Gotta Take That One Last Ride
The gearheads and grease monkeys still gather, but is the great muscle car on its last lap?
Baltimore City Paper, June 26, 1996
It’s
Saturday night, and as on every other Saturday night for who knows
how many years, gearheads have come in from nearby towns to hang out
at the Finksburg Pizza Hut parking lot. They’ve come from New
Windsor, Westminster, Union Bridge, Sykesville. They’ve come to
show off their machines.
All
the classic muscle cars are here tonight, lined up on the
asphalt—impeccably polished Camaros, Corvettes, Chevelles. There
are also some of the rarer breeds—a Torino, a Monte Carlo SS, a
Maverick.
There
are cars with hallucinogenically large hood scoops, cars that run on
illegal racing fuel costing $3.40 a gallon, cars with fat mags fresh
from the dragstrip, their quarter-mile numbers still marked on the
side windows with shoe polish, their owners stand around socializing,
joking.
At
first glance, this seems like the quintessential American parking-lot
scene, bursting with teenhood and teen hoods. But these hoods have
grown up and have kids of their own. No one in sight looks to be
under 30. And while there is a beer here and there, the parking lot
looks less like a party than a PTA meeting—albeit a racy one—with
parents whose kids probably wear Richard Petty T-shirts.
Jay
Burda sits with two of his children, Megan, 11, and Jay, 4 , in a
rare 1969 Camaro SS convertible. Dawn
Wilderson, 30, shows off her white 1970 Chevelle SS with her
11-year-old son, Chris. A decade ago, Wilderson was doing 11.9-second
quarter-mile runs with a muscled-out Pinto at a dragstrip in
Monrovia. These days, her Chevelle is kept mostly for weekend family
outings.
One
guy, Wayne Hill, even brought his cranberry-red ‘69 Camaro SS to
the lot in a fully enclosed trailer. But he lays rubber on his way
across the parking lot to load it back up for the trip home.
For
the past 30 years, American muscle cars—high performance passenger
cars built between 1964 and 1972 with unnecessarily large
engines—have been a regular sight on the roadway, painted in either
some unearthly fluorescent color or in dull primer gray, making an
unearthly racket, burning up precious fossil fuel, with some
T-shirted motorhead behind the wheel.
The
Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration doesn’t keep statistics on
the makes of older models which are still around, but it does seem as
if each summer, there are fewer muscle cars on road.
The most popular models—the Camaros, the Mustangs—are bought by
boomers nostalgic for their wilder days; they’ve squirreled the
vehicles away, lest they rust in the humid mid-Atlantic climate. As
for the teenagers who've always longed to get their hands greasy
working on one and to get the wind in their hair driving one, well,
there are fewer automotive options to choose from.
A
few guys are standing around a Ford Maverick, giving the owner advice
about get ting the machine started, which it stubbornly refuses to
do.
“Well,
the first problem here is the name on the car,” one guy jokes,
ribbing the distraught owner. “You know what ‘Ford’ stands for,
don’t you?” Yeah, yeah, he knows—Fucked Over Rebuilt Dodge, or
any of the other acronyms that are a source of seemingly endless
amusement to Chevrolet fans. And tonight, clearly, it’s a Chevy
crowd.
Apparently,
these are the days when you keep muscle cars under wraps, at least
for many owners. Owners such as Bob Bucher, who keeps his silver 1966
Ford Fairlane GTA under covers and locked away at Bucher's workplace,
an auto shop in north Baltimore, which he co-owns. It’s
lunchtime and he and the other two workers are chowing down, using a
car lift as a table. Bucher, 39, first got his silver beast back in
1979, when a B&H customer who was worried about rising gas prices
offered to sell it to him for $500. It only had 54,000 miles on
it—one of those old-man-driving-it-to-the-store-on-Sundays deals.
“Oh
God, he and his wife looked so funny in the car,” Bucher recalls.
“Here’s this performance car and here are these white-haired
people in it.”
Now,
Bucher wouldn’t take less than $6,000 for the car—not that he’s
selling. Bucher rebuilt the engine and transmission, added custom
headers, stripped the paint off to bare metal, and repainted the
entire car.
For
the first few years, he had a blast with the car, racing it on
Perring Parkway, Goucher Boulevard, Interstate 70 on that straight
section just east of 695. He’d pour bleach on the tires to get
better traction and to make them smoke. He repeatedly pegged the
speedometer—pushing it as high as it would go (120). He boasts of
racing Porsches and leaving them in the dust from a standing start,
although the Porsches tend to take over once they get up into the
100-mph zone.
Now,
the Fairlane sees sunlight five, maybe six times a year. It’s not
so much the gas mileage that deters Bucher from driving it more often
(though it averages about 10 miles per gallon in the city), it’s
fear of accidents. “I’m always afraid it’s going to get hit,”
he says. “I don’t think I can find as good of a body panel for
it. It’s getting tough to find things.”
Stuff
that used to be easy to find at the nearest parts store can take
months to track down. Computerization has streamlined the inventory,
leaving fewer old parts in the bins. And there just aren’t too many
Fairlane GTAs left on the road—he’s only seen about three or four
1966 models in the past 17 years. Bucher goes so far as to buy parts
he sees at auto flea markets if he thinks he might need them one
day—turn signals, heater switches, and the like.
"If
I have any remote chance of needing it, I’ll buy it,” he says.
“You never know.”
Sure,
there are companies that make reproduction parts for his car. But for
muscle-car enthusiasts, using reproduction parts smacks of plastic
surgery.
“I
only buy old stock, nothing that’s reproduction,” Bucher says.
“It’s all original equipment, and I pay dearly For it”
He
points out the letters F-A-I-R-L-A N-E on the rear quarter panel. The
letters on the other side were stolen, and he spied a set at an
auction about 10 years ago, but the vendor wanted $250 for them. For
some things, the price is just too high.
Even
under the optimum conditions in which Bucher stores his car, the
Fairlane shows signs of aging. He takes pride in his all-original
black vinyl interior; but the seam on the passenger front seat has
dry rotted, and now some of the cushioning seeps out.
A
quarter mile down the road from Bucher’s shop is D.J.’s Body &
Paint Authority, where Charlie Stewart works. Stewart's spent more
than 2,000 hours restoring a now-spotless cherry-red 1967 Chevelle
Coupe. Unlike Bucher’s car, Stewart’s is his main source of
transportation. He drives it to work each day, through the rain or
snow or paint-cracking heat, from his home in Rosedale.
The
Chevelle is just the latest of 20 cars that he’s bought and
restored in the past 30 years. He’s been through GTOs, Camaros,
Corvettes.
Stewart,
who’s 51 and looks younger, is not the type given to sweeping
rhetoric about why he does what he does. When asked why he won’t
invest in a newer car, he replies, “I really prefer the older cars
myself. They’re easier to work on. They seem to hold up better.
There’s a lot less plastic and more metal on these cars.” But
Stewart acknowledges that “the parts are getting harder to find,
and that’s the problem.”
Stewart's
favorite place to open it up is along Route 10 in Glen Burnie. “You
go down there late when there’s not a lot of traffic. It's pretty
straight and safe, and you can go through the gears pretty good and
not get in any trouble.
“But
I always go by the law,” he quickly adds. “I don’t go around
burning the wheels. I’m getting older now.” “Gutless,”
Bucher calls today’s cars. “The only thing going for today’s
cars is that the handling is better,” he says.
The
muscle cars of yore handle like sleds, at least compared to the
sleeker European sports buggies. The reason so many muscle cars have
ended up in ditches or wrapped around telephone poles, the
conventional wisdom goes, is that the engines are far too powerful
for the stiff, bulky suspensions.
But
when you talk about the allure of American muscle cars, it’s not
the horse power, not even the speed, that holds so many in thrall.
The magic word for many gearheads is “torque.” Torque.
It can be addictive. Torque is hard to explain—it’s just
something you have to experience. Bucher calls it raw power. “There’s
just nothing like a big block engine—there’s just an incredible
amount of torque,” he gushes, “throw-you-back-in-your-seat
torque.”
Back
at the Finksburg Pizza Hut parking lot, Larry, owner of a 1967 Camaro
with a 400 small-block engine, gives me a small sample of torque. We
pull over to the far end of the lot. He guns the engine in neutral
from a bubbling growl to a metallic war cry chat I don’t so much
hear as feel in my bones as it kicks to 6,000 rpm. Still stationary,
the entire car seems to levitate from the engine being wound up so
tightly. Then, Larry pops the clutch, the tires scream. smoke comes
up From the pavement, and all of the sudden I feel as if I’ve been
shot out of a cannon. The car fishtails somewhat, and the scenery
starts coming toward me at a frightening rate as we leave long black
tire marks across he parking-lot pavement.
These
muscle cars are not merely cars; hey are death machines.
Automobiles have always represented the empowerment of the
individual, but the muscle-car phenomenon was the reckless
empowerment of the individual,” Joe Goldsborough says. “It was
taking things one step beyond where things should have gone.”
Goldsborough
is the head of Baltimore-based Merkin Records and proud owner of a
1974 AMC Javelin, a long, low-slung car that looks more than a little
like the Batmobile. We are talking about muscle cars and the myth of
the sensible auto.
“I
still encounter this with some of my friends: ‘Why don’t you get
a sensible car?’ It's awful, but I feel like saying, `Look, I'm a
North American male, it’s my birthright to burn fossil fuel. In
another 1 0 years, you may not be able to do this.’”
Goldsborough’s
only half kidding. He’s fed up with “the whole fixation on the
idea [that] cars are only for talking you from point A to point B.”
America’s love affair with the automobile has been cut short by
this emphasis on efficiency, he says. “Not only did muscle cars
fall out of fashion, but they were shamefully acknowledged as a wrong
turn. I resent that. It’s evil-minded, especially when you consider
the driving experience that a well maintained, performance-oriented
American car provides....
“If
you look at the amount of time you spend in an automobile, it’s not
point A to point B. The truth is, it’s a visceral experience, and
muscle cars release the visceral quality of the automotive
experience. Hence, they are regarded as somewhat dangerous.”
What
about saving gas, limiting air pollution, and all those other
arguments for more efficient automobiles?
“Wouldn’t
it be more efficient,” Goldsborough jabs back, “to mandate that
we use public transportation?”
The
first real muscle car was, arguably, the 1964 Pontiac GTO, later
nicknamed the Goat. According to Life magazine, John DeLorean,
then Pontiac’s chief engineer, dropped an eight-cylinder engine
into the normally staid Tempest to see what it would feel like. It
must have felt good. Pontiac’s sales manager predicted the company
wouldn’t sell more than a few thousand of DeLorean’s new breed,
but within a year, more than 60,000 GTOs had been sold. The next
seven years of American car-making could
almost be described as surreal. Cars were implanted with engines that
had 300, 400, and even 500 horsepower. They were painted bright
colors. And as Road & Track point ed out in a 1990
muscle-car retrospective, they weren’t “just fast, they [were]
effortlessly, Contemptuously, wickedly fast.”
The
market was there for such automobiles—mainly high school and
college kids, and soldiers returning from Vietnam. Every carmaker got
into the game. Chevy produced the Camaro and the Super Sport (SS)
Chevelle. The luxury trappings of the Monte Carlo and the utilitarian
simplicity of the Nova were but clandestine covers for the 454 and
327 engines stuffed under their respective hoods. Buick had the GSX
and Skylark. Oldsmobile had the 4-4-2 Cutlass. Pontiac had the GTO,
of course, but also the Grand Prix, Firebird, and Trans Am. Ford
had the Mustang, and also packed a fair amount of muscle into the
Fairlane and Torino. Mercury had the Cougar. And Chrysler, with its
almost mythical Hemi engine, had the Barracuda, the Road Runner, and
the Duster. Dodge offered Challengers, Chargers, Super Bees,
Daytonas, and Darts. AMC had the Javelin, the Rebel Machine, and the
AMX.
By
the early 70s, though, sales of these souped-up models were starting
to drop precipitously. Insurance companies had raised the premiums
for such cars, and newly enacted Environmental Protection Agency
regulations saddled them with emission control devices, which
dampened their horsepower.
Yet
American cars continued to grow in size even as their engines came
with less horsepower. The delicate balance of style and speed in the
late-60s models was upset by gaudy, oversized monstrosities such as
the new Camaro, which night have looked fast but was mercilessly
outrun by its predecessors. The once-mighty GTO was eliminated, its
features reduced to options available with Pontiac’s sorry LeMans
line. It was the start, many car enthusiasts feel, of a serious
decline in American automobile making.
“In
my opinion,” Robert Bravender, editorial director for the National
Muscle Car Association, says, “everything Detroit made between 1974
and 1984 was junk.”
By
the time the first of the mid-70s gas shortages hit, “You couldn’t
give muscle cars away,” Bravender says. “So, they were put out
back in the fields and in the barns.”
But
like any other limited resource, muscle cars became collectible They
were snapped up by Boomers, who had grown up in the muscle-car era
but either couldn't afford them during their heyday or had long since
traded in their Firebirds and Mustangs for more sensible,
family-oriented cars. The stock-market crash of 1987 sent investors
looking for something crash proof to put their money in, and what
could be more crash proof than heavy old Detroit iron? Even Forbes
wrote about muscle cars as investments. According to Bravender,
Chryslers with Hemis--once the scourge of many a peaceful
neighborhood--were being purchased by people living i n peaceful
neighborhoods, at $70,000 a pop. Mint-condition Ford Cobras were
getting half a million, clearly out of the price range of any kid
working at McDonald’s after school. “Young,
dumb, and full of come,” Bucher calls teenagers with their first
set of new wheels. Same as it ever was, same as it always will be.
What is it about youth that makes teenagers want to drive their
machines as fast and as hard as they can, pushing against the
immutable laws of physics as if they arc another form of authority to
question? But
with the investors and the boomers snapping up the heavy horsepower,
what’s left for the kids to drive? None of the muscle cars built 1
0 years ago, Inning a few limp Camaros or Mustangs, seem to have much
lasting popularity. Souped up Escorts? Hondas? Yeah, right. As
Goldsborough recalls, “I’ve rented a new Ford Taurus and I drove
the stuffing out of it. The engine was like a whiny child. First of
all, it had no low-end torque. There was literally no way you could
pretend you had a performance-oriented car. When you punched the
throttle, literally nothing would happen. . . . Tire smoking was not
on the agenda.” There
are plenty of performance cars available today. The July 1996 issue
of Motor Trend, for instance, compares this year’s Camaros
and Ford Shelbys with those produced in the late 60s and determines
that-~ surprise--the new models kick butt: They handle better, tear
up the quarter mile quicker, and get better gas mileage to boot. All
you need is $27,000 for the car and the insurance required to drive
it.
To
find out what the teen hoods are driving today, I had to hang where
the teen hoods hang. A friend tipped me off to the 140 Village
shopping center in Westminster. In her youth, it was the prime spot
for gear-heads to hang out on Saturday night.
Sure
enough, when we got there, vehicles were lined up and teenagers were
hanging out, looking as bored, angry, and misunderstood as ever. The
only difference was their mode of transportation. There wasn’t more
than a handful of muscle cars, and they looked as forlorn and out of
place as ex-varsity-football stars returning to their high school a
few years after graduating. No,
the transportation of choice was the Iate-model pickup. At least a
dozen of them were clustered together a few yards from the Martin’s
grocery store mid-sized Chevys, Mazdas, Nissans, almost all of them
immaculately painted red, white, maroon, or aqua blue. They were
decked out, with skinny tires and custom rims. In many cases, the
seats were removed and replaced with bucket seats; the backs of the
cabs were cut and big speakers installed in what used to be the cargo
areas. They boomed with techno music. Techno music, for goodness’
sake. And the pickups were slung low; at some point in the low
rider's migration from West Coast to East, the concept got mixed up
with custom trucks.
I
get to talking with 24-year-old Jason Hoffman, founder of the
Westminster chapter of the custom-truck club Extreme Dreams, which
has 35 members. Hoffman is a soft-spoken man with a crew cut and a
head for details. A decade or two ago, you’d have found a
JasonHoffman under the hood of a Chevelle. Now, he dotes on a 1986
Mazda B2000 that looks as shiny as it must have when
it came off the showroom floor. So far,
he's put about $8,000 worth of additional work into the truck.
And
that’s a pretty low figure in the crowd in which he runs. It’s
not unusual, a few other truck owners tell me, to plow 30 or 40 grand
into these machines.
But
those in the pickup crowd say they don’t get the respect they
deserve. Wes Hillsinger complains that at car-and-truck shows, the
judges always give awards to restored older
pick ups. “We don’t get noticed because they think, ‘Those are
new, there’s nothing special about ‘em,” he says.
Show
judges might ignore them, but more official authorities pay
attention. Unlike their muscle-car forebears, pickup gearheads get
cited by police for safety violations rather than speeding.
Hillsinger proudly displays his framed collection of tickets for such
in-fractions as low-and-dangerous suspension and tinted windows.
So
what’s the appeal? Hillsinger mentions the speed bumps. Pickup
artists, he says, treasure “the scrape” the screeching of metal
against the concrete, the sparks flying up from behind, the stares of
unbelieving onlookers. “Each part of the truck makes a different
scraping sound, “ he adds.
The
trick is not to get stuck. “You look like an ass if you get stuck,”
Hillsinger says. He tells me one kid got his truck stuck in a car
wash, another in his own driveway.
So
the scrape has replaced the torque. And it goes against every
principle of muscle-car etiquette. What if you mess something up? The
exhaust, or the bumper, or ... “Hey,
they’re trucks,” Ron Brown, another customizer, says. They're
meant to take a beating. Besides, that’s what parts are for.”
Ahh,
parts. With these trucks, there are plenty of parts available.
Anywhere. Inexhaustible youth.
A
mechanic I once knew told me that his kid’s first car would be a
$200 junker. That way, the kid would learn how cars work and how to
fix them. In many ways, hopped-up muscle cars may be the last bastion
of DIY auto-mobile repair.
Tomorrow’s
kids might not have the same opportunity. A missing aspect of newer
cars is the ability to work on them, to prod and poke and replace
parts to improve performance. Federal and state emissions standards
are getting tougher; the new laws bar tampering with or removing any
device that affects emissions. It is just such goodies that
motorheads love to toy with in their quest for increased speed and
performance--adjusting the carburetor, for example, to take in a rich
air/fuel mixture that improves performance but reduces the burning
off of gasoline, which instead comes out of the tailpipe as fumes. No
more of that sneaky removal of the catalytic converter after the
emissions test, either--that’s now a federal offense that carries a
fine of up to $2,500.
Maryland
doesn’t emissions-test cars built before 1977, so this still leaves
muscle-car owners relatively free to tinker at will. (As far as the
effect on the atmosphere goes, many of the enthusiasts I spoke to
claim a well-tuned muscle car expels far fewer air-fouling
hydrocarbons than an untuned car from any year.) But as these pre-’77
cars die out, the idea of looking under the hood to see what can be
done to improve performance will become more and more of an
anachronism. Further
complicating the DIY ethic is on-board diagnostic equipment (OBD), a
feature in many newer cars. The OBD is basically a computer chip that
regulates many of the engine' elements--elements that used to be
adjusted by the home mechanic with a few gauges and a trained ear.
It’s difficult if not impossible for the home mechanic to readjust
to OBD.
“You
can, but it takes a degree of technical finesse greater than the
average grease monkey possesses,” Goldsborough, says. One wrong
setting and you might just blow a hole in your engine. Late
one evening at the Middlesex Shopping Center in Essex, I approach a
lone scarlet-flecked ‘68 Firebird at the far end of the parking
lot. A man and his teenage daughter are sitting inside. The car shows
the windswept signs of being day-to-day transportation-a ding here,
some torn vinyl off the door there. Owner Bill Seitz, 44, is wearing
sun-glasses and a button-down shirt, his graying hair swept back over
his ears. I promise to take only 20 minutes of his time, but we end
up talking well into the dusk, after the parking-lot lights blinker
on, the stores shut down, and the customers head home. “I never had
anybody talk to me about my car before, he says.
Seitz
bought his ‘Bird in 1979 for $1,500 and has kept it on the road
ever since. It may no longer. carry the same visceral thrill it did
in 1979, the year he got eight speeding tickets, but perhaps it’s
better to lay low anyway. Seitz says the cops just aren’t as
understanding as they used to be. “Even
15 years ago, police seemed as if they were
more tolerant, but now they seem to be. . . . “ He pauses, then
says, “There’s no way you can ride through Essex going 80 miles
an hour. Years ago., they would have pulled you over but they might
have wanted to talk about the car or something, and they might not
have given you a ticket.”
Nonetheless,
there are still good reasons to hold on to the car. “I never want
to buy a new car and make the payments,” he says. “1’d rather
get an old car, fix it up. Even if you put $800 or $1,000 into it a
year, to me, you re better off with an old car, fixing it up.”
Seitz
claims he’s never waxed the car, but he washes it every time he
heads out to a concert. Next week is Bob Seger. Then the Moody Blues
after that. “Gotta have the car looking good. “
The
dashboard sits fat and wide across the narrow window, with an Elvis
sticker plastered on it; the Rolling Stones’ signature red tongue
hangs from the rearview mirror. The numbers 3-5-0 run along a raised,
elongated portion of the hood. The speedometer goes up to 160, and
Seitz says he’s had the car up to 130 or 140, “but that was back
when I got those eight speeding ticket.”
Seitz
starts it up. The engine’s a little rough at first, as any GM
engine that’s 28 years old would be. But it warms up well enough
after a minute or so.
--Joab Jackson
--Joab
Jackson"Well,there she sits, buddy, just a-gleaming in the sun"
"There to greet a working man when his day is done"
--Bruce Springsteen
"Now, she ain't too good on gas and she burns a little oil"
"But she was built with union labor on American soil"
--Steve Earle
"I get pushed out of shape and it's hard to steer"
"When I get rubber in all four gears"
--Beach Boys
"Open up them engines, let 'em roar"
"Tearing up the highway like a big old dinosaur"
--Bruce Springsteen
"Well I was moving down the road in my V-8 Ford"
"I had a shine on my boots, I had my sideburns low"
--ZZ Top
"Nobody's gonna beat my car"
"It's gonna break the speed of sound"
--Deep Purple
"Why don't you come with me little girl on a magic carpet ride"
--Steppenwolf