A Princess & Her Chariot

When I was very young, my father had 1957 Chevy Bel-Airs. I remember when I was about 3 or 4, watching him battle an invisible army of mosquitoes as he set the body on the frame (by himself, mind) on the car that I would grow up in, doing donuts, taking long drives on dirt roads, working on until it got too dark to see. I grew up with dirty fingernails, greasy hands, and busted knuckles, helping my Dad and his friends work on their cars.

My Chevelle. It didn't look like much, but, boy, could she go!

As the years went on, Dad got more and more economical (and practical) cars for his job and the commute, but I've always had a giant car with tons of chrome. The first car I bought for myself with my own money was a 1970 Chevelle Malibu. It had a stroked 383 with a 750 CFM Holley, turbo 350 transmission with shift kit and stall converter, weight reduction, roll cage, NOS setup, slap shifter... the works. I bought it for $1,700 from a guy who'd built into a drag car. This thing was wicked fast.  You had to be going 55 MPH to shift it from first to second. The only way to drive it sanely on the street was to turn down the transmission's vacuum advance so it would shift gears and lower speeds. Otherwise, you put it in "Drive," and the car would sit there and shake while you pushed the gas pedal until it hit a certain RPM and then you'd take off like a rocket.

I spent one whole summer drag racing it on back roads. One day, I got a bug in my bonnet to see just how fast the car really was. So, I took it an hour and half to the closest drag strip to find out. When
 I got there, the tech guys weren't going to let me race. Then this one guy - who'd stood off to the sidelines and not said much until then - said, "Let her do a time."

I was so excited! I lined up, slapped it into drive and pushed the gas. The car sat there and shook while I waited for the green light. It popped green and - all the stars in the sky must've lined up all at once that afternoon - I punched the gas to the floor. The front wheels came up off the ground, and all I can see out the windshield is sky...sky... sky... GROUND. And in a few heartbeats, it was over with my heart going BOOM, BOOM, BOOM down at the end of the strip.

All these guys came running over and made me pull to the side and started yelling at me: "You can't drive that here! You need a harness and a helmet and a license..." And the one guy who'd let me race, he said to another guy standing there, "I told you so."

All I could think to ask was, "How fast was I?"

The guy who let me have a go said, "You did it in 9.29. That's too fast to race here without a special license and safety equipment." He handed me my slip. It was there in black and white: 9.29 at 147 MPH. The most exciting thing I have ever done was finished in under 10 seconds. "You're not driving this back home, are you?" he asked.

"Well, I drove it here," I said. And I got under the car and turned the vacuum advance down and drove back home, content in the knowledge that I had a Seriously Hot Car.

Over the years, I have owned several cars - none as hot as my Chevelle - and they all have one thing in common: big, loud motors. I am a firm believer in big pipes and big blocks. For my birthday a few years back, I bought myself a 1971 Ford LTD Brougham with a factory 429, triple black. I love this car. It will never be a race car, but it is a TON of fun to drive. I haven't gotten to drive it much the last couple of years because we're fixing it up, repairing rust and getting ready to put on a custom paint job. I'll update as the job continues. Here's some photos of my Shillelagh:

My design for my LTD