If you were a boy growing up in the 1950s you loved at least three things: rock and roll, cars, and rock and roll songs about cars. If you do a quick Google search, you’ll find lots of lists of the top 10 and even the top 100 car songs, nearly all of them made between 1956 and 1967.
With my mom’s encouragement, I learned to drive a standard shift car by the age of 12. Nirvana arrived when a friend of my parents gave us a 1949 Chevy for me to drive around our 130-acre farm. The car lasted a couple of years of me bombing around until one afternoon I came over a rise a bit too fast – No, way too fast – and unbeknownst to me, came down hard on a rock that punched a hole in the oil pan. Oblivious, I drove the mile back to the house before the engine froze up, and where the car sat for two years before being towed away.
Those two years with the Chevy I got a school of hard knocks education about driving, without ever going over 40 MPH: How to shift, how to double clutch, how to speed shift, how to brake, and how to maneuver between trees without hitting one. It sounds reckless but actually I was fairly cautious and other than the incident with the oil pan I never had any sort of
accident. It prepared me well for when I got my driver’s license at 16. But getting my license was anticlimactic, because at 14 my love affair with cars reached its zenith.
As many of you know, my parents raised Newfoundland dogs. Those gentle giants who loved to provide big slobbery kisses to anyone nearby were the bane of my existence. I was one of five kids, with three sisters and a brother eight years older than me. By the time I was twelve he was in the Air Force, and in those days, since girls were relegated to doing dishes and cleaning house, I was left with the unenviable task of cleaning the pens, hauling dogs’ 5-gallon buckets of water, and feeding the dozen or more lovable monsters. How much did they eat? Let me put it this way, we ordered dog food by the pallet, and it was delivered by a tractor trailer truck. I kid you not.
As a young teen, I saw no redeemable value having those dogs around. It wasn't until years later that I realized how wrong I was. The guests who came through our home because of their love and interest in Newfoundlands were endless. Professional musicians; Antarctic explorers; circus performers; pilots to the President; and once, someone who had met Elvis Presley, all graced our home because of their love of the behemoths. But the most memorable was a young man in his early twenties.
He was a clean-cut guy, which should remind us that looks can be deceiving. It turned out that his past had been sprinkled with trouble and he had spent time in what in those days was called “reform school.” The idea that this guy had done hard time scared the bejesus out of me, but my mother was the most trusting person imaginable…. especially of those who loved Newfoundlands.
What’s all this got to do with cars? It turned out that he owned a 1962 Chevy 409.
Now, the 409 had 409 cubic inches and with the right modifications cranked out 409 horsepower. With dual quads and a Hurst four-on-the floor it did over 100 MPH in a quarter mile. It also had exhaust cutouts, which made the coolest sound you can imagine. If you don’t know what all that means, don't worry, at fifteen I didn’t know what it meant either. But I did know the Chevy 409 was the most boss car in existence (and I was a Ford fan.) It was every boy’s dream car and made even more famous by the Beach Boys song, “409.”
After talking endlessly to my mom about Newfoundlands he turned to me and said, “Hey kid, wanna go for a ride?”
I’m not sure if I was thrilled or scared, but I was all-in and my mother gave her blessing. We walked out to the driveway, and he crawled under the gleaming turquoise beauty and removed the manual exhaust cut-out caps. He popped the hood and I was mesmerized by all the chrome. I could recognize nothing other than the two giant carburetors.
We hopped in, he fired it up, and with a menacing rumble that sent shivers down my spine, he drove out of the driveway and turned onto our rural road. He drove slowly down the road, then when we got to a half-mile straight away, he came to a complete stop. I could feel the vibrations of the engine from my seat, a mechanical heartbeat that quickened my pulse, as he revved the engine and the tach redlined. I sat, my heart pounding, my mouth dry, while one hand gripped the arm rest, the other pressed hard on the vinyl seat. My adrenaline surged.
He punched the gas pedal and popped the clutch. The engine roared and the tires squealed. The smell of burning rubber filled the air and I could feel the raw power as the car shot forward with the g forces driving me deep into the seatback. The farm fields flew by in a blur as we flew down the road. Each time he shifted, the car leaped forward with a thrust that was both thrilling and terrifying. Within 15 seconds we were rocketing at 115 miles an hour.
And then, suddenly, it was over. The engine’s roar wound down as did the speed.
As we drove slowly back to our house I realized I had just experienced a thrill ride that no modern vehicle can replicate. When we pulled into our driveway I was both elated and exhausted.
Riding in a car at 115 MPH is a once in a lifetime thing. And once in my lifetime was more than enough.
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