Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
this is a test to see if I can attach a Word file
Captainkirk's Duster project
- Thread starter Captainkirk
- Start date
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
This is aggravating as well; the attachment limits keep me at about a paragraph at a time; but here goes.....
triggerjay
Well-Known Member
- Joined
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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 youve hit Rock Bottom, theres 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 dont call it late for dinner. Two guys stopped to see if anyone was hurt when they saw the lil red minx smoochin with the telephone pole. I think they gave me a lift home. I say think because I just dont know for sure. Anyway, I got there. I mustve 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 doctors 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 youre not. Dont bother returning. And you thought you had a nice boss! Thanks boss, I love you too!
At least I got to sleep in .
Once youve hit Rock Bottom, theres 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 dont call it late for dinner. Two guys stopped to see if anyone was hurt when they saw the lil red minx smoochin with the telephone pole. I think they gave me a lift home. I say think because I just dont know for sure. Anyway, I got there. I mustve 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 doctors 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 youre not. Dont bother returning. And you thought you had a nice boss! Thanks boss, I love you too!
At least I got to sleep in .
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Once youve hit Rock Bottom, theres 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 dont 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 a doctors 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?
Its 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 didnt 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 a greasy old hat . Excuse me while I puke .
There, thats 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 Octobers 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 Ill 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 Petes 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 handful 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! One 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 ..
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 dont 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 a doctors 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?
Its 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 didnt 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 a greasy old hat . Excuse me while I puke .
There, thats 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 Octobers 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 Ill 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 Petes 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 handful 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! One 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 ..
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Thanks! Know any publishers? LOL 
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Next chapter tonight.....coming to a theater near you!
Last edited:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
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 where. 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 'Shark Tooth' 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.
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 'Shark Tooth' 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.
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Late '78...........A.D. LOLfantom said:
Cerwin
Well-Known Member
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
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
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Cerwin said:
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!
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
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 '70s 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 a 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.
"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 '70s 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 a 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.
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
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 ones 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 HAND TOOLS 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, errr, 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 did'nt 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 proboscis 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 empty 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 dont 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 . Maybe bigger. Perhaps on his way home from the Nautilus club or killing tigers with his bare hands at the circus.
I dont 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 340s 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, youd 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 its strobed black stripes speaking volumes without saying a word; no hood and dual 660s 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 4s 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 just 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 its 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.
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 ones 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 HAND TOOLS 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, errr, 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 did'nt 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 proboscis 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 empty 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 dont 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 . Maybe bigger. Perhaps on his way home from the Nautilus club or killing tigers with his bare hands at the circus.
I dont 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 340s 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, youd 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 its strobed black stripes speaking volumes without saying a word; no hood and dual 660s 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 4s 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 just 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 its 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.
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Cerwin
Well-Known Member
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:
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:
triggerjay
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Mar 13, 2006
- Messages
- 109
- Reaction score
- 20
more more!
jrlegacy23
68 Barracuda
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
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
There might be, by the time I finish this.jrlegacy23 said:
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Cerwin
Well-Known Member
Captainkirk said:
Not to pressure you, but we are all waiting.. :toothy7:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
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!
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!
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
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 4s 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 its 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 Thorley's. 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 its 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 ***. 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, its 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 lil 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 dont keep a quarter horse 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 .45s 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!
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 4s 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 its 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 Thorley's. 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 its 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 ***. 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, its 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 lil 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 dont keep a quarter horse 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 .45s 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!
Last edited:
jrlegacy23
68 Barracuda
Man, I am addicted to this post :tongue9: . I never had so much fun reading at work :toothy7:
Thrashard340
Well-Known Member
Congratulations CaptainKirk! I think you have effectively reduced this nation's productivity by at least 10%. LOL!
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
It's in the works! :wav:fantom said:
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