When a sixteen year old boy is asked what he likes best about driving he most likely will say it is the opportunity it gives him to get from one place to the next without having to rely on his parents, or if he happens to be waxing philosophical, an unusual trait for a sixteen year old but many hormonally challenged sixteen year olds act strangely as did I, he might speak of the freedom or independence it provides. Rarely will he be straight forward enough to say it’s all about impressing girls, or if he isn’t into girls due to maturity or other factors, that it’s the thrill of having control over a powerful machine.
Now except for a brief period when I was working on earning my boy scout marksmanship merit badge by busting up some targets with a .22 caliber open sight rifle I have never experienced the intoxicating exhilaration associated with firing weapons, nor do I wish to, and being among the last to turn our push in for a power mower the chance to feel the blood pounding in my ears and the adrenaline coursing through my veins came to me for the first time when I spun the Dodge in a donut on that empty, icy Red Owl parking lot the night I earned my driver’s license.
Among the group of friends who earned their driver’s licenses late that winter and early spring only a couple were able to get cars frequently enough to do what is commonly referred to as joy riding or pleasure cruising. M was usually consigned to some large family car at least until late in spring when he showed up with a small but clean Pontiac Lemans. Jeff M rarely had the opportunity to drive one of the family vehicles except at work. It would take me a while to learn to handle a stick shift well enough to have an option beside the incredibly slow moving Dodge, and then there was Jeff P.
Our mutual friend, Mac, not his first name but the initial syllable of his surname, invariably rode shotgun since unlike the rest of us he never had a car and he was not phased by the way Jeff P drove. Remembering that due to some rare blood disorder Jeff P was unable to participate in athletics, it may come as no surprise that he chose to push the aforementioned adrenaline rush to unparalleled extremes.
Looking at the pale blue Buick Special with a body structure and size similar to the Corvair or Lemans one might logically assume the car would move at a rather tepid speed. So, when Jeff rolled down the window and punched the accelerator on my maiden voyage in the vehicle my eyes screamed with amazement as not only my hair shot back but also my upper lip nearly touched my ear lobes from the incredible G-force. Mac simply turned up the radio and Jeff P laughed as we shot through intersection after intersection while Jeff M, M and I closed our eyes and prayed in the backseat.
When Jeff opened up the hood to show us what provided the thrust our mouths hung open stunned by what was stuffed into the limited space. Somehow his father had a Super Wildcat 465 installed in the undersized Buick. The 360 horsepower engine with a specially mounted pair of four-barrel carburetors known as “dual quads” had a 425 cubic inch displacement that provided 465 pounds of torque. Designed for the much larger Electra and Riviera due to its shortened “nailhead” valves it was miraculously crammed into the smaller car.
I happily drove home in the Dodge covering the brake at each intersection, leaning forward to check for cross traffic and pressing the buttons, first, second and drive to assist the engine in regaining enough power to resume my previous speed.
Do you have any good car stories? Tell us about them in the comment section.
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