Captainkirk's Duster project

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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; theater 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 theater 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.
 
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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.
 
: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, consistent (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’i'l 307, but a straight six hooked to a Slip-n-Slide Power Glide 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.
 
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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!
 
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 and call-out 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’i'l 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.
 
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YOU CANT LEAVE US HANGING LIKE THAT!!>??????

Can't wait for more!!!!

Triggerjay
 
: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!
 
I'm still here, guys. Working (slowly, painfully,) at gettting the wording just right. You'll see why. Stick with me.
 
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.
 
Captainkirk said:
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:
 
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 front 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 of yore 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, so not to hold his breath!). 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.
 
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