This past week Ive been working away on my 72 Charger, constantly looking forward to the end result. A big block mopar with everything on the car replaced, improved, repaired or painted by my own two hands. I cant remember ever seeing another Charger of the same body style on the road. Ever. As usual, a trip to the periodical rack once in a while is must during the build. I pick up quite a few inspirational mags and thumb through them during my down time. I came upon an article by Tom Shaw of Muscle Car magazine this week that hit home. Made me think about a lot of things. But mostly those who have come and gone.
I'd like to share this with all of you and i dedicate this to my dad, 68 Malibu SS and all those that are no longer with us.
"I'm constantly amazed at what show car owners do to be competitive in national-level concours (original) judging. The strictest classes carefully examine thinks like orange peel in the paint (duplicating factory flaws is good; a smooth glassy finish is a deduction), the correct logo in the bolts, location of weatherstrip seams, type of air filter mesh and so on. Maybe this scrutiny seems silly, but the tiniest details separate a Best of Show champion from a Second Place finish.
Now think back to how cars were treated 40 years ago. The contrast couldn't be more extreme. Today, show cars get pampered like princesses. Back then, most muscle cars led a very rough, brutal life. Once you signed the papers at the dealership and the smarmy sales guy tossed you the keys, what's the first thing you did? Probably laid a huge patch of burnt rubber leaving the dealership. Properly breaking in the engine could wait. One burnout couldn't hurt. Once you discovered that your new beast could really smoke'em, you had to amaze your brothers, neighborhood goombahs, school pals, guys at work, Uncle Dave and anyone at the stoplight who looked like they weren't showing proper respect. Naturally, it was a stretch to pay the note on the car and hand over stacks of greenbacks to your friendly insurance agent, so maybe you'd postpone the oil change-just until next payday, of course.
And maybe you'd save a couple bucks by filling up with regular gas instead of high-test. If you had money left over after payday, it went for wheels, a big Holley carb, a lumpy cam, a hot coil and yellow plug wires, some finned aluminum valve covers or a pair of glasspack mufflers. Once you had some goodies under the hood, it was time to head out on the boulevard and knock off a few rivals. If you beat them, you rode home proud. If they beat you, it was back to the speed shop. But word would get out, and guys with high-powered stuff would be looking for you.
By now, the car had taken on a different look. Maybe factory parts had been carefully removed and set aside. More likely, the original parts were yanked off by the fastest possible method and the new parts installed without replacing the small brackets, wires and clips needed. The take-offs were dumped wherever it was convenient. Who wanted stock wheels, a stock shifter, stock heads, a stock intake or carb? Not much demand for that stuff. So what has become a hot rod now has a couple of years of hard use; plenty of street action, a weekend at the dragstrip here and there, maybe some body damage from a careless lady in the parking lot or a bit of excessive youthful exuberance on a slick street. Or worse. Maybe the engine finally drops a valve or spins a bearing. Now what? It's probably not going to get rebuilt. There were too many cheap engines available. I used to buy good, ready-to-run big blocks: 390s, 429s, 409s-out of the newspaper classifieds for $150.
Once it's on its second engine, the car enters a new, devalued phase. The paint is faded, and it's acquired some bad habits, like hard starting, overheating, oil leaks. It looks its age. Maybe it gets sold to a kid who can't afford a new car. He takes his turn pounding on it and doing dumb teenager stunts that'll make him and his buddies grin for years to come-mowing down mailboxes, shooting fireworks near it, spinning donuts in front of the high school. And who could forget discovering why Mad Dog 20-20 has such a bad reputation? Maybe the kid makes an amateurish attempt at adding fender flares or a big hood scoop.
After a couple of years of that, the car has pretty much had it. It's become a rolling collection of mechanical problems. Style has long since passed it by, and it's not even fit for cheap transportation anymore. Next up, it gets drug beside the house or into the backyard where the elements take it even lower. The summer sun cooks the interior. Water leaks eat away at the trunk and floor boards. The call to the junk yard can't be far off. This was the life of the muscle car, even for the Hemi, Cobra Jets, Boss and Stage 1s and all the heavy hitters. Survivors were exceptions. Carefully cared-for cars with all of their original parts, paint and paperwork were rare.
So when you're at this year's muscle car event or see them on the road, don't forget that the cars you're looking at are the lucky ones that somehow dodged a cruel fate. And it would be OK to observe a moment of silence for those not so lucky."
I'd like to share this with all of you and i dedicate this to my dad, 68 Malibu SS and all those that are no longer with us.
"I'm constantly amazed at what show car owners do to be competitive in national-level concours (original) judging. The strictest classes carefully examine thinks like orange peel in the paint (duplicating factory flaws is good; a smooth glassy finish is a deduction), the correct logo in the bolts, location of weatherstrip seams, type of air filter mesh and so on. Maybe this scrutiny seems silly, but the tiniest details separate a Best of Show champion from a Second Place finish.
Now think back to how cars were treated 40 years ago. The contrast couldn't be more extreme. Today, show cars get pampered like princesses. Back then, most muscle cars led a very rough, brutal life. Once you signed the papers at the dealership and the smarmy sales guy tossed you the keys, what's the first thing you did? Probably laid a huge patch of burnt rubber leaving the dealership. Properly breaking in the engine could wait. One burnout couldn't hurt. Once you discovered that your new beast could really smoke'em, you had to amaze your brothers, neighborhood goombahs, school pals, guys at work, Uncle Dave and anyone at the stoplight who looked like they weren't showing proper respect. Naturally, it was a stretch to pay the note on the car and hand over stacks of greenbacks to your friendly insurance agent, so maybe you'd postpone the oil change-just until next payday, of course.
And maybe you'd save a couple bucks by filling up with regular gas instead of high-test. If you had money left over after payday, it went for wheels, a big Holley carb, a lumpy cam, a hot coil and yellow plug wires, some finned aluminum valve covers or a pair of glasspack mufflers. Once you had some goodies under the hood, it was time to head out on the boulevard and knock off a few rivals. If you beat them, you rode home proud. If they beat you, it was back to the speed shop. But word would get out, and guys with high-powered stuff would be looking for you.
By now, the car had taken on a different look. Maybe factory parts had been carefully removed and set aside. More likely, the original parts were yanked off by the fastest possible method and the new parts installed without replacing the small brackets, wires and clips needed. The take-offs were dumped wherever it was convenient. Who wanted stock wheels, a stock shifter, stock heads, a stock intake or carb? Not much demand for that stuff. So what has become a hot rod now has a couple of years of hard use; plenty of street action, a weekend at the dragstrip here and there, maybe some body damage from a careless lady in the parking lot or a bit of excessive youthful exuberance on a slick street. Or worse. Maybe the engine finally drops a valve or spins a bearing. Now what? It's probably not going to get rebuilt. There were too many cheap engines available. I used to buy good, ready-to-run big blocks: 390s, 429s, 409s-out of the newspaper classifieds for $150.
Once it's on its second engine, the car enters a new, devalued phase. The paint is faded, and it's acquired some bad habits, like hard starting, overheating, oil leaks. It looks its age. Maybe it gets sold to a kid who can't afford a new car. He takes his turn pounding on it and doing dumb teenager stunts that'll make him and his buddies grin for years to come-mowing down mailboxes, shooting fireworks near it, spinning donuts in front of the high school. And who could forget discovering why Mad Dog 20-20 has such a bad reputation? Maybe the kid makes an amateurish attempt at adding fender flares or a big hood scoop.
After a couple of years of that, the car has pretty much had it. It's become a rolling collection of mechanical problems. Style has long since passed it by, and it's not even fit for cheap transportation anymore. Next up, it gets drug beside the house or into the backyard where the elements take it even lower. The summer sun cooks the interior. Water leaks eat away at the trunk and floor boards. The call to the junk yard can't be far off. This was the life of the muscle car, even for the Hemi, Cobra Jets, Boss and Stage 1s and all the heavy hitters. Survivors were exceptions. Carefully cared-for cars with all of their original parts, paint and paperwork were rare.
So when you're at this year's muscle car event or see them on the road, don't forget that the cars you're looking at are the lucky ones that somehow dodged a cruel fate. And it would be OK to observe a moment of silence for those not so lucky."
