it up would help the crank weights to shed oil; that is, prevent oil from clinging to the counterweights at higher RPM. I asked him to hold off on grinding the flashing off of the crank; that I’d like to do that part myself as I knew it was a fairly simple, yet labor-intensive job. And it needed to be done before the assembly was balanced. He concurred, and I drove up Wednesday and picked up the crank I’d just delivered.
I ground off as much flash as I dared, and smoothed the rough surfaces of the weights. I used a carbide bit (a.k.a. “Screaming Ball Of Death”) and coarse (brown) RoLoc discs, as well as hand files. In the end, I guess I did about as much metal removal as anyone would have dared to, under the circumstances (those being that I was just guessing at this whole process). After all, I didn’t want to weaken it or throw the balance off. Then I wrapped it back up in it’s swaddling clothes like a little forged steel papoose and ran it back up to Tony again.
***
It wasn’t long before I got another phone call from Tony. I think they should make a telephone with a ring tone of a cash register. Every time he called…..Cha-ching! Sorta like Automatic checking. Perhaps I should have just left my ATM card with him…..
Seems the flywheel I’d brought him, off the ’69 had been polished and cleaned up….and had many, many little cracks over the surface. He said it would probably be fine for pass car useage…but NOT a 400 HP street/strip motor. Big sigh……How much is a new one?
Tony figured around two/two-fifty for a Hays flywheel. Cha-ching! I told him I’d get back to him the next day.
Now, this really sucked. I couldn’t use the Minx’s flywheel because it was for a cast crank; the bolt pattern and balancing were different. Now, don’t ask me how or why, but if you’ll go back and look at my pix of the Buell on the lift, in one of them you can just barely make out the ’69 motor on the garage floor in the background. And perched on top of it is a ….flywheel?
Yep. A flywheel. I’m not even sure where it came from. Most likely from the Valiant Little 318 That Could. The “Late Sixties” 318 that could. As in…forged, not cast, crank? Do we have a donor match? Why, yes, doctor. It’s a match. Now, what are the odds of that? Probably about the same as a mouse getting inside a cylinder with the heads still bolted on, but….stranger things HAVE happened. We have proof…..
After many weeks of waiting, I finally got the phone call from Tony. The block, crank, rods and pistons were ready for pickup. The flywheel atop the Motel d’Mousie I’d found, along with being a donor match, was in excellent condition. Now all I had to do was figure out how to pay for it. The original, simple quote for the lower end machining along with rings and bearings, had escalated from an easy $350.00 to a whopping $900.00. And that wasn’t really in the budget….
***
It never is, is it? In the budget, I mean. That’s why this project is on the “five year plan”. With an option to extend. That’s right. I’m in no hurry to get this thing done, even though I am. What!? What I meant to say was, I won’t let my blind ambition get ahead of my spending ability. We discussed this before. Besides, that allows me time to spin these amusing yarns. If I had an unlimited bank account, I’d be working on the car all the time instead of writing amusing short stories. Rather, I enjoy plugging away at my project, doing as much of the work myself as possible, shooting pictures up the wazoo and doing play-by-play anecdotes for all of you to share. Sort of like telling campfire tales, if you will. (without the marshmallows). And campfire tales are free, not to mention fun. But moving on……….
I finally managed to scrape up enough money to go pick up my parts from Tony. I felt like Lincoln, freeing the slaves. Or Moses leading his people out of bondage, Tony being Pharaoh. And we parted the Red Sea (the covers of my checkbook) and crossed the desert in my beat-up Jeep Cherokee and I brought my people forth from bondage down into the basement workshop where it was warm.(and not 14 degrees, which was the high today)!
Now, wait a minute, you’re thinking. Didn’t you do this “basement” thing once before? You and that Howard guy?
(Damn your sharp memory!)
Ahh….yes. BUT….there’s a method to my madness this time. See, I can do all the assembling and ring-fitting and bearing Plasti-gauging, and all that crap in the basement, in relative warmth and comfort, then mark and disassemble everything and bag it. When warmer weather breaks and my K-frame is back in the car, I can reassemble things out in the garage knowing it will all fit. Now, I hope I won’t be writing amusing stories about this next year, because it sounds like a perfectly good plan at this particular point in time, but then they always do, don’t they?
***
So what’s in YOUR wallet? I’ll tell you what’s in mine…..a bunch of moths, that’s what. Now usually, I’m the kinda guy who, when he opens his wallet, Washington squints at the light because he’s been in the dark so long. Well, all my Dead Presidents have gone to live at Tony’s house now, and it will be interesting to see how this affects the project. If I were to do everything on this motor the way I want to, it may be a long time coming. If I don’t, I may not be happy with the end results. For example; I had decided a couple weeks ago that I wanted a six-pack induction setup. In the worst way, I might add. All well and fine. There are several places that sell complete smallblock packages for as little as $1,700.00. Now, that’s a chunk of change to spend on an induction system. For that matter, it’s a chunk of change to spend on anything. But even more so if you have other (rather important) engine work left to do, such as heads, cam and lifter selection, ignition upgrades, etc. And I haven’t even mentioned the rest of the car yet! See where I’m going with this? So I’m realizing that, while I’d love to have the ultimate car of my dreams, I’m going to have to make some compromises and sacrifices along the way. Because I don’t have another thirty years to play with. By then I’ll probably be maneuvering about in a Hoveround, trying to get to the bathroom before I pee in my Depends.
So I’m changing the game plan some; I still need to build a 12-second motor; that much I’ve established. A bad-ass motor, no doubt. Better than the last one; nothing less will do. But not at the expense of never finishing it. I need to keep reminding myself that the L’il red minx was damn near a twelve-second car…..thirty years ago. As was The Duke after the minx motor transplant. Hopefully any improvements I make this time ‘round will go one better. So, I’ll have to economize and adapt as I go along. And for now, that means the six pack gets shelved. $1,700.00 will buy a lot of engine parts.
“You ain’t a just a-whistlin’ Dixie…”
Clint Eastwood, The Outlaw Josie Wales

***

Chapter 3

Yank my Crank!

I’ll have to economize and adapt as I go along. And for now, that means the six pack gets shelved. $1,700.00 will buy a lot of engine parts.
“You ain’t a just a-whistlin’ Dixie…”
Clint Eastwood, The Outlaw Josie Wales

***

Dual Quads? About $600 with used Edelbrock 600 carbs, then you will have an 8-pack!

DOH! I guess they only make them for big blocks. Sorry.

Ironically enough, PAW does list, under the "classic designs" manifold section (translation; old, obsolete, for collectors who don't care about performance, rather...looks) an Offenhauser 2X4 manifold. The notes state that it will ONLY fit Carter AFB design carbs. By the time I'm done buying all that stuff, I'll have dubious performance specs and a truckload of money into the induction system. Somehow I don't think of eight butterflies standing on end when you mash the throttle as being the most efficient induction system on a street car; hence the six-pack idea. What might be nice is a couple of TQ's end-to end. Anyway, I'll figure that out later, I guess.

Chapter 4

“Ghost in the Machine”

….”I DO believe in spooks…I do, I do, I DO!”
The Cowardly Lion; The Wizard of Oz

Ghosts; funny things, they are. People have been recording tales of ghost and spirits since, well, since man first put pencil to paper (or papyrus, for that matter). Now, I’ve heard some interesting ghostly tales in my time. One in particular that comes to mind is that of my sister’s ex-boyfriend David (who lived down the road from SuperMan, the original owner of the L’il Red Minx, you recall, from part one of this Tale Of Epic Proportions). David lived an old farmhouse sort of out in the boonies. The barn and whatever else was part of the farm was long-gone, just the house and a ramshackle shed-thing remained with a rather large tract of wooded land next to their property. David had all kinds of tales to tell, many of them involving the fact that the farmhouse he lived in was haunted. No, really haunted. Things being moved around, scary noises in the night, things like that. One tale in particular still stands out in my mind.
The house David lived in had been built in the late 1800’s. Supposedly, during the late twenties or early thirties the owner, by then a reclusive old widower, had died while sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of milk, dressed in his skivvies and a tank-top tee shirt (now commonly referred to as a “wife-beater”). I’m not sure how David knew this; whether by his own research or word of mouth, or whatever. He never told me that. I don’t believe he made it up though; all his neighbors seemed to know the stories, too. At any rate, one night a bunch of us had been knocking back a few. Somehow we got on the subject of “sperrits”…..not the kind we were drinking, mind you…..and we were telling these tales we’d heard of, and then David gets real serious all of a sudden and starts to tell us this tale. At the time just he and his mother were living at the house. His mom had come down with a serious case of indigestion in the middle of the night and had gone into the kitchen to get some sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) and water. As she turned from the sink, she swears she saw an old man, bald as a cue ball on top with long, scraggly locks down the back, sitting at the kitchen table. She screams and drops the glass, shattering it into a million little shards on the kitchen floor, and runs out of the kitchen. About this time, David is awakened by the noise and sees his mom come high-tailing it into the living room, screaming bloody murder. He grabs the shotgun from his room (remember, this was a farmhouse in a different era, folks….you could keep a loaded shotgun in the house and not be considered “armed and dangerous” with an “arsenal” at your disposal) and asks his mom what’s wrong. She can barely get the words out. Grasping the shotgun in a death-grip choke hold, he cautiously approaches the kitchen and peers inside.
OK, you’re thinking; now here comes the funny part….the punch line! That’s what we were thinking, anyway. He continued the story. When he peered into the kitchen, he saw exactly what his mother had seen….right down to the last detail. He stared at the old man. And the old man turned and looked him square in the eyes. And what he saw in those eyes was not real….or holy. And being seventeen and having a loaded shotgun between his quaking mitts, he did what any of us would’ve done in a similar situation. He threw the shotgun on the floor, turned and high-tailed it out of the kitchen, almost knocking his mother down in the process. The two of them ran out the house, jumped in the car, drove to the neighbor’s house and called the county sheriff.
They cautiously returned with the sheriff an hour or so later. Everything was as they’d left it; shotgun on the floor, door still open, etc. Except…..there is a glass of milk sitting on the table.
Now, the only way someone could’ve gotten in the kitchen without walking past their open bedroom doors was to come in through the back door, or a window. The sheriff walks all around the house; all secure. No tracks in the snow around the back stoop or windows. Nothing. Just a glass of milk……..still cold.
So we’re looking at him with these half-cocked grins on our faces waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t. And I, for one, can see the color had drained from his face, and hear the tremor in his voice. And I can feel the little hairs on the nape of my neck standing up and I’ve got goosebumps. For real. Whether or not this actually happened doesn’t matter…he believed it did. That much we could see. That much a blind man could see.
Neither one of them could stand to be in that house alone after that, and shortly thereafter his mother sold the farm and bought a little house in town. Creepy.
Why bring all this up? Well, as far as ghosts and “sperrits” go, I’ve never seen one. No floating shadows, objects spinning through the air. I’ve never heard one either; no ghostly moans, insane laughter, clanking chains, etc. Until tonight, that is……

***
So now that I have your rapt, undivided attention, allow me to explain. OK, so I didn’t have an intake manifold hurl itself through the air at me, or see my Hurst shifting itself or see my crankshaft floating through the air spinning around and around (that would be really cool, though). Actually, I didn’t see anything. I heard something. I heard a voice from the grave.
This was not the voice of Jacob Marley, (or Bob Marley, for that matter), or even the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present or Future. Nor that of Yorick, (alas), nor any of the famous spirits we all know and love. No, this was a voice I knew quite well.
“Well, it’s about time you got busy. Saddle up! We’re burning daylight!”……
(this, as my finger was poised at the garage light switch preparing to engulf the garage in darkness again)……John Wayne? The Duke? But…. you’re……
“I’m WHAT, pilgrim? Say it. Say it, and I’ll shove those words right back down your throat!”
Ummm…What I meant to say is, you were sleeping…..
“Does it LOOK like I’m sleeping? Let’s MOVE!”
I told you with all honesty that I’d let you know if and when this car revealed it’s true identity to me. And I knew that it would….eventually. I had no idea at the time that The Duke was still present in that hulk under the tarp. I though, like the real Duke, that identity was dead and buried. But I needed no glass of milk on the table to prove anything…..this thing spoke to me. In John Wayne’s voice. And as I switched off the light that night, I swear I heard the whirring, ratcheting sound of a six-gun cylinder being spun behind me…….

Richard Boone: “Who’re you?”
John Wayne: “Jacob McCandles”
RB: “I thought you was dead”
JW: “Not hardly…….”
John Wayne, "Big Jake"

***

I have not read that much at one set down in a long time, And I will not say how long it took me inn,and would not let me go!!
Captainkirk,Thank's for the good read .
The Duke would be proud,
Congrad's on the motor.

Part II, Chapter 5

“New Beginnings”
Who knew? After all this time, The Duke pops up alive and well in my garage! Drowsy, grumpy, but alive and well, just the same. There was no longer a question now of what color to paint the car….now it HAD to be Winchester Metallic Grey. Chew on that one for a moment and you’ll see why. I mean, Duke…..Winchester…..well, you get the idea. This was exciting. Now I had identity to work with; to model this “build” around. See, the original Duke was simply a “transplant”. A gunslinger with a heart transplant from a l’il red minx. This time it would be a ground-up creation. And the thought processes are truly delicious.
The first order of business was, of course, the very heart of the matter….the motor, to be exact. I was starting fresh, so to speak. The block, pistons, crank and rods were back from Tony’s. And this was a good place to start. I was beginning the build with a bare cast block with standard 4.04 bore, using the same TRW forged slugs as before. Tony had set me up with new Speed Pro rings, and balanced the forged crank, rods, and pistons along with the resurfaced flywheel and damper as an assembly. I thought this was as good a place to start as any. In February of ’07 I brought one of my heads to Tony for an evaluation of the previous port work and for him to determine the actual cc volume of the heads using the TRWs and adjust accordingly with head gasket thickness and additional cc’ing, if necessary. After a few moments of consideration, I chose a color for the build. Let’s see….Chevy Orange, Chrysler Orange, Ford Blue, Ford Red, Black, or Pontiac Blue. It was not a hard decision. I left with two cans of Pontiac Blue, the memories of the minx and The Duke fresh in my mind.
There were still many considerations yet to be made. Induction was one of them. I’m still dying for a Chrysler Six Pack setup, but other parts and pieces come first. The next decision in line was the cam. Tony looked at my cam briefly, and agreed that it was in decent shape. But the problem was, the lifters weren’t. Tony explained that mixing an older cam with new lifters could bring disastrous results, and also that the cam grinds today were much better suited toward a particular build, and that once we’d dialed in the compression ratio, head work already done (and any we might do), along with the proposed induction system and ignition, that we could dial in a new cam selection much better suited to my particular build and chassis/drive train. I reluctantly agreed to shelf the old bumpstick upon which so many unbelievable memories rested, and forge onward. This was, after all, a new dawn, a new era, a new build…..and a New Duke.
While Tony was busy playing with the cylinder head, I turned my attention to the induction possibilities. Yes, a Six Pack would be the most awesome induction system I could perch atop this mountain. Without a doubt. But the costs are staggering for a builder on a budget. Yes, I could obtain a totally new system for about $1800.00. But $1800.00 will buy an awful lot of engine and body work, and I know it. So….time to review the facts as they are.
The Holley 650 double pumper worked very well. I had it tuned down to a ‘T’ for the system I was running. But those were different times, as they say. Different manifold, different cam, and possibly different headwork. I’ve been told that the Torker 340 is a dinosaur from a era long gone by, and that I should strongly consider a dual plane manifold such as a Weiand Stealth or Edelbrock RPM Air Gap. For carbs, I have the Holley 650 DP, the original Carter ThermoQuad, and the Carter AVS off The Duke’s original motor to choose from as well as any other multitude of new era carbs available, such as the Demon carbs, ProForm, Quick Fuel……the list goes on. All I have to do now is choose! I must admit, I’ve become rather intrigued with the look of the ThermoQuad recently. With it’s small, torquey primaries, and secondaries the size of a pie tin, I must admit my curiosity is running wild. And there’s no saying I can’t try ‘em all out and see which works the best, either! Man, this could be a whole lotta fun! In fact, I could experiment between carbs and manifolds if I wanted, with little more than a gasket change. This is getting to sound more delicious every second for a motorhead like me.

For those of you still following this thread.....I'm working on it. Be patient. More to come, shortly! :coffee2:

Part II, Chapter 6

“Pieces of Eight”

Pieces of Eight. That’s what the pirates of yore called their treasure. Well, I had a treasure of my own; my own “Pieces of Eight”.
Vee-eight, that is. In my basement workshop, (if you could call it that; more like a walled-off junk room, truth be told…) in many pieces, riding out the winter snows. The thing about having a motor in your basement, rather than “out in the garage”, is that you have a lot of “pondering time”……..that is, lots of time to stare at the pieces and dream your dreams about what was, was is, and what could be. This is the next dance, the second time around for this motor. I don’t want to re-make any mistakes I’d made before, and I certainly want to maximize this little mill’s potential….better than last time, if possible. Winter in the Land O’ Lincoln is a bad time for outside projects, unless you’ve got a fully heated, well equipped shop to work in….and not a garage with no heat and ankle-deep snow to trudge through every time you get a hankering to go play with things. (Or, a workshop in which to assemble an engine, which once assembled is too heavy to carry out. But then we’ve been down this road, remember…..) Which is what I have. An outside garage, that is. And until I get the place plumbed for heat, that icebox of a garage is no friendly winter retreat, trust me.
So, the pieces sit silently, unprotesting, in the basement, waiting for the Robins of Spring to burst forth in song….and for me to start assembling things. Meanwhile, my mind is racing with ideas and questions, like; Which cam? Which carb and intake combo? Stock heads or aftermarket? Stock rockers and valve train, or high-dollar bling? Stock Chrysler electronic distributor or aftermarket? All valid questions, the answers to be dictated more by the almighty dollar than simple choice or preference.
But I’m trying to shove all that under the rug for now, and concentrate on the bottom end of this motor. So that means the cam will have to be the next big decision I have to make, and Tony already talked me out of reusing the old cam. So, I guess the cam is the Next Big Thing.
I’ve think I’ve also decided to get a new oil pan. The pan off the ’69 motor is in decent shape, and the minx motor pan is dented from sources unknown, (although I think I know the source and he used to live here once!) but reusing either pan would involve cleaning, stripping and blasting, then repainting. This seems like a major P.I.T.A. to me; I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting lazy in my old age. But it seems I can get a new steel pan for around 50 bucks or so, paint it, and slap it on. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, what’s your free time worth?
The block and crank still lie slumbering all cozy and undisturbed in their plastic sleeping bags in the basement. I know well the futility of starting something before it should be started; I have to get the block outside to paint it, and I don’t have the gasket set, cam or timing chain kit yet. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie, I guess. Warm weather will get here soon enough. In the mean time, though, my project is going nowhere fast. Which doesn’t leave much in the way of pictures or witty text to keep you faithful readers hooked.

So in the mean time, I’ll ramble….I’ll tell you a bedtime story. Did I ever tell you the story of the winter of ’77, when it was colder than a witches tit and I was cruisin’ around in the l’il red minx with the Valiant Little 318 That Could? Of course I didn’t. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be telling you now. So, anyway, Once Upon A Time, I worked at a place that had the parking lot (for employees) out back…butting up against a garbage landfill. Man, during the summer that place reeked to high heaven! The smell wasn’t so bad in the frozen clutches of Ol’ Man Winter, but garbage landfills are usually devoid of trees and buildings (duh!) and thus make a fairly good wind tunnel when the occasion arises. Well, one particularly brutally cold winter night, (the temp was rumored to be dropping down to twenty below that night without the wind chill factor, which was substantial, as there were twenty MPH winds that night), I had to work, regardless of the temp, and fired up the minx (which started without hesitation!) and motored my way to work, heater and defrost blowing on max but still never really getting the chill out of the air. I got to work in the late afternoon, with the sun still on the horizon, a brilliant glowing orange orb in a cloudless, crystaline sky, with air so cold it fairly crackled, your breath jetting out in little tendrils of steam like a quarterhorse trotting about in a pasture on a cold winter’s day. My feet and fingers were totally numb by the time I arrived at work, the Hurst feeling like a block of ice even through my winter gloves. (Dusters were never known for their outstanding heat systems and mine was no exception). Usually I’d back into a parking space for a quick exit when work was finished…I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Tonight I was running late, so I nosed it into a spot alongside the dumpster facing the open expanse of the landfill and hurried inside.
I finished my shift around 9:30 pm and stepped outside onto a frozen tundra of a parking lot. Holy crap, was it cold! The stars stood out like brilliant little diamonds in a sea of inky blackness, shimmering in the cold. There was no moon that night, and save for the lights of the building around me, it was dark and still as the inside of a tomb. Nobody ventured forth that night unless they had to. The minx made all kinds of squeaky protesting noises as I climbed in and shut the door, and then I found the door latch didn’t want to catch, so cold was the grease, so I spent several frantic minutes wrestling with the stupid latch mechanism before it finally caught and held. Damn! My fingers were numb to the bone already, and covered with frozen grease from the latch. I smeared the grease on my pants, hurriedly thrust my frozen fingers back into my ice-cold gloves, popped the tranny into neutral and turned the key.
Well, I thought for a few moments I was done for…..that little 318 turned so slow I never thought it would catch….but it did, (it always did!) and soon it was perking away merrily. The gear oil in the tranny was so thick I had to wait for the motor to warm up some, so I shifted it back to neutral and let out the clutch to stir the pot a bit. Finally I could move it somewhat freely and backed out, the rear end howling in anguished protest.
I don’t think I got maybe four or five miles down the road before I noticed (with more than a little bit of alarm) the water temp gauge moving a lot closer to redline than I was comfortable with. That was right before I noticed the steam, and smelled glycol. Yep, you guessed it. Split radiator. Pissing antifreeze like a drunken sailor in a parking lot. This was in the days before cell phones, and I don’t mind telling you the thought of walking in 20 below winter weather didn’t make me all warm and fuzzy. Fortunately for me, I happened to have an unopened gallon of Prestone in the trunk. I had about ten miles to go, so I just kept rolling until the temp gauge hit redline, then pulled over and popped the hood with the engine still running. I popped the rad cap, burning the living crap out of my fingers in the process, despite the rags I’d bunched up around it, and stuffed the cap in my coat pocket for safekeeping. I figured if I left the cap off, I could keep the pressure down, and maybe, just maybe I could milk it home. I grabbed the Prestone from the trunk and dumped the whole gallon down the chute. When I’d climbed back in, the needle was off the peg and heading downward, so I popped it in gear and started off again. Within a couple miles it was back kissing the redline again.
It was clear I wouldn’t make it….I was still 3 miles from home and I could barely see through all the steam. Then, salvation! A gas station, still open at this time of night! (Most gas stations didn’t stay open 24 hours back then)
Leaving the steaming motor running, I sprinted inside and spent my last 5 bucks on a gallon of no-name antifreeze and the guy loaned me a watering can full of water from the closed-and-dark shop area. I dumped in the antifreeze and then poured in water until it was pouring out the top of the radiator like a bubbling green volcano. I guessed maybe I’d better put the cap back on if I wanted to keep any of the green lava. I put the cap back on, but didn’t go full-tight with it, and hopped back in crossing my fingers.
The temps were back down to normal as I headed off into the frigid night. No more gas stations between here and Home Free, so this had better be good. By the first mile, the temps were climbing back towards redline again. Mile two, temps peaked and rolling steam like a locomotive. By the time I made the driveway, the minx was bucking and jerking like a rodeo bronc and I was seriously questioning my choice of actions, praying I hadn’t fried the little motor or blown a head gasket as I rolled up in front of the garage, billowing steam like HMS Titanic leaving port. I was frozen, my fingers and toes numb, with blisters on my hand from the steam burns…..but I was home! When I shut it down, it dieseled for a minute or two, as if trying to decide if it wanted to keep running, then finally gasped like a dying asthmatic jogger lying on the shoulder of the road breathing his last and shuddered to a halt.
Next morning I surveyed the damages. The radiator was split open like a frozen can of Pepsi you forgot in the freezer overnight, green PopSicles hanging from the radiator like some freaky frozen jungle moss and a large, green pool underneath resembling a Lime Slurpee that little Bobby just dropped on the floor of the Seven-Eleven. Now, the car had been winterized for 20 below according to the chart on the back of the Prestone gallon jug, (so nice of them to put that there!) as well as with the special hydrometer I had for checking such things. They say wind chill only affects humans, but I can’t help but wonder what part that 20 MPH hurricane screeching across that open landfill played in splitting my radiator open like a ripe watermelon? Regardless, I avoid parking any of my cars nose-into-the-wind when it’s below zero; or I nose up to a building, another car, fence, anything when it’s unavoidable. Even a herd of cows would do. Actually, that might be preferable, as those things are good for about 1000 watts apiece!
So, a re-cored radiator and a couple hundred dollars later, the minx was back in biz, no harm done and her owner just a tad wiser (the radiator was now stoked for forty below!)
And they all lived happily ever after!

Did you all enjoy your bedtime story? :read2:

Yeah, but you are killing me, I am dying to see a picture of your Duster, past and present. You need a digital camera!

Man this is great!!!!!!!!

Yeah, but you are killing me, I am dying to see a picture of your Duster, past and present. You need a digital camera!

I have a digital camera. I'll try to post some pix of the Duke this weekend if I can get out and take some shots. Don't have any pix of the minx....sorry!

Yea I have to see this guy's ride.

Anybody up for another bedtime story?

Am I missing something? I have been up for days waiting. :scratch:

That was a good read Capt. I will take another story since you don't have a pic.

I just read this entire thread and am most impressed. Great read! Your little story stirred up MANY memories for me too. Why? 'Cause I was there in Tulsa at the same time you were. <grin> A&P school, huh? Was it Spartan School of Aeronautics? I worked at the McDonnell Douglas plant at Tulsa International Airport from '78 to '92.

I moved to Tulsa from KC, Mo in 1977 and spent many a night on Peoria Street in my youth. I don't remember your car specifically, but I remember some cars you memtioned. If fact, I have old snapshots of the Peoria at night the weekend the Street Machine Nationals were in town. I'll have to dig those out and scan them to post here. I might jog your memory with a few of my stories and pics.

You mentioned a AAR 'Cuda and a T/A Challenger. I had a B3 blue T/A Challenger I re-built from a wreck (Big story there) and used to hang with a guy named John D. who had a orange AAR in 1979. My daliy driver was a '71 Winchester Gray Charger Super Bee, 440-6 4 speed. Remember any of those cars?

Anyway, I don't want to hijack your thread anymore, so when I get the pics out of the attic and scanned, I'll post them and a story in another thread. Don't expect great wordsmanship from me though, lol. See what you started!

Well Cap, it's good to have another installment of your ongoing saga to read.. of course it's sort of like being addicted to crack since I now can't wait for the next chapter. Keep up the good work. Good clean entertainment is hard to find these days!!

Yep, it was Spartan! So what are the chances we might've even been in the same class....whoa! (who were some of your teachers....if you can remember?)
The AAR-T/A Brothers cars were both red (which is why I called 'em brothers) but being down on Peoria in that time frame.....you know what I was talkin' about. I was a great time to be alive!
As for the bedtime story, nobody said boo so I figured you might be growing weary of my rantings. I guess I'll have to write another one now.

im ready for another story! bring it on captain!!

Hang tight boys.....I'm workin' it.

I just read this entire thread and am most impressed. Great read! Your little story stirred up MANY memories for me too. Why? 'Cause I was there in Tulsa at the same time you were. <grin> A&P school, huh? Was it Spartan School of Aeronautics? I worked at the McDonnell Douglas plant at Tulsa International Airport from '78 to '92.

I moved to Tulsa from KC, Mo in 1977 and spent many a night on Peoria Street in my youth. I don't remember your car specifically, but I remember some cars you memtioned. If fact, I have old snapshots of the Peoria at night the weekend the Street Machine Nationals were in town. I'll have to dig those out and scan them to post here. I might jog your memory with a few of my stories and pics.

You mentioned a AAR 'Cuda and a T/A Challenger. I had a B3 blue T/A Challenger I re-built from a wreck (Big story there) and used to hang with a guy named John D. who had a orange AAR in 1979. My daliy driver was a '71 Winchester Gray Charger Super Bee, 440-6 4 speed. Remember any of those cars?

Anyway, I don't want to hijack your thread anymore, so when I get the pics out of the attic and scanned, I'll post them and a story in another thread. Don't expect great wordsmanship from me though, lol. See what you started!
I just re-read your thread and realized you didn't go to Spartan, just lived/worked in Tulsa. Yes, it's possible we bumped into each other on Peoria, or at least saw the same magic happening at the time. You wouldn't have seen the L'il Red Minx because by the time I found Peoria Street she was already being made into Pepsi cans, no doubt. Now, The Duke, you may have seen. Winchester Metallic Grey with blacked out hood. Rallye wheels, with a foot-happy throttle jockey behind the wheel. :twisted:
Ahhh, the memories!

wish i coulda been around for those times!

I just re-read your thread and realized you didn't go to Spartan, just lived/worked in Tulsa. Yes, it's possible we bumped into each other on Peoria, or at least saw the same magic happening at the time. You wouldn't have seen the L'il Red Minx because by the time I found Peoria Street she was already being made into Pepsi cans, no doubt. Now, The Duke, you may have seen. Winchester Metallic Grey with blacked out hood. Rallye wheels, with a foot-happy throttle jockey behind the wheel. :twisted:
Ahhh, the memories!


No, I didn't go to Spartan, but knew lots of people who did. I'm sure we crossed paths on Peoria and witnessed the same great street action. Do you remember the Saturday night when the Street Machine Nationals were in town at the Tulsa Convention Center in 1979? It was PACKED! Solid 4 lanes of cool cars from 11th to 71st on Peoria. We usually hung out at Bud's Thriftywise parking lot cuz thats where John D. (Orange AAR) worked.

Ok, Ok I have pics! I'll try and post them here.

The first pic is of John's AAR in the World of Wheels Show 1979 Very nice and well kept car for 9 years old. John still has it.

The next pic is of a Saturday afternoon meeting of our un-official Peoria Mopar Club. You can see my T/A and John's AAR with a great group of classic Mopars. The blue '68 GTX is my friend Ed S. from K.C., MO down to visit me in Tulsa. Recognize any of the cars?

The next couple are of my T/A just after I got the stripes on after paint. God I miss that car! I re-built it in 1979 after buying it wrecked in 1977. 340-6 4speed, Ralley Dash, 3.91, B-3 blue, w/louvers and black - black/white hounds tooth cloth interior. Rare piece that was doomed to be wrecked again. <cry>. I didn't wreck it. It passed down a couple of owners and was the victim of a DUI. It was totaled. The whole story of this car would take another thread. Maybe later.

The last two are of my 71 Charger Super Bee just after purchase. Original 383 4-speed console, A4 Winchester Gray Metallic, Black - Black/Orange cloth interior. I tranplanted a 440-6 in it in 1977. I drove that car till late 1979 when I traded it to John for a 68 Dart GTS 340 4-speed. I believe his brother still has it in Tulsa.

Yes, great great memories. As my memory improves, I'm sure I can dredge up some more. That's all for now.
All the best,

those are some fine looking cars you have there

those are some fine looking cars you have there


You mean HAD. I'd love to have them all back, but life makes you make decisions you regret later, but were the best for you at the time. If I hadn't sold the cars, I'd never gone back to college.
But thanks much for the kind comment. Glad you like them. I had a blast finding and scanning the old pics. I'll post more with stories later.

Whoa.....flashback!
The 'Cuda looks identical to the T/A Brothers I saw on Peoria, but I believe they were Tor-Red. Regardless, a bitchin' car!
Thanks so much for the pix. I really wish I'd taken the time to snap a few, but I was too busy going to school and being rowdy, I guess.
I'm thinking you've got a lot of good stories tucked away under your hat, and I urge you to let 'em out. Start writing. Just start doodling in Word and take your time. Proof it, re-write as necessary and attach the files when you're good and ready. You'll be amazed at what comes crawling out from under the rocks, I promise you that. And I for one would love to read them!
As for the Nats, I think maybe I was there but didn't realize that's what was going on at the time. We were just cruisin'.

well your welcome for the comments! i love these cars whether they are A bodys,E bodys and so on. But Captain, when is the next installment coming out?!? Is there a fan club I can sign up for to get an early release? haha

:coffee: Well Cap'n,the coffee has gotten cold,and :happy1: the popcorn has gotten soggy,but that's ok. Let us know when to expect the next part of the story,and I'll make a new batch. :glasses7: I'll have to clean my glasses again too,but i'm ready to :read: read.

Sighhhhh.........
Not enough time and too much on my plate......but with a fan club like you guys, how can I resist? I'll have more for you this weekend...promise! (You can brew up another pot o' coffee and pop some more corn!)
Now I just have to figure out what to write about........ :sad1:

Sighhhhh.........
Not enough time and too much on my plate......but with a fan club like you guys, how can I resist? I'll have more for you this weekend...promise! (You can brew up another pot o' coffee and pop some more corn!)
Now I just have to figure out what to write about........ :sad1:


Hey Captain, im conviced that anything you write we'll read. Your just that good!

~patiently waiting for the next instalment~
-Mike