Hot Rod part 1 - My Dream Car Realized

My heart was pounding. I just got off of the phone with a very nice gentleman in Phoenix who just spent an hour telling me about the details on a 1934 Plymouth coupe Ratrod. I had just made up my mind that I was going to buy this car (after some wrangling at the credit union for a loan). This was my dream car, and it was looking like it was going to happen.

Fast forward a week later, and I have successfully conned my brother into flying out to Phoenix to get this car with me. We planned on taking a week to slowly saunter from Phoenix back to East Tennessee in the newly purchased ride. The owner had offered to drive it out to TN - a vote of confidence in the car's roadworthiness that convinced me it was a worthy purchase. It was going to be one of those trips that would inspire a movie if it went well. I bought us one-way tickets and we were off to Arizona on a Friday night.

It was 90 degrees out at 9:00 pm when we landed. We were met by a nice couple in their newer Caddy and were whisked off to their home. These people were absolutely some of the nicest people that I have had the pleasure of meeting. We looked at his 1965 El Camino and he went around the house and fired up the coupe. It rumbled it's way around the side of the house and I knew that it was going to be mine the instant I saw it. Here is this black primered 1934 5 window coupe - complete with 15 inch wide rubber on the rear, flames shooting down the side, and no hood. It looked mean. We took a brief test ride around the neighborhood (I drove it like an old lady - this was my first experience in a car like this). Gingerly driving is not like me at all. The ergonomics were cramped at best. This thing had been channeled 8 inches (That's where they cut the floor out and lower the body down on to the frame to give it that wicked stance - all at the expense of the comfort of it's inhabitants). After dinner (home cooked, by the way) we headed out to the great adventure of a cross country trip in a genuine Hot Rod.

Let me explain the car a little bit. It looked cool. It roared down the road with sidepipes and open wheels. It had a 10 gallon fuel tank behind the cardboard divider that seperated us from the trunk. The turn signals were 2 toggle switches that were hanging down above the driver's side door. Along with an indian blanket over the seats there were vintage stickers all over the dash. The suicide doors had little manual pins to keep them from flying open and sucking the occupants out into the great beyond. This was ol' skool all the way. I had to adopt the posture of a cocktail shrimp to fit in the thing, resting my elbow on top of my left knee to fit. The gas and brake pedals were seperated by the steering column which meant that I had to learn to drive two footed. This only took a little bit of time to get used to, but there were a couple of incidents that had me panic accelerating instead of braking.

I am 6'2" when I stand up straight, and my brother is pushing 6'5". Both of us are safely in the 200 pounder club, and it took pure choreography for us to get settled in the seats and tangle ourselves into some form of comfort. Ahh, the sacrifices we make to look cool. I just added a picture at the top so you can see how cramped it was - the guy is my brother....

After about 2 miles of interstate driving, I had a flash of dread about everything. The purchase, the decision to drive it across the country, you name it. I guess after the adrenaline dies off, you start to wonder about what put you in your current situation. You see, my current situation was shaking violently down the interstate (and weaving horribly at any attempts at a lane change) at any speeds from 60mph up to 75mph. It felt like the car was going to weave out of control if I turned too fast or hit a bad pot hole. This ride had my undivided driving attention. It was a strain to keep it in one lane. I can only imagine the terror in my brothers head as he experienced this without being in control. If I was nervous, he had to be nearly terrified.

We made it to the closest gas station and started manipulating the rear tire pressure in hopes of stabilizing the car. After 5 stops we settled on 11 psi in each rear tire. This minimized the shaking, but the weaving was here to stay. Onward we went. Our first destination was going to be Albequerque, NM. We had an old high school friend who was going to let us crash for a few hours (the adventure started at 11pm).

Not being from Arizona, and only having driven through the state a couple of times, we seriously underestimated the climate change. As the elevation kept creeping up, the temperature started dropping. It kept dropping and we assesed the current wardrobe situation. It wasn't good. Both of us packed plenty of shorts and tee shirts, but not the first jacket or sweatshirt. When the temperature hit 40 degrees, I was no longer sure if it was the car or me shaking. The Indian blanket was ripped off of the seats and kept the frostbite at bay. At least I didn't have to worry about falling asleep at the wheel. In case you haven't figured it out, the car had no heater and it isn't even remotely airtight. There was a constant breeze - even after cramming the surplus blanket ends between the seats and the doors. This is exactly why you pick a brother to do this kind of thing with you. Even the best of friends would feel the strain on their friendship with all this going on. But brothers can push the envelope just a little further.... thankfully.

We made it to Albequerque and after some conversation, we crashed at our friends house. After waking up, we hit the local shop and had the tires re-balanced in the hopes of a smoother ride. No such luck. I brought my digital camera (side note: When do I get to stop saying digital? Does anyone use film anymore?) We took a few pictures of the landscape and headed out. these would be our only pictures of the entire trip. Luckily the small gas tank kept us stopping about every 100 miles for a refill. It was a chance to stand upright and let my brain relax from the brutal concentration of not barrel rolling this thing down the interstate and keeping an eye on the gauges of a newly purchased heap. I would occasionally nervously let go of the steering wheel to wave back at the many thumbs ups the car was getting.

I forget exactly what part of the country we made it to when my brother got THE CALL. I could tell by the fevered pitch in his voice and the string of cursing that took me back to my Navy days that something was very wrong. Apparently the water main at his house in Atlanta had ruptured. His girlfriend went on to tell him that the utility people wouldn't tell her where the water cutoff valve was located, because she wasn't on the utility bill and they weren't married. You want to talk about feeling helpless. These people put the "F" in utility, that's for sure.

Suddenly the trip becomes a cannonball run to save his homes foundation. We were on a mission. I think it was around Oklahoma... which by the way, is NOT okay. I40 couldn't get in any worse shape. Along with being cramped, the car has no suspension travel to speak of. I think the rear can move 2" and the front straight axle feels solidly linked to the chassis. Every bump and pothole sent us travelling upward in the car only to be stopped by the wooden frame that is the interior roof. A couple of times I found myself looking at my hands for signs of blood as the sting on my scalp slowly faded away. All this while trying to keep this thing in our own lane at 80 mph. At 80, the car's ride smoothed out, plus it was fun buzzing by the beige import sedans and minivans as kids pointed and mothers scowled as we roared by. This car brings out your inner rebel, for sure.

We only had one "moment" the entire trip. You never realize how far it can be in between filling stations until you have to stop every 100 miles. Here we were with 120 on the mileage (which the speedometer would occaisionally go into epileptic fits and bounce from 40-100, so accuracy wasn't a factor) and we needed petrol. I remember it clearly - it was in a construction zone. You know, the kind with lanes closed, orange barrels, but no sign of work. The orange barrels were whizzing by at 80 when I realized that there was an exit, and we were still in the fast lane. The tiny mirrors didn't give me a great deal of rear view, but I saw a gas station sign and had to take my chance. We exited with the front passenger tire locked up and the car leaning hard in protest to the sudden maneuver. My brother applied his imaginary brake pedal and could only sqeak out my name and grip the dash as we barely threaded the makeshift exit ramp between the barrels. To me, it all happened in slow motion, but my heart was still pounding while I pumped the 9 gallons that we needed.

Well, we finally made it back to Tennessee (My brother drove from Memphis to the Knoxville area). Knowing what was involved in driving this beast, I couldn't sleep - even though my body was trying to do just that while driving despite the 105dB constant roar from the engine and wind noise. We made the entire trip in exactly 24 hours. After a good night's sleep at my house in TN, I drove him back down to Atlanta, in my other car, of course.

When I finally got home for good, I enjoyed watching my garage door slowly open and reveal my dream car sitting in it. There it was in all of it's primered, flamed, fat-tired glory. It was the kind of car that you go down to the garage and just stare at, just to make sure it's real. As any gearhead know, this just gets the wheels in your head turning about what to do next. And there is a next, actually, quite a few of them.

Stay tuned......