“The best memories of old friends are never fully captured in photos. That’s why we hold them in our heart.” — Unknown
“Hello, good morning, don’t mean to disturb,” the email message read. “But the wife surprised me with a very large collage on my garage wall, the focal point being this ad. Which made me wonder if you were still alive and if you remember. This ad changed my life.
Dave.” The name Dave didn’t compute right at first. But the ad Dave sent required no reminder. It was still indelible in my mind. The small classified with a photo of a race car appeared 35 years ago in National Dragster, the official publication of the National Hot Rod Association. Better known as the NHRA, it is the largest and oldest sanctioning body for drag racing in the U.S. That’s the automotive sport where adrenalin junkie drivers launch grossly over-powered automobiles from a standing start down a quarter-mile track attempting to reach the finish line in insanely fast times.
Fortunately, I was addicted as a kid, and never recovered. With any luck, at this age, I never will.
I knew what the ad said by heart. “1969 Camaro convertible SS/KA, race car since new, RHS 350 glide w/brake, 5.67 Mark Williams rear, former AHRA national record holder, ran low 11s before fresh engine & trans, not on track since, asking $7,900 or offer. CONTACT Leon Aldridge, (409) 598-3377 or (409) 598-8231.”
I also remembered the car by heart. I gripped the steering wheel many times, oblivious to the deafening sound of 600-and-something unharnessed horsepower that ear plugs and a helmet muffled only slightly. Pressuring those horses up to the 6,000 r.p.m. brake limit, anticipating the green “go” light when releasing the brake, would unleash every ounce of horsepower to the rear tires in one blast.
Memories of those rear tires wrinkling in angry protest against the motor’s massive torque and the pavement’s tight grip. And the powerless front wheels that had no choice but to rise up, reaching skyward and allowing the sun’s lazy late afternoon rays to filte underneath until the rest of the car got the power struggle sorted out.
And finally, memories of that heartbeat instant in which the conflicting forces of manmade power and nature eventually teamed up to propel a 3,000-pound car down the track in just over 11 seconds at more than 125 miles per hour.
“Absolutely I remember that car and that ad,” I responded. “Wow! What a pleasant surprise.”
“Yes,” Dave wrote back. “I am the then 34-year-old kid who drove away with your car in May of 1987.”
Dave did answer the ad all those years ago and was interested enough to drive to Center to look at the car … from Canada. Yep, he drove to Center in a late-70s or early-80s Mopar of some description, perhaps a Plymouth Satellite. I don’t remember now.
He arrived in East Texas a few days after calling and decided to buy the car after a thorough inspection. The only problem was he didn’t have a trailer. So, I helped him in that area as well. I sold him one I had. But that came with problems, too. The trailer’s wood floor had wornout spots making it critical that we strategically parked the car to avoid breaking through one of them.
Car loaded to both our satisfaction, I watched Dave and his trusty Plymouth hauling my old friend of a race car with which I had made many memories disappear around the corner on Walker Street. I offered a silent prayer the trailer would make it all the way back to Canada.
Dave’s recent message included photos of that journey back to his home, noting one picture was crossing the border just north of Bismarck, North Dakota at sunrise on the last day of his 4,200-mile trip. In addition, he shared stories of changes made to the car over the years and racing it at tracks from California to Indy and in between.
I told Dave I had pictures as well as stories related to the car. Old cars all have stories; telling them is what car guys do.
He concluded with, “The old girl waits quietly in the corner of the garage for the new motor we developed over the long winter. I think I will load the motor in this weekend just to push back on the blues of this new world order that has enveloped us.”
“The sun’s out, think I’ll crack a beer and rub the fenders of our old friend.”
“Dave”
