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Hey guys
I wrote this about a year back, kind of a omage to my street racing days. Its long, buit hopefully good!
Its going into a memoirs of mine so, any opinions would be great.
My love of classic Chrysler products started when I was a considerably younger and much
more foolish. In fact, my first car related memory was driving with my brother in his three tone green 1969 Road Runner. It had a really strong 440 engine, with a set of 4:56 gears in the rear end. Mom dispatched my brother to the store to get some groceries, he happened to ask me to come along. While the trip had been done many times with my father, who drove the ultimate of uncool cars a 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit, this trip smelled like a chance for excitement. I wouldn’t usually go, but anytime you’re asked to hang out with your older brother it was always cool! My brother Tim was good at making first impressions. Tim is ten years older then me, so again I jumped at the opportunity to hang out. I wasn’t disappointed! I jumped in the Road Runner and with in seconds the huge v-8 pushed me with a force that could of slammed me in the back seat and surrounded my head with the roar of a big block engine. Yet sound wasn’t the end of it. We took off and Tim launched the Road Runner forward. The torque of that 440 gently pushed on my chest and opened my eyes to a larger world. I desperately tried to move forward, but couldn’t. It was the most awesome display of power I had ever witnessed and I was hooked.
Flash forward nine years. I some how managed to convince my mother that owning a 1972 440 Plymouth Road Runner was a great father son project. I can still remember the day I bought it. It was just an awesome feeling. Yet the drive home was not as idyllic as it has been in my mind the previous nine year wait . Nothing seemed to work. It had no horn, no wipers, and every couple miles the car would hiccup awful, pugnant smelling backfire through the carburetor. It was big, brown, with long swooping lines. A giant, amongst little import cars. I know this image probably doesn't conjure thoughts of a formidable street rat and it wasn’t.
I think my father and I took a whole summer getting it right. Nothing creates a sense of frustration like blowing power valves on a tempermental 770 Holley. I watched in despair as new set of turbo mufflers explode, with a six-inch flame out the back tail pipe. I guess the carb was a tad rich! Yet the experience was fun. While the car was the tool, it was the time I spent with my dad that really taught me the most. I learned that precision matters, and that hard work does show results. Yet the most important fixture, was a riff that had slowly developed between my dad and I. Somewhere along my journey to adulthood, dad stopped being superman in my eyes, and became just a stuffy parental figure. Hard work, sweat, and a little blood shed away years of decay on the Road Runner, but it also created a more lasting bond with dad. He slowly transformed from being just the rule setter to a guy a lot like me. We finally got the car running pretty darn well. To this day, I still know my car is at its best when it runs smoothly!
We decided to take the car out and do a test drive. My residence was in small town North Dakota, where everyone races. The town was alive that night, every kid who had any kind of car was out. I loved my car, but was unsure what other people would think. I also just wanted to be fast enough to get respect. I'd been hearing all summer long from a couple friends, that the Chevy engine was the best. They spoke as if king 350 was the gospel. We were out maybe three trips around the loop when a Scottie flagged us down.
Scottie pulled up and looked over at us. His eyes fell upon the Dark brown Road Runner. Scottie had a 1966 Impala that was well built. It had a stout 400 small block, deep gears, and it sounded like a pissed off mechanical bull. Scotty was also really cool, the kind of guy you want to hang out with. He was always nice, he never said anything bad about your car. Yet, he also owned the fastest car in town. Yet, he never got too much into the Chevy- Ford-Mopar debate. He always respected whatever it was as long as it was fast.
Scottie jumped out of his Impala and slowly walked over to my rumbling Road Runner. He examined the car from front bumper to the rear quarter and finally said. "Hey you have it running, it sounds good!"
I chuckled a bit, looked over at his Impala and sighed. "yeah finally!.... it has been a while." I closely examined his blue Impala that sat a few feet from the Road Runner. It really was a beautiful car.
Scottie, my father and I sat their for a couple minutes, talking about town, school, and, of course, girls. Eventually the discussion turned to the cars. Scottie looked at me and without much warning just blurted it out.
“Hey you wanna run em?” He said. His eyes were intense and he slowly started walking back to his blue impala.
I thought. “Hell no! Here I am with my car finally done and now I'm going to race!” I was
already to say no, when all of a sudden my father pipes up confidently "Yes"
Surprisingly Dad was excited about the race. My dad had a rich history in race experience. He raced a 1972 AMC AMX back in the early 70's at local drag tracks in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He knew these cars when they came off the show room. He figured a small block Chevy in a 66 full size shouldn’t be too much of a problem, for a Road Runner with the biggest engine Chrysler ever had in it.
We both started our cars. The deep thunderous roar quickly expanded into the cool night air. Scottie left first, pulling out slowly onto Main street. I followed slowly from behind. My head was on a swivel. I was not interested in arousing the suspicion of Johnny Q. Public. A few minutes later and we found ourselves on old Highway 12. Highway 12 was a straight shot out of town going north. We were heading for county 9. County 9 had been the unofficial drag strip since before my brother drove. It was a straight shot of newly paved black top and was desolate. It was the perfect drag spot.
I followed Scottie the whole way. Quietly, I listened to my father. His soothing tone and relaxed attitude calmed me down. “Ease out the clutch..... Don’t drop it....When the tires grab hold hammer the throttle... The car will race itself.” He kept saying. He repeated it for extra measure and watched my expression. It must have worked because he said no more, and just gently patted me on the shoulder.
County 9 came up a few moments later. The dark night was slightly lit by the color of a partially exposed moon. It gave the road a dark blue, almost purplish appearance. Away in the distance a few scattered yellow orbs of housing lights burnt the night away as well, but for the most part it was dark and no traffic was to be seen.
Scottie pulled up in the left hand lane. Dad motioned me to stop and wait. A few seconds later, the night air was chased away by the roar of Scottie’s engine. The low scream of tires warming up joined in the noise, creating a rather ominous orchestra of power. The dark blue impala shook slightly as the car noise reached peak stridence. A few moments later, it finally stopped.
I attempted to follow suit. Yet, I found a four speed without a line lock does very poor warm ups. I brought the rpms up to 2500. The roar engulfed my ears and I quickly dropped the clutch. The car leapt forward, instantaneously the sound of burning tires pierced my ears. I laughed lightly. I repeated this effort a couple times and hoped it was enough.
Dad exited the vehicle and walked over to the side of the road. He looked at Scottie then at me. A couple moments passed. He finally, raised his arm. The moment that arm went up both engines came alive. A quick flick of the toe and I found the 440 bellow was a deep thunderous roar, next to the chevy 400 engine. Both engines sounded awesome, they thundered across the country side waking anything living with in a couple mile radius for sure.
My hand slowly drifted down to the pistol grip. My focus left from being on dad, to refocusing my attention to the yellow hue of my tack in front of my eyes. The little red meter slowly rested between 2500 and 2700. Peripherally I could see dad waiting. The moments felt like a vacuum, everything moved like molasses had taken hold. An eternity seemed to pass before the arm came down!
When that arm came down, reality and torque quickly snapped me out of the dream. My head snapped back as if I had been punched. The Road Runner’s hood shot up and together we pounced forward. Nine years I had waited to revisit this feeling and it exploded into my consciousness like a tornado. The Engine roared to life as it quickly gobbled up rpms. The tach quickly approached 6000. Out of the corner of my eye. I saw the long hood of the Impala slowly slide back.
I gripped the pistol grip with a sweaty palm and the moment the tach hit 6000. I punched the clutch and pulled back with all my might. The throw was instantaneous, the car shook and bellowed again. Another quick ascent to 6000 rpms began. Again out of the corner of my eye I saw the Impala slide back some more, yet not as drastic.
Third came up quickly. I threw the pistol shifter like a hammer’s throw. The car shifted like lightning and I took some glee in knowing I was in front. Yet the Impala shifted slightly quicker and instead of falling back slide forward a bit. We were closing in on 75 miles an hour and we were for all practical purposes dead even. My long brown hood rested a few feet in front.
6000 rpms came up a little slowly this time. I quickly exhaled a sigh and punched the clutch and pulled her back. The car rocked again and I quickly picked up one length on Scottie, then two, finally three. He had reached his peak with his gears. I slowly let out a sigh of relief. My left leg started shaking violently from the adrenaline. I slowed to a stop and went to turn around.
I drove the Road Runner back to pick up Dad. The drive back was quick, but as I drove the Road Runner felt different, not bad or anything, but in a way the car felt like it had truly became mine. Scottie pulled up next to me as I slowed to a stop.
“Wow that thing is fast Mike! Seems like we finally got a quick Mopar around.” Scottie said. His expression was one of stunned bewilderment. He looked as if he didn’t know what to think or what this meant. Scottie had not been beat the whole time he raced. Losing was a new experience and one I’m guessing he wouldn’t like.
Dad quickly jumped in the car and we headed back to town. He quickly patted me on the back and said lets go home. The ride home was n exciting talk about the race and examining shift points and everything race related. This was the first of many races Scottie and I would have over the next two years. The result was an almost constant two year car war over the summer of my junior and senior year.
Mike
I wrote this about a year back, kind of a omage to my street racing days. Its long, buit hopefully good!
Its going into a memoirs of mine so, any opinions would be great.
My love of classic Chrysler products started when I was a considerably younger and much
more foolish. In fact, my first car related memory was driving with my brother in his three tone green 1969 Road Runner. It had a really strong 440 engine, with a set of 4:56 gears in the rear end. Mom dispatched my brother to the store to get some groceries, he happened to ask me to come along. While the trip had been done many times with my father, who drove the ultimate of uncool cars a 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit, this trip smelled like a chance for excitement. I wouldn’t usually go, but anytime you’re asked to hang out with your older brother it was always cool! My brother Tim was good at making first impressions. Tim is ten years older then me, so again I jumped at the opportunity to hang out. I wasn’t disappointed! I jumped in the Road Runner and with in seconds the huge v-8 pushed me with a force that could of slammed me in the back seat and surrounded my head with the roar of a big block engine. Yet sound wasn’t the end of it. We took off and Tim launched the Road Runner forward. The torque of that 440 gently pushed on my chest and opened my eyes to a larger world. I desperately tried to move forward, but couldn’t. It was the most awesome display of power I had ever witnessed and I was hooked.
Flash forward nine years. I some how managed to convince my mother that owning a 1972 440 Plymouth Road Runner was a great father son project. I can still remember the day I bought it. It was just an awesome feeling. Yet the drive home was not as idyllic as it has been in my mind the previous nine year wait . Nothing seemed to work. It had no horn, no wipers, and every couple miles the car would hiccup awful, pugnant smelling backfire through the carburetor. It was big, brown, with long swooping lines. A giant, amongst little import cars. I know this image probably doesn't conjure thoughts of a formidable street rat and it wasn’t.
I think my father and I took a whole summer getting it right. Nothing creates a sense of frustration like blowing power valves on a tempermental 770 Holley. I watched in despair as new set of turbo mufflers explode, with a six-inch flame out the back tail pipe. I guess the carb was a tad rich! Yet the experience was fun. While the car was the tool, it was the time I spent with my dad that really taught me the most. I learned that precision matters, and that hard work does show results. Yet the most important fixture, was a riff that had slowly developed between my dad and I. Somewhere along my journey to adulthood, dad stopped being superman in my eyes, and became just a stuffy parental figure. Hard work, sweat, and a little blood shed away years of decay on the Road Runner, but it also created a more lasting bond with dad. He slowly transformed from being just the rule setter to a guy a lot like me. We finally got the car running pretty darn well. To this day, I still know my car is at its best when it runs smoothly!
We decided to take the car out and do a test drive. My residence was in small town North Dakota, where everyone races. The town was alive that night, every kid who had any kind of car was out. I loved my car, but was unsure what other people would think. I also just wanted to be fast enough to get respect. I'd been hearing all summer long from a couple friends, that the Chevy engine was the best. They spoke as if king 350 was the gospel. We were out maybe three trips around the loop when a Scottie flagged us down.
Scottie pulled up and looked over at us. His eyes fell upon the Dark brown Road Runner. Scottie had a 1966 Impala that was well built. It had a stout 400 small block, deep gears, and it sounded like a pissed off mechanical bull. Scotty was also really cool, the kind of guy you want to hang out with. He was always nice, he never said anything bad about your car. Yet, he also owned the fastest car in town. Yet, he never got too much into the Chevy- Ford-Mopar debate. He always respected whatever it was as long as it was fast.
Scottie jumped out of his Impala and slowly walked over to my rumbling Road Runner. He examined the car from front bumper to the rear quarter and finally said. "Hey you have it running, it sounds good!"
I chuckled a bit, looked over at his Impala and sighed. "yeah finally!.... it has been a while." I closely examined his blue Impala that sat a few feet from the Road Runner. It really was a beautiful car.
Scottie, my father and I sat their for a couple minutes, talking about town, school, and, of course, girls. Eventually the discussion turned to the cars. Scottie looked at me and without much warning just blurted it out.
“Hey you wanna run em?” He said. His eyes were intense and he slowly started walking back to his blue impala.
I thought. “Hell no! Here I am with my car finally done and now I'm going to race!” I was
already to say no, when all of a sudden my father pipes up confidently "Yes"
Surprisingly Dad was excited about the race. My dad had a rich history in race experience. He raced a 1972 AMC AMX back in the early 70's at local drag tracks in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He knew these cars when they came off the show room. He figured a small block Chevy in a 66 full size shouldn’t be too much of a problem, for a Road Runner with the biggest engine Chrysler ever had in it.
We both started our cars. The deep thunderous roar quickly expanded into the cool night air. Scottie left first, pulling out slowly onto Main street. I followed slowly from behind. My head was on a swivel. I was not interested in arousing the suspicion of Johnny Q. Public. A few minutes later and we found ourselves on old Highway 12. Highway 12 was a straight shot out of town going north. We were heading for county 9. County 9 had been the unofficial drag strip since before my brother drove. It was a straight shot of newly paved black top and was desolate. It was the perfect drag spot.
I followed Scottie the whole way. Quietly, I listened to my father. His soothing tone and relaxed attitude calmed me down. “Ease out the clutch..... Don’t drop it....When the tires grab hold hammer the throttle... The car will race itself.” He kept saying. He repeated it for extra measure and watched my expression. It must have worked because he said no more, and just gently patted me on the shoulder.
County 9 came up a few moments later. The dark night was slightly lit by the color of a partially exposed moon. It gave the road a dark blue, almost purplish appearance. Away in the distance a few scattered yellow orbs of housing lights burnt the night away as well, but for the most part it was dark and no traffic was to be seen.
Scottie pulled up in the left hand lane. Dad motioned me to stop and wait. A few seconds later, the night air was chased away by the roar of Scottie’s engine. The low scream of tires warming up joined in the noise, creating a rather ominous orchestra of power. The dark blue impala shook slightly as the car noise reached peak stridence. A few moments later, it finally stopped.
I attempted to follow suit. Yet, I found a four speed without a line lock does very poor warm ups. I brought the rpms up to 2500. The roar engulfed my ears and I quickly dropped the clutch. The car leapt forward, instantaneously the sound of burning tires pierced my ears. I laughed lightly. I repeated this effort a couple times and hoped it was enough.
Dad exited the vehicle and walked over to the side of the road. He looked at Scottie then at me. A couple moments passed. He finally, raised his arm. The moment that arm went up both engines came alive. A quick flick of the toe and I found the 440 bellow was a deep thunderous roar, next to the chevy 400 engine. Both engines sounded awesome, they thundered across the country side waking anything living with in a couple mile radius for sure.
My hand slowly drifted down to the pistol grip. My focus left from being on dad, to refocusing my attention to the yellow hue of my tack in front of my eyes. The little red meter slowly rested between 2500 and 2700. Peripherally I could see dad waiting. The moments felt like a vacuum, everything moved like molasses had taken hold. An eternity seemed to pass before the arm came down!
When that arm came down, reality and torque quickly snapped me out of the dream. My head snapped back as if I had been punched. The Road Runner’s hood shot up and together we pounced forward. Nine years I had waited to revisit this feeling and it exploded into my consciousness like a tornado. The Engine roared to life as it quickly gobbled up rpms. The tach quickly approached 6000. Out of the corner of my eye. I saw the long hood of the Impala slowly slide back.
I gripped the pistol grip with a sweaty palm and the moment the tach hit 6000. I punched the clutch and pulled back with all my might. The throw was instantaneous, the car shook and bellowed again. Another quick ascent to 6000 rpms began. Again out of the corner of my eye I saw the Impala slide back some more, yet not as drastic.
Third came up quickly. I threw the pistol shifter like a hammer’s throw. The car shifted like lightning and I took some glee in knowing I was in front. Yet the Impala shifted slightly quicker and instead of falling back slide forward a bit. We were closing in on 75 miles an hour and we were for all practical purposes dead even. My long brown hood rested a few feet in front.
6000 rpms came up a little slowly this time. I quickly exhaled a sigh and punched the clutch and pulled her back. The car rocked again and I quickly picked up one length on Scottie, then two, finally three. He had reached his peak with his gears. I slowly let out a sigh of relief. My left leg started shaking violently from the adrenaline. I slowed to a stop and went to turn around.
I drove the Road Runner back to pick up Dad. The drive back was quick, but as I drove the Road Runner felt different, not bad or anything, but in a way the car felt like it had truly became mine. Scottie pulled up next to me as I slowed to a stop.
“Wow that thing is fast Mike! Seems like we finally got a quick Mopar around.” Scottie said. His expression was one of stunned bewilderment. He looked as if he didn’t know what to think or what this meant. Scottie had not been beat the whole time he raced. Losing was a new experience and one I’m guessing he wouldn’t like.
Dad quickly jumped in the car and we headed back to town. He quickly patted me on the back and said lets go home. The ride home was n exciting talk about the race and examining shift points and everything race related. This was the first of many races Scottie and I would have over the next two years. The result was an almost constant two year car war over the summer of my junior and senior year.
Mike
HRPT 2004LH 2007LH 2008
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