Sold on Mecum

I have fond memories of watching Mecum Auto Auctions on television with my father on weekend afternoons; trying to guess the hammering price on what seemed like an endless line of dream cars coming through the auction block. I grew up hearing the adventures my father had when he used to flip cars during the late 80’s and early 90’s. Buying and selling used Cutlasses, Citations, Diplomats, and K cars at car auctions in order to keep food on the table and me in clean diapers. So when I read that Mecum was coming to Texas, I knew that I had to make a father and son trip over to Houston to attend. We didn’t go to buy a Hemi or Yenko tribute car, we just wanted to witness what we had seen on television for so many years. We were not disappointed.

Entering the area, we were greeted by a 1970 Chevelle SS 454 driving past us on its way to the auction block. All 450 horses prancing without a trip or a miss as it hummed slowly across the floor to get in line with the rest of the high dollar machines awaiting to see if they will be going to a new home. It wasn’t until I was walking on the red carpet, standing within touching distance of a 1970 Plymouth Hemi Superbird, with 4-speed, that the magnitude of where I was started to hit me. I’ve been to plenty of car shows before, but this was the first one where every single car I was taking photos of had a for sale sign. It was almost overwhelming, makes you wish you had a clone so one can take photos while the other one simply admires and drools over the cars.

Drinking a beer with my father as we listened and watched all our favorite cars was truly a Gearhead Hallmark moment, a good concept for an auto-themed greeting card. Listening to all these high dollar collector trailer queens start up, after probably months of being asleep in an air conditioned warehouse, and yawning in the form of puffing white smoke as they stretch their wheels. While others are pushed by volunteers or towed by golf carts to the center stage. A 1970 Hemi Daytona struggling to wake up as it almost stalls twice before getting on the auction block, carbs just need an adjustment. Or a 1969 convertible Chevy Camaro that nearly turns into a fog machine as it revs and shoots out a cloud of blue smoke before going back to sleep knowing it now has a new owner. One aspect I do not like about the collector car industry is that some people only see these cars as investments only. Keeping a car in storage, no matter how dry, well light, or clean it may be, can still hurt these machines if they are not moved or started up regularly. What’s the point of throwing down half a million on a Hemi if you don’t take it out on Sunday afternoons and show off a little?

There were a few cars I really wanted to bid on at Mecum, like a Buick Grand National movie car that was driven by Vin Diesel in the Fast n Furious franchise. Not because I am a fan of the actor or movies, I just really like Grand Nationals. Since I was broke I sat with my father in the stands to watch the auction take place. You could feel the energy and excitement among the crowd. We all felt excited, and perhaps a tad bit jealous, of the bidders going wild every time the reserve went off on a car. Chanting, “RESERVE… IS… OFF!” like we were on a game show, because we are excited for the owner who is hopefully making a profit on his/her car while at the same time happy for the lucky buyer who will be taking it home. When you start seeing six or seven figures on the board for a car with no reserve, you can’t help but get a small rush from the people in a bidding war. “Sold, sold, sold, sold!” as the hammer drops, creating a new payday, a new owner, and probably a future pissed off wife or girlfriend.

After hours of fun, and a few more beers, we were looking at the last cars on the floor that we hadn’t seen when I noticed someone that looked all too familiar. It was Mr. Rutledge Wood, some of you know him from NASCAR but I first heard of this man from his time on Top Gear US. I got to shake his hand and snap a quick photo with him, making him the first automotive celebrity I get the opportunity to meet. Mr. Wood has what I consider to be the dream, getting paid to work in the media and talk about cars for a living. I am pleased to say that Mr. Wood is a total gentlemen in taking a moment to talk to us and pose for pictures. Hopefully my career will cross paths with him again in the future.

Overall, my father and I had a great time at Mecum Auto Auctions in Houston, Texas. We plan on coming here again, only this time we’ll make sure our pockets are stuffed full of cash so we can join in on the fun as registered bidders.

Feeling Fast

Being a young Gearhead with a fleet of vintage cars (I did not mean for that to sound like I was showing-off) means that I sometimes get lectured by gearheads of an older generation on the dangers of driving fast or car control. All I can do is sit there and nod in agreement, because I am still at an age where if I respond with, “yes, I know already”, I will sound like a cocky young punk who will eventually learn the hard way. But, I’ve collected my fair share of city miles as gearhead when it comes to driving. I’ve totaled a car, crashed a car, been wrecked into, experienced a car that is out of control, break downs, left stranded on a dark highway, pushed a car home, dealt with police on multiple occasions, and even partaken in a casual streetlight drag race. So I’ve been around the block, and left the tire marks to prove it.

About a week ago, my uncle Mike got to test drive my 1969 Camaro. Unlike myself, he is from a generation when my Camaro was just another everyday daily driver, so I had no problem tossing him the keys to my time machine. The test drive was like a flashback to the 1970’s for him, back to his youth, and he drove my poor Camaro as such. Afterwards, he mentioned to me that I should probably sell my Camaro and invest in a muscle car I really wanted. Reading in between the lines made me realize what he was actually telling me. What he was really telling me was that this hot Camaro was too much car for me and that I should get rid of it before they use it as my coffin. I know he wasn’t saying I didn’t know how to drive, or insulting my ability, he is just looking out for my own safety. That being said, I was still a little annoyed, because I am not a teenager anymore. If I was 16 years old and had this Camaro I would completely understand, but I’m a month away from being a college graduate! That experience got my thinking of physical and emotional feeling of going fast. People that have only one class of vehicle, only trucks or only new cars, all their lives won’t understand when I say that 100 mph can feel a lot faster or a lot slower depending on what you are driving.

For example, when I am driving my mom’s brand new 2015 luxury sedan or my slightly used 2013 econobox down an interstate and I decide to push the needle past 100mph, I feel totally relaxed. Why? Because thanks to modern technology most new cars feel like their only doing 70mph when they are in fact traveling well over 100. Not to mention all the latest death-proof safety devices such as traction control and stability control that are designed to keep us between the ditches. So at 120mph, my little econobox has reached its limited top speed and I could drive it with one hand knowing that if the car were to suddenly get loose there is a good chance I’ll get up in a field, but with all four wheels still on the ground. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is not a safe speed, and I do not condone speeding on public roads, but I’m saying that modern cars can feel safe even at high speeds. Whether that’s a good or bad thing is a different story.

If I switch keys and get behind the wheel of my truck, which is limited to 101mph, the speed feels utterly different. Now I have no choice but to keep both hands on the wheel and become aware of any extra play in the steering wheel as the truck hops along the interstate, swaying over every imperfection on the tarmac. Eventually you get used to the sensation that the truck is floating, but not before you tighten your seatbelt and hope the suspension doesn’t travel so far up that the rushing air lifts the rear tires up. Because if they do lift, and lose traction, then you’re going to need a faster set of hangs, and a new pair of shorts, to counter steer your way to safety.

Finally, we get inside the Camaro, and to be completely honest I do not know what the top speed of that car is because I have never pushed it beyond 90mph. Reasons being because well… it scares the living crap out of me. As the Camaro angrily fights the law of physics to reach 90mph, the cold sweat on my palms weld my hands to the steering wheel as I basically hang on for dear life. At that point I am not driving, I am just aiming the car in the direction I wish to go and praying it wants to go that way too. All while knowing that if this car decides to misbehave, as old cars often do, that I will be crashing through the gates of heaven, upside down, in a 360 spin before I even have a chance to downshift. Feeling the vibrations at the wheel as the car brawls it way through the air, all the 1960’s technology shaking and rattling inside the interior makes the car feel like it’s about to break the sound barrier. Exciting, yes, but the sense of the grim reaper riding shotgun is right behind it.

I know most of you who will read this will know exactly what I am talking about and think that I am just a broken record, but not everyone has the luxury, or desire, to max out every car they come across. Regardless of what your views on speed are, whether you think it kills, is a drug, a cure for a bad day, or you just do because you enjoy it, speed feels different. Three different cars speeding at the same rate of time and distance will have totally different sensations and emotions. It’s one of the many occasions where a car can have a direct impact on your emotional state.

Torque Flexing

Some say this act it is the mating call of the idiot, others say it is a gross example of showing off, but most just think it’s cool. The act of spinning a car’s tires until they start pouring smoke and filling the surrounding area with the smell of heated rubber, the infamous burnout. If you’re a fan of cars then you have seen or performed this stunt before during your driving career. Whether you did it to warm up your tires at the drag strip, showing off at a car meet, or goofing off because you were planning on buying new tires anyway, doing burnouts is part of the automotive culture…but who invented it?

We all love seeing a car produce clouds and leaving a behind a Goodyear finger print on the asphalt, but who was the first to come up with the idea? Who was the one who came up with the idea of using the clutch, brake, and gas to keep a car stationary while spinning its tires? This question was keeping me up at night so I decided to ask the internet and found… nothing. All I found was that the start of drag racing in the late 40’s which could have been the origins of the smoking tire, which would make since seeing as how the original purpose for performing a burnout is to warm up the rubber so it sticks to the asphalt creating more traction for the car. I could not, however, find a name or date as to the first one ever done. Then I thought Motorsport could be another lead as to who was behind the smoking tire. Now it seems almost blasphemy to not do a burnout or donuts once you have crossed the finished line with the checkered flag waving you down as you win first place. But that again left me with a dead end at the 1950’s with no name, just a NASCAR victory tradition.

We all know the practical purpose for performing a burnout, but we rarely question the reason why we think they are so cool. A lot of us force ourselves into thinking the smell of burning rubber is good, kind like the line from the movie Apocalypse Now, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning, it smells like… victory.” In reality the smell of burning tires is awful, but we force ourselves to breathe though our mouths so we can enjoy the spectacle before us of a car showcasing its ability to convert fuel and air into smoke and exhaust notes. I often hear people, mostly women, say stuff like, “Why do you guys do that, it’s so pointless”, or, “Aren’t you just damaging your car?” Yes, performing burnouts that are longer than 5 seconds means putting your car at a higher risk of damaging major components, but there are psychological factors taken place in the mind of Gearhead before, during, and after conducting a burnout.

For example, take an average Gearhead who is not a master mechanic, has a car that is considered his pride and joy, and has a subscription to at least one car magazine, let’s call him Otto. Now let’s say Otto is at a gathering of Gearheads like a car show, car meet, or the local auto parts store. Already the mind is more excited than a puppy greeting its owner coming home from work at the idea of being surrounded by people who speak, “car”, and will understand phrases like, “I blew a tranny”, and not get judgmental looks of confusion. Two outcomes usually happen when a Gearhead is around other Gearheads, either he/she will get into a heated dispute with a fellow car-nut over which two particular car brands or cars are better, note they do not have own these cars to argue about them, or they will get a basic instinct to show off their car. Let’s say it’s the end of the day and the cars are starting to leave, and Otto is on his way out of the parking lot and there is a line of people with video cameras filming all the cool cars leave the lot. Otto knows he’s got a nice car with at least 380 ft.lb of torque at his disposal. Instinctively he will scan for police cars nearby as he selects a low gear. Left foot on the brake and leaning on the gas as the car lurches forward with an engine grunt as people start to hear the first cold layer of rubber being sanded off Otto’s set of Firestones. The tires heat up all that is heard is the sound of exhaust system burping out RPM’s as the car turns into a cloud maker with the crowd cheering on.

At this point, Otto’s ego is at a 1980’s action movie hero level of badass and keeps the power on for a few more seconds before letting off the gas. He leaves his asphalt signature while making the dramatic exit that has plagued so many other poor Gearheads with hilarious results that have filled the internet. Reality starts to set in as Otto calms down and settles in for the drive home, and he backtracks all that as happened just now. The final state of mind most Gearheads face after a burnout is, guilt. Otto starts to worry that he probably cut the life of is rear tires by about 40% and that his fuel level took a hit with all that high revving. Otto tries to say sorry to his car by driving very carefully and obeying the speed limit all the way home. Not all of us will react the same way Otto does, but we have all been in at least one of these three states of mind at one point or another.

The burnout is one of those Gearhead mystics that we all take for granted as always been around and enjoyed, but we rarely question. It is a tradition, a crowd pleaser, a strategy, and in some cases, an annoyance. Until the day comes that cars turn into hovering, self-driving, machines that take us to work at hyper speed, we shall continue flexing the torque of our cars because it is cool.

Wreck-less Speeder

“Faster”, you think to yourself as the right foot comes down on the gas pedal like a pound of lead, sending the needle on the speedometer on a dead sprint towards triple digits as you get pushed back in your seat. Feeling the vibrations at the wheel as the car cuts through the air, fighting its way through the laws of physics. Trying to escape tunnel vision as you concentrate on the road ahead, avoiding the hypnotic trance of the white center lines slowing blurring into one. You’re standing on the gas pedal as your death grip wraps around the steering wheel, feeling your shoulders tense up. You’re not sure if it’s the muscles tightening up or the speed demon’s hands as he whispers in your ears urging you to go faster, to push the car to its edge. Feeling the pulse of your heartbeat throughout your body as the car’s RPM’s gets closer to redline. Suddenly, the electronic limiter kicks in and slaps you out of your speed induced hypnosis and you gradually ease off the gas and return back to the reality of the speed limit.

Driving fast is addicting, and speed is the drug that will get you hooked. For most of us, it starts off young when we get our first bike and want to find the biggest hill in the neighborhood to use gravity as horsepower. All your friends, at one point or another, have reached for the, “oh crap”, handle on the roof of the car when you’re behind the wheel. Driving fast, however, can often labeled you as a, “reckless driver”, which I have always felt was incorrect. Someone who is driving 90mph, but focused on the road, is safer than someone driving 70mph while texting or talking on the phone. There is a clear difference between a fast driver and a reckless driver, and that is the level of concentration.

There was a movie in 1976 called, “The Gumball Rally”, about a group of wacky characters in souped up cars driving from New York to California in the fastest time possible. Basically the movie that came out before the Cannonball Run with Burt Reynolds. There was a line in that movie that not only made me laugh, but found some logic behind it. “55mph is unsafe, because it’s fast enough to kill you but slow enough to make you think you’re safe”. It is a great line, and it makes sense because if you are traveling at 55mph you are more than likely to day dream or be distracted because the speed feels boring. Any speed over 100mph and  your mind is focused on the road in front of you because now the risk of death has gone up which forces you to pay attention, theoretically.

There are two kinds of fast drivers in this world, a reckless speeder and a speed freak. A reckless driver will drive fast to get where they need to be with no regard for another drivers or the rules of the road. Mostly because they are too busy: eating on the go, chatting on the phone, sending an ironic tweet about how their city is full of bad drivers, or thinking about what they need to do instead of what they are doing at the moment. A speed freak is different, they drive fast because: they have race car driver ambitions or fantasies, they own a fast car and want their money’s worth, or because they love driving itself and having the ability to control a car at high speed is part of the experience.

A street racer is not a speed freak, because a street racer is driven by competition while a speeder is only racing against him/herself or time. Speed, like a drug, is incredibly addicting so anyone who is an acceleration addict can remember the first time they developed a need for speed. For me, it was the time my father told me to, “Stand on it”, while I was test driving what would later become my first truck. We were on a newly paved road by the ranch and he told me to stand on the gas so I could feel what a V8 felt like at open throttle, and as soon as the needle ran past 90mph I turned into a junkie.

Driving fast doesn’t make someone an unsafe driver if they are paying attention to what they are doing. Although the speed demons can urge a driver to push his/her ability beyond the point of no return that does not mean that, “Speed kills”. Technically, driving at high speed can’t hurt you, but the upcoming tree might. Whatever type of driver you are remember, know your limitations and be safe out there.

Blue Collar Hobby, White Collar Prices

Barrett Jackson just finished its first auction event of the year a few days ago in Scottsdale, Arizona. I always enjoy watching the live coverage of all those high dollar motors rolling across the auction block to be bid on by a sea of AARP members. Although I own a few cars myself, any Gearhead will tell you that there will always be that, “one more”, car that we just gotta have in our garage. I have a list of, “must own”, cars in my head and it seems to get longer every few months. The problem is that young Gearheads today are in a race against time when it comes to being able to purchase their vintage dream cars and I believe that the TV and greed are to blame.

There has seem to be a big demand for automotive based television in recent years. Gearheads now have their own channel, Velocity, which only shows programs about restoring cars, selling cars, finding cars, or all of the above. I remember when the only car shows on the air were Over Haulin, American Hotrod, Gears, and whatever NASCAR coverage ESPN was giving, now I can’t keep track how many other copycat shows are flooding the networks. I always find it funny how the shows tend to give cliffhangers to keep the viewer interested enough to wait through the commercials by dramatizing something like: the car being late for paint, parts not coming in on time, or the new engine not firing up on the first try. Yet when the show comes back after the commercials, everything has worked itself out and the car is finished under the most unrealistic time frames. Any body shop owner will tell you that finishing a ground up project that involves body work, paint, and assembly in one week, two weeks is technically possible…if the their employees don’t mind working overtime for free. I am surprised none of these programs have shown a car that has been put together without any brakes by accident because the mechanics have been working nonstop all week and have made mistakes due to exhaustion.

The problem with these shows is that Gearheads are not the only ones watching it, and now any John Doe with a 4-door Nova thinks he can get top dollar for his junker. It makes it a little more difficult to negotiate a price for someone who doesn’t have a trust fund or a millionaire best friend. I was at a used car lot that had a few classic cars, one of which was a 1986 Buick Grand National. The car looked great but I was told it needed work since it had been in storage for years, but only had around 35k miles. I was interested until I heard the price, $27,000! That is outrageous for a Grand National, let alone one that needs work. It was the same story with a 1965 Mustang parked next to it, looked mint but had hidden rust spots and the engine needed tuning, $28,000. I think we can all agree that there are few things more frustrating than a person who doesn’t know much about classic cars trying to get Barrett Jackson prices for a car that is simply not worth it.

The classic car market itself is starting to get too inflated in my opinion. When Ferraris start costing more than the economies of small countries then you know things are getting out of hand. I am sorry but no car is worth over 30 million dollars, I do not care of Enzo Ferrari’s ashes are hidden in the glove box along with the location of Jimmy Hoffa. Once a car’s worth starts reaching seven or eight figures at auctions it is no longer a car, it is now an investment like buying shares at a stock market. Buying the car, waiting a few years and then selling it again for a profit. I say investment because anyone that throws down 10, 20, 30 million on one car isn’t exactly going to take it for a drive down to a local car meet. No, that car will be in an air conditioned warehouse and only see daylight when it is carried on to a trailer to be transported to the next auction house.

If prices keep climbing at this rate, I will not be able to afford anything by the time my own children start asking me to buy them a project car to restore or even buy for my own collection. I understand that cars are worth so much because their rare or desired, but there needs to be a realistic price to back it up. Classic muscle cars, for example, used to be about high performance at blue collar price. A 17 year old kid working part time could go into a dealership, and with a little help on the down payment from mom and dad, could roll out in a base 1968 Plymouth Road Runner with a hot 383 V8 bolted to a torque flite 727 automatic. Classic cars live from passion and a desire to keep the history alive, it should not be turned into a business and ruined like the art or music industry. I am honestly worried about how outrageous the classic car market will be when I am an AARP member. All I can hope for is that the classic car market follows the housing market and crashes, so Joe Six Pack can afford to buy a 440 Six Pack.

Parental Rides

We were all young once, which means most of us can remember when our parents coming home in a shiny new car. There is something intoxicating about a new car, probably the fumes of new car smell, that makes teenagers want to immediately take it for a joy ride where inexperience and exuberance mix together in disastrous results. Not always, but sometimes. I know I fell prey to this phenomenon when I was 16 and kissed a telephone pole with my father’s brand new Chevrolet Silverado pick up, one month after he had purchased it. I vividly remember the accident because when I spun out and wrecked, it happened in front of a parking lot where my father was waiting for me. My father witnessed his brand new truck play Rock’em Sock’em robots with a telephone phone. I still do not know what felt worse, the impact or the fact that he did not yell or speak to me for the next two days. In case you were wondering, truck was repaired and we still own it as a work truck, only since then it has been nicknamed the Piñata since there is not one single piece of sheet metal on that poor truck that doesn’t have a work related scratch or dent.

Recently, however, it was my mother’s turn to get a new car and she decided to go all out on a fully loaded 2015 Kia Optima turbo. This car has every option available and powered by a turbo charged four banger cranking out 270 of American built Korean horses. The car can be mistaken for a Mercedes as it looks more European than Korean in pearl white paint and 18 inch alloy wheels. When I drove down for the weekend to visit my parents, I also went as an excuse to drive the new edition to the family as well. The first time I drove the car I felt like I was holding the baby of a first time mother as both my parents turned into backseat drivers. Lecturing me about driving slow over speed humps and avoiding pot holes to protect the low profile tires, and to not drive so fast around corners. The following night I was invited to a social gathering with my friends and I asked if I could borrow the Kia out for the night. Much to my amazement, I was tossed the keys and I was out the door faster than you can say turbo.

How many of you remember telling your parents, “yes dad/mom I’ll be safe”, and the cutting to you doing donuts in a parking lot with all your friends squeezed in for the ride. Joy riding my mom’s cars is nothing new, I remember pushing the family minivan, a Kia Sedona, well passed the 115mph mark when I was 18. As I drove the Optima that night, I was confident I could beat my old record and went for it. Modern cars can be hovering over tarmac at 120 mph and feel like they are on rails, as was the case with this turbo Kia as it climbed up to 127mph before I backed off due to an upcoming turn on the highway. It wasn’t until the drive back home that I felt a sense of nostalgia of asking my parents to borrow the car and then pushing a car, and my luck, to its limit as most car loving teenagers are prone to do.

Youth gives us a fault sense of invincibility, which can only be dissolved the hard way. For a Gearhead, however, we may never learn because if a car has 500 horsepower, then we will use every last one of them. Our logic is, “why build a car with that much power if you’re not going to use it?” For a lot of us, our first experiences with speed or car control have often been at the expense of cars borrowed from our parents. You can almost call it a rite of passage in the developing life of a Gearhead. My parents often warn me that someday I’ll have a son of my own standing in front of me asking to borrow the keys to my car. When that day comes, the circle of cycle will be complete as I feel the same ball of stress, made up of terror and worry, sitting in the pit of my stomach as I watch my child leave the driveway in my new Camaro. The same ball of stress every parent feels when they see their children drive off.

Loyal Motors

A couple of days ago I was pulling an all-nighter trying to memorize 14 chapters of information, which I’ll never use in life, for one of my final exams the following morning. It was around 4am when I decided to take a study break and get something to eat at a local fast food joint that was open 24/7. I was in pajamas so I used the drive thru and while I was waiting in line to pull up to the window I heard a familiar noise traveling across the cold night air, the sound of an engine being fed fuel through a carburetor. I glanced in my side mirror and saw the corner fender of what my memory recognized as a 60’s full size Pontiac. After I received my greasy bag of eatable cholesterol, I pulled into the nearest parking space so I could get out and get a better look at the mystery Pontiac that was behind me. It turned out to be a tempest blue 1968 Pontiac Catalina sedan. It was beautiful and looked like it hadn’t stopped rolling since LBJ was president. Sun baked paint on its roof, with a hint of surface rust, a front grille sprinkled with years of pebble dings, headlights shining dimly giving it the impression of a tired face, a Catalina emblem on the front fender with a missing A – it was an honest survivor.

At first glance I formed a back story of the kind of life it was having. Purple heart on the corner license plate, a Vietnam Veteran flag hanging on its rear-view mirror, and an aging old man sitting behind the wheel wearing an Army cap with his wife riding shotgun with pink rollers in here silver hair. The story ran in my head as a young soldier, coming back from Vietnam, buying his first new car as he signs on the dotted line at a Pontiac dealership during the year 1968. Bringing home his first child in that same Pontiac as the years went by. A lifetime of miles under its hood. Before the old man left, he fired up the old Catalina, and as he turned the key, the car didn’t skip a beat. With a sleepy clank and ring, the tired 400ci engine fired with the equivalent grunt of an old man getting up from a chair. They rolled out of the parking lot with the Catalina floating across the asphalt with grace. It made me forget about my insomnia for the few seconds as I watched the Pontiac leave the driveway into the darkness of night.

It always makes my day whenever I see a classic or old car riding down the road without a care in the world on the driver’s face. It’s even better when the car is a survivor or has an exhausting amount of miles on the clock. I’ve heard of a little old lady in Florida pedaling around her 1962 Mercury Comet since new and has rolled over 400,000 miles on the original drivetrain. A man who has covered over 900,000 in his Porsche 356, and a legendary gentleman who pushed his Volvo P1800 all the way to 3 million miles, while still looking factory new. Loyal Motors, honest cars that refuse to give up on their caretaker, because of good maintenance. If the owner takes care of his/her car, the car will take care of the owner. Cars aren’t much different to humans when it comes to keeping them alive. They both need constant refueling, checkups, sometimes replacement parts, and be drained of fluids sometimes, so seeing a car that has survived the life expectancy of their warranties is a true testament to regularly scheduled oil changes and maintenance.

Sometimes, however, you get cars that were built just a little bit better than the car before or after it on the assembly line. Whether that car falls in the hands of someone who doesn’t know what a dipstick is or someone who keeps the plastic covers on the seats, the car will keep on rolling until the wheels fall off. A good friend of mine has a 2001 Toyota Camry, about as vanilla of car as you can get, yet it has clocked nearly 300,000 miles! The suspension feels like that of a full size sedan from the 1970’s, it drives likes a boxer hearing the bell going off as it bobs and weaves around corners. The car refuses to give up on my buddy, even though he drives like Donald Duck behind the wheel of a rental. He has even admitted to me that he is trying to break it so he can have an excuse to buy a new car, but the car won’t die. I’ve driven it and although the car feels exhausted, the v6 can still mustered up enough grunt to get you into triple digit speeds.

I love cars with loyal engines, cars that refuse to give up no matter the abuse from the owner or father time. I can assume many of you have heard or known about a car that has rolled enough miles to lap the planet once or twice, doesn’t it just tickle the soft spot in your heart? Some people believe that age is just a number, apparently some cars believe that mileage are just numbers as well.

Super-Size my Ride

I have been working as a valet for a little over two months now and it has given me the opportunity to get behind the wheel of a variety of cars, from a clapped out Honda to the latest Tesla. It puts me in a unique position of having a job where I get to pedal around the latest leather wrapped computers on wheels of the future and then coming home to tinker with the retired kings of the road from yesteryear. I’m constantly comparing modern cars to cars of the past and naturally I have some opinions. For this article the main focus will be on modern pickup trucks and how they are too big. I am not talking about trucks that have been jacked up on aftermarket steroids and used to crawl over Mother Nature’s face on weekends, I mean factory showroom trucks from Ford, GM, Toyota, and Dodge.

Back in 2011, I was cruising around town when I stopped at the local GMC dealership to see what my old 97’ truck would fetch in a trade-in, just for kicks. After the ego crushing news that my pride and joy would only catch $1,000 in trade-in value I walked back to my truck that was staged next to a 2008 model GMC Sierra. The truck was the newer counterpart of mine, silver, crew-cab, only 11 years newer. Having the sisters parked side by side it was clear to see that the newer model was taller, longer, and wider than mine. I took a photo and went about my day, but over time I have noticed that pick-up trucks are getting bulkier every new model and I cannot understand why.

I think this all started in 2007 when the Toyota Tundra was designed to compete with the big boys in the truck industry. Since then it seems it has become the new trend of bigger is better. The new 2014-2015 models are road mammoths barreling down the interstates of America. Some of my friends say it is because they have more payload and towing power needed for heavy duty jobs. Living in Texas you see plenty of heavy duty trucks hauling and pulling trailers for the oil fields or just because it is the Texas lifestyle to have a big truck. That makes sense but a truck’s torque comes from its drivetrain not from its size so what does making a truck bigger have to do with it being able to tow a trailer? My neighbor’s 1998 Dodge Ram can go wheel to wheel with these new trucks in a tug-a-war, while still being able to fit in a parking space without feeling like your trying to park a military spec Humvee.

I’ve driven them all, Tundra, Duramax, Super Duty, and Ram, and they all have the same problem, their exhausting to drive. Although comfortable to sit in, being in the driver seat you cannot see where the hood ends or clearly see the dimensions of the vehicle. I find myself using the, “force”, when parking these big boys or relying on their backup cameras since I can’t see the corners of the truck. The interiors are also becoming a problem as auto manufacturers are trying to turn trucks into really big cars. Remember when you could order a manual transmission with your pick-up? Now most of them have automatic lever on the floor which makes me feel like I’m in a minivan, or worse, a knob on the dash that makes you feel like your changing radio stations instead of selecting reverse. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accidently switched on the windshield wipers instead of changing gears because the shifter is on the dash instead of on the steering column.

Now I understand why they do this, to make them for comfortable and easier to drive therefore appealing to a wider target audience, but when does a truck stop becoming a truck and start becoming a bloated sofa that will rarely use its full payload potential. I do not see the point in making these trucks so big, or making them feel like a car.

Cast Iron Spirit

I believe that the more time you own a vehicle, the more you invest in that vehicle. By invest I do not mean pennies and cents in the form of oil changes, new tires, or car washes that you can calculate mathematically. I am talking about investing part of your soul and personality into the car. You don’t need to be a Gearhead to add an accessory to your car to make it stand out from the pack. It could be any cosmetic or performance modification like a chrome valve covers, 8-ball shift knob, bumper sticker, or even Betty Boop floor mats. Gearheads take it to another level since they not only like what they drive, they genuinely love and care for what they drive and see it as part of the family like a pet or an extension of their own identity. Every adventure, near miss, run in with the law, or break down you take with your car means investing a small part of yourself into the machine. Sometimes, especially with older model vehicles, the car will reveal itself to you in the form of mechanical imperfections I call, “quirks”.

My 97’ GMC truck is a perfect example of this theory, over the nearly 8 years of ownership, it has been totaled and restored using a cocktail of new, aftermarket, and junkyard parts to get it back on the road. This means it has developed a series of quirks over the years which usually end up with me questioning the supernatural, on the side of the road in a profanity fueled rage, or falling on the praise of dumb luck in front of the law. The focus of this article will be stories that show clear example of a cast iron spirit.

One night I was driving home from a party at a friend’s house. It was around three in the morning and I was holding steady at 70mph when suddenly the bass line to Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress by the Hollies was cut short as the radio turned itself off. When I tried to switch it back on, the lights on the dashboard began to flicker and a few seconds later the whole truck went kaput. No power, and on a dark highway, I steered the truck over to the side of the road. Turning the key I heard the infamous clicking sound of a dead battery, I was stranded. I had to call my friend, whose party I had just left, to come to my rescue and by the time he found me it had started to rain…hard. The weather didn’t matter since even with a jumpstart my truck simply did not want to turn over, it just sat their clicking away as if it was somehow laughing at us getting soaking wet with fear of electrocution. The night ended with us leaving the truck on the side of the road and getting back home at four in the morning cold and wet with no truck, which my parents were not happy about. A few hours later, around eight in the morning, my father drove me back to the spot where the truck sat. I decided to turn the key one last time before we did anything, just for the sake of it, and to my amazement the truck fired right up without skipping a beat. It idled like a lion with a fully stomach, it was almost smug. Drove it home without issue, and I never found out why it lost power since the battery, cables, and alternator were all fine. Whenever it pulls stuff like this I joke around saying it is, “pulling off a Christine”, after the Stephen King novel from the 1980’s about a 1958 Plymouth Fury that can repair itself.

The most Christine moment it did happened when I was 18 years old and had less than a month with the newly restored truck. I had just topped off the tank and was getting ready for the drive home when my little brother asked me if he could drive it home. He had just gotten his driver’s license and was anxious to get some practice in. I was feeling generous so I tossed him the keys and we set off for home. Night had fallen by the time we were on the highway and I could tell my brother was a little nervous, not because of the driving, but because he was driving his older brother’s recently restored pride and joy. We had the highway to ourselves, so I wasn’t worried, and I sat back and tried to get used to the awkward feeling of riding shotgun in your own car. Five miles in, I glanced at the gauge cluster on the dash and was horrified to see that the gas gauge was reading half a tank. I scanned the rest of the gauge to see if anything was wrong, but all read normal. I told my brother to pull over quickly, because I suspected a gas leak. Walking to the back of the truck I couldn’t smell any gasoline fumes and when I glanced underneath the bed, where the gas tank is, all I could see was the greasy undercarriage of an old truck. I decided to drive the truck the rest of the way home and deal with the problem in the morning, but I was feeling upset because half a tank meant the old girl had leaked or burned $40 dollars’ worth of go-go juice in less than ten miles. What happened next still gives me chills as every mile the truck rolled I gained another gallon of fuel. As I drove along the road, I glanced at the gauge and could see the needle slowly crawling its way back to full on its own. By the time I got home, the gauge read a full tank once again and my brother and I were in disbelief. My brother turned to me and said, “I guess she didn’t like me being behind the wheel.”

Although these quirks have often gotten me in trouble, there was one case where it saved me from a much more serious situation, although it did get me into trouble in the first place. I was driving my friend home, after a late party where he was not sober enough to drive himself home. At the time, the latest quirk the truck had developed was that the brake lights would turn off whenever I applied the brakes and come back on when I took my foot off. A simple electrical issue, but the quirk would come and go. Months would go by without a problem and then I would have a passing car or friend tell me my brake lights were out. Life, time, and money had prevented me from getting the issued fixed and I was regretting my procrastination that night when I noticed a police car in my rear view mirror. Paranoia turned to fear when I saw that my tipsy friend had an open beer bottle in the truck that I never noticed he had, open containers in a car being illegal in the state of Texas. We had just passed a stop light so I suspected he noticed my brake lights, and there was another stop light up head which would surely reinforce the officer’s probable cause. My only hope was to slow down so the cop could pass me on the left lane and drive off into the dark, so I slowed down until I was doing a 25 in a 40, but the cop stayed fixed in my rearview mirror. I decided to maybe get rid of him by turned onto a side street as if I had reached my destination, but the second I turned on to another street the officer switched his red and blues. I slowed down enough that I could shut off the truck and then apply the brakes in order to hide my brake light issue. I then told my friend to hide the beer bottle in between the door and his seat and to shut up. The officer walked up, greeted us, and asked me to turn my vehicle on because he wanted to check my brake lights. I did as I was told, and the lights came on, he walked back and shouted back asking me to apply the brakes. In my head, I knew that I was sure to get a ticket for faulty brake lights which would lead him to ask if we had been drinking which would ultimately lead to him finding the bottle and causing even more trouble. My heart was pounding as I applied the brakes, but instead of a ticket I was greeted by a phrase that I have never heard a police officer say, “Sorry, I guess I must have been mistaken”. The brakes lights came on! The officer asked why I was driving so slow and I quickly gave a BS excuse about me trying to find a friend’s house and slowing down to read the street signs in the dark. After that he sent us on our way, and I had a good laugh to sake the nerves away. One of the few times the old girl saved me.

Now I do not want you guys to think that I need a trip to the funny farm where the men in white coats can help me. I am not crazy, I know that all these quirks can be explained or fixed by a good mechanic, but the point is that the truck has its own persona now. The truck is no longer just a GMC truck, it has become La Sierra that all my friends and family know can, “misbehave”, whenever it wants to. Even with the risk of being stranded on the side of the road for the twelfth time, I would never trade or sell this truck for a new Toyota or reliable Honda, because I have invested so much time, money, and memories into this truck which makes it priceless.

The McQueen Sydrome

Between the ages of 13-17 we are influenced into the idea that having your own car means having freedom to go wherever whenever, the power of gatekeeper on deciding who can and who shall not pass-enger in your car, and that it’s just plain cool. If you grew up being a Gearhead then getting a set of wheels was a number one obsession and everything else came second. We all remember our first car, and for most of us, our first car was not factory new or freshly restored, but did we care? NO! The only thing that mattered was that it had four wheels, an engine, and a working stereo. It didn’t matter if it was a brand new Z/28, a pass down from an older sibling, or the family station wagon.

From the moment we acquired our first car we developed a side effect, one that has stayed with us until present day. I like to call it the, “The McQueen Syndrome”, named after the king of cool myself, Mr. Steve McQueen.

Side note: If you are from my generation and do not know who Steve McQueen is, or have not seen the famous Bullitt chase, you have homework to do! No excuse in this age of instant information to not know about the godfather of car chase scenes or one of the most legendary Gearhead/actors of the 20^th century.

The McQueen syndrome is the ignorant pride that we are all guilty of when we drive, wash, or work on our cars. I use the term ignorant pride because if you love your care, for whatever reason, you will sometimes lose grip on reality and think your car is the ultimate example of automotive perfection. Doesn’t matter it’s a 1963 Ferrari California Spyder or a 2001 Honda Accord, every now and then their respective owners will have a McQueen episode. This will cause them to think their car is cooler than a polar bear getting a brain freeze or more badass than Clint Eastwood shooting off a .44 magnum with AC/DC playing in the background. An episode can come at any time: while admiring your mirror finish wax job, after winning a street race, hearing it start up on a cold morning, cruising down the street in the perfect weather, or tackling a curvy road and not missing a single apex corner.

This side effect can be twice as powerful, or even permanent, if the car in question is one you have built or restored yourself. No amount of fact or logic will ever be able to influence your opinion on your beloved racecar, hotrod, or project car. Other Gearheads, and normal people, may try to get you to see the real picture. They’ll say the car has a chips in the paint and has dents in every panel, and you will say it gives the car character. They’ll spot the surface rust eating away at the bare metal and you will say it has patina, Mother Nature’s paintjob. They can mock the fact that some of the body panels are a different color from the rest of the car and you will defend it saying it is, “rat rodded”. Hell, they’ll point out the car has no glass and your only response will be, “its weight reduction”.

If you cannot relate to this syndrome then I am truly sorry. The only thing in the real world I can compare this to is a child. Parents can boast about their child until they run out of breathe and view them as the next president of the universe, even though the child in question is constantly eating crayons in class. It doesn’t matter if the child is not destine to become a rocket scientist or brain surgeon, because the parents will love him/her as their perfect son/daughter.

This mental disorder is not one that requires a pill or a 5K run to find a cure, because if you can relate to this article then that means you truly enjoy what you drive. Which also means you have not wasted thousands of dollars on a means of transportation. Like the saying goes, “If you do not turn back to stare at your ride as you walk away from it, then you have bought the wrong car”.