How old's the oldest H.A.M.B. member?60+?Tell us a cool story

...my dad was born in '21,...he and his brother shared their first car, a 35 Ford coupe. (wish I had it today). One nite they went out racin some other guy and ended up drivin back to their small town to hash it over and BS about it. They said the old Ford would do about 85 MPH. As they pulled back to town and parked up to the curb, the tie rod fell off!

...met another cool old guy a few years ago, he was born in 1930 and owns 3 Model A's, a roadster, a coupe and a sedan. He says that was the best year. He was born on the same day his sedan was built! This guy still does all his own car work and does volenteer work for Homes for Habitat. ...probly 25 years back he needed to fix the roof on his garage and like all car nuts he really wanted a bigger garage, so he just built over the old one making the new one longer and just wide enuf to cover the old one; so now when you walk in his garage there is an old garage inside the newer one.
The old garage was probly built in the 40's and both of them are loaded with cool stuff and parts hanging everywhere. It's like a time capsule.
old farts rule!

 

Well, I am a very young 63 and don't plan on getting much older. B-days no more for me. Here is a funny one for you. Not too funny then, but now...he he he.

In 1959 AHRA and NHRA passed a rule that said "if you go more than 140 mph, you gotta have a parachute". We went passed 140 regularly so pop got one from the Navy (16' ring slot type). The thing would stop a Mack truck on a dime. When my brother and i got off from school, we went to the shop like we laways did. Pop was off in the filed somehwere on ajob. There it was, a brand spanking new parachute. Too much for us to pass up. Travis (brother) tied it on the bumper of the Ranchero, threw the rest into the bed and said lets try it out. He ans a friend got into the back of the Ranchero and i drove. We got going about 80 mph and Travis threw out the back of the Ranchero. HOLY SHIT BATMAN, the thing blossomed out, slammed the Ranchero to a dead stop, threw Travis and the friend over the roof onto the hood and almsot onto the road, pulled the bumper off the ranchero and broke the freinds arm. We nearly shit ourselves. Pop was gonna be pissed about the bumper,,,screw the friend with the broken arm,,,LOL. We went back to the shop and tried to put the bumper back on, but is was way too bent and f..cked up. Bottom line, we got our asses beat, but we lived through it.

 

Geez Zel, you make it sound like a depression. You shouldn't be up at your age 'til 1:30 in the morning. I 'm 62, and grateful as hell for living through them times. It was as Zel portrays it, a different time and it seems like a different world. We never thought it would end, but I think Vietnam changed everything. When I came home from the Navy, things were still cool, but the times they were a'changing. Sometimes, I hear an old song, and I'll remember the place, the night, the car, even what color her panties were, I just don't remember her name. We of course had a set route for cruisin', and you went one direction and then the other. And the stops in-between. There are so many things we remember that were a little outrageous, like petti-pants, sparkle bits in girl's hair and her (?) .Keeping your smokes rolled in your tee shirt sleeve, engineer boots and penny loafers, rolled cuffs on your jeans, belt buckle on the side, this was the uniform of the day. The cops, for the most part were pretty cool, but they could get real nasty about things like mufflers and flame-throwers, if they got a hard-on for you. Being cool wasn't an attitude. It was a way of life. Either you were cool or you weren't. In the words of the immortal George Burns, " I wish I was 18 again"............

 

I'm one of the "Younger" Old Farts, will be 69 soon. Good Thread!!

 

The year was 1965 (I'm 62) and the month June. High school graduation night. Went to the senior party, then out with my friends for a night of drinking and carousing. This was way before the "designated driver" thing. Long story short...we took a friends new GTO; red w/ white top and interior, tri-power, 4 speed. Everyone else wanted to party. I wanted to drive the GTO. I stayed sober. Drove 4 drunk guys around 'til 7am. Would still rather drive my hotrods than drink.

 

I'm 66 now. True story; in high school I drove a 47 Ford sedan with a 312 Merc in it that was warmed up a bit. One night about 10:15, a weeknight, on my way home from work, there were two Oldses ready to race when the light turned green. A 49 coupe in the left lane, a 52 sedan in the right. In those days you didnt mess with an Olds, they were the hot ticket. This street had tree lanes for one block. When the light turned green, both Oldses had a hell of a race going, and I had to keep up to see who won.
The 312 was doing so well, I passed both Oldses before the third lane ran out.
That Y block was so much fun, I still have one.

 

I am getting close to 68......would take to much time to tell you
the mileage on this one owner stock body..

graduated in 59 at 17 and joined the Navy 2 weeks after I got out of school
so I spend 4 yrs on the water..

I had a great 48 ford convert in High school.. had a one owner 41 cad when
I joined the Navy, Paid a lady 250 bucks for it in Dallas..

my twin brother sold it while I was in the Navy, that really pissed me off,
I got out of the Navy in 63... had purchased a mint 55 chevy convert in 61 for $695 bucks.........wife wanted a new car and loved the new corvair.. so like a dumb ass I traded the 55 chevy convert in on it.......

always regretted that deal.. I could go on and on but rather not bore you with other stuff........I still love the hot rods although I dont wrench much on them.. just maintain the little 52 that I have

 

Great stories,no doubt that small window of time between WWII and the Vietnam war was a special time to be alive,I'd trade that era for the one I live in any ol day of the week.I think Deuce Daddy Don is currently our reining champ at 76yrs old,lets hear from some 76+ HAMBERS out there....

 

I'm 64 and grew up in Oakland California. Used to cruise my older brothers hand me down 47 Ford two door on the strip in San Leandro (a then upscale bedroom community just south of Oakland.) It took maybe an hour to go from Prings restaurant turnaround to the Coke bottling plant turnaround. Perhaps one mile.
I remember setup night before the Grand National Roadster Show we would go downtown to the Expedition Bldg and just walk in the back door like we belonged and get a free show.
We hung around a used car lot on Foothill Blvd. by Castlemont our High School. Joe King Corsi. King of Convertibles. He let us park the cars and sit in them and smoke. Tommy the Greek of pin striping fame did all of Joe's body and paint work. We would sometimes go to his shop and watch hip badger his customers. Tommy had a wicked tongue. Would chew people out for bringing their crap into his shop them turn around and apologize, telling them he was just kidding and make a deal to fix whatever they had.
Gary

 

1955, I was a junior in High School, had a 35 ford flatback 2dr sedan, stock with the exception of duals with smitty's. We used to cruise Greenfield ave in West Allis Wisconsin looking for girls. I had dropped first gear out the sedan the previous week and hadn't gotten around to fixing it yet. Crusing for chicks was far more important.

We had found a couple of lovleys and my buddy Tom was in the back seat with one and the other was snuggled up to me. We were waiting for a light to change on 68th and greenfield, the intersection was on a slight uphill going north. I had to start in second gear as there was no first. Just before the light changed I checked to see if the shifter was in the upward position, second gear on the 3spd stock floor shifter. Also checked the rear view mirror and saw this old couple behind me in a brand new 54 chevy 4 dr.

The light changed and I let the clutch out rapidly so as not to kill the motor on the hill in 2nd.

What I didn't know at the time is that my buddy Tom had reached over and slid the shifter up to reverse. We shot backwards and before I could react hit the chebby square in the grille with the rear bumper. As I threw it into second and took off like a bat outa hell I saw steam and fluids and the most surprised look I have ever seen on 2 peoples faces.

Being only 17 and out after curfew my only thought was to get the hell out of there before the shit hit the fan. I would have kicked my kids ass if ever found him doing something like that. I had no problem leaving the scene that night as the concequenses would have been the loss of my license and prolly my car also. Hindsight is 20-20 and I still feel a little guilty about it 53 years later.

BB

 

Dug through some old files, but most of the short stories are too long for here.

Posted them separately:

Seeing the Daylight

Marbles and Umbrellas

Slidin through the Rain to Santa Barbara

 

Here's one that fits.

Stories like this get carried a long way into the future.
A generous gift of time from an old gunsmith that won't be forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was about ten my pals and I used to roam the Ventura, California hills and riverbeds with our BB guns.
We seldom shot anything more than tin cans and the main thing was simply carrying the gun as part of your equipment.

Said equipment also consisting of WW 2 canteen, first aid kit and pistol belt.

Nothing quite like heading for the military surplus store on the edge of town where a tree bucks could get you an armload of neat stuff.

Anyway, my BB gun, a Red Ryder lever action style lost the nut to the cross bolt at the rear of the sheet metal - receiver? - which led to the loss of the bolt.

I was on a solo hike and walked down out of the hills, across the high school campus - on a Saturday - crossed Main St and went down a block to the gun shop across the street from the girl's playfield.

I asked the old gunsmith if he had a bolt that would fit.

After frowning a little bit, he said, "no."

He did tell me if I could leave the rifle for a couple days he could probably fix it.

I agreed, he filled out the claim tag, gave me my half, set the BB gun in the rack with the 'real' rifles and I left.

A few days later I went in to pick up the gun and it had a nicely blued bolt & nut in place.

I had a dollar and asked how much, he smiled and said, "no charge."

A couple other guys in the shop were smiling when I went out the door.

For a little bit I thought they were smiling at the kid in the gun shop with a mere BB gun, but later I realized they were just being friendly and liked what the old gunsmith had done.

I've thought about that small act of generosity over the years and figured the gunsmith wanted the gun in his shop because he probably didn't have the hardware grade bolt for the repair.


57 years later and I remember it like it was yesterday....

 

I'll be 68 in January. I'll briefly list some of the crazy shit I've been involved in over the years.

Three slingshot dragsters from '62 thru '97.....builder, driver.
Supermods and sprint cars from '68 thru '98.....designer, builder, owner, mechanic, sometime driver.
Car show promoting back in the late '60's....arrested and jailed driving Batmobile.
Built race cars and hot rods for customers in the '80's.
Tuned muscle cars in Istanbul, Turkey for a collector in '92.

Started my first hot rod in '60 (Model A sedan) but realized that, without a garage, tools, or money, that I was just kidding myself. Finally, 48 years later, I have my first rod....a '26 "T" modified.

 

Tell ya how old I am.
Anyone remember when cigarettes went from 25 cents to 28 cents in the vending machines but they couldn't make change so you put 30 cents in and got two brand new pennys under the wrapper in the side of the pack ?

 

The old boy I bought my '27 Model T Roadster Pickup from told me this one:

When he was in high school in the late 30's he'd drive his stock '27 T roadster pickup to school everyday. A cocky mutt was continually coming over to his T and pissing on the wheels. So, the guy decides to really fix that dog --- he jerry-rigs the Model T's high-voltage coils to one of the wire-spoke wheels somehow, and when the dog comes over for his daily piss, he remotely triggers the current. The old guy telling me this was pert-near bawling with laughter as he tells me how this hound took the jolt in the tender parts and dragged its ass down the road, yelping all the way!

I guess he did lots similar ticks on his friends and acquaintences with those T coils as well. Even though the old boy was on death's door step when I bought the '27 roadster pickup from him, he had to keep all the extra Model T coils for 'sentimental reasons.'

 

Whats a Doodlebug?

 

I'll be 60 in a couple months, so I'll just tell a quick one. I thought of it because of the first story posted. When I was around 10 yrs old I lived in a small town you could best describe as Mayberry of the north. It was a steel town and my dad worked in the local foundry right across the street. Down the street a couple blocks were 2 bars. One day one of my dads bosses from the foundry came out of the bar so drunk he couldn't stand up. He looked at me and said "hey, you're Vics boy aren't you?" I said "yes" and he said, "good here's the keys, you know where I live, drive me home" I explained that I was only 10 and didn't drive, he said something like better you than me, and climbed in the back seat. I finally got in the drivers seat and started that big new Olds ('59 or '60). I put it in gear and gave it some gas and it took off like a shot, so I hit the brakes, Damn those old power brakes and powering steering were touchy! I heard and felt a hard bump behind me, brought on by my lack of braking skills, but that was his problem. I sort of bounced my way up the hill, too much gas followed by too much brake, accompanied by jerking the wheel from one side to the other. I pulled the car into his driveway and could tell by the smell coming from the back seat that he hadn't enjoyed the trip. I looked back and there he was all bunched up on the floor in a puddle of puke. I didn't know what to do, and didn't want to tell anyone I'd been driving, so I just left him there to sleep it off and I walked home.

 

I think if you read between the lines of these posts, you'll realize you only get old on the outside. my 91 year old mother says she still feel 19 till she see that wrinkled up old broad in the mirror.
I'm 66 but never got older than my early 20's (never will)
reading others posts reminds me of old stories in my life
I was raised in So. Cal. (Pasadena) and we had it all. my neighbor's Grampa Billy (lived in a small house in the back) had a 29 ford coupe with less than 2500 miles (in 1955) He gave it to my buddy and I wanted it so bad I could taste it. I had a dad that could fix anything (I was pretty good my self) in my mind I had that A built with a flatmotor and 3 carbs (A-V8 at the time)
I came home from school one day and Bob is beside the A with 2 old dudes (in their 20's) and he had sold the A for $35.00. we were never close friends again
In 1959 I got the new Triumph Bonneville (first year with dual carbs) it was the baddest bike on the block and would run with anything up to 100 mph (would run 125 but it took a while to get there) Only lost 2 Races in 2 years ( a 57 ford wagon with a latham blown 430 lincoln and Larry Watson's custom vette)

here's my favorite story from the mid 60's I had a red 56 ford business coupe with a 365 horse 327 vette motor with a 4 speed and 4.11 gears for a daily driver, and a hot rod black 51 olds 88 club coupe with a built 374 inch Packard 4 speed hydro and a locked 58 olds rear with 4.88
I was on the way to work one morning in my ford. pulled up to a traffic light, I'm in the right lane. a new Chrysler wagon pulls up in the curb lane as if he was going to make a right turn. the light turns green and he jumps straight and cuts in front of me. I'm pissed and by the next light I'm in front of him and the Asshole pulls up in the curb lane again. the light turns green and Mr. A trys the same trick but we're side by side and he keeps looking at me. about a half a long block ahead is a parked car. I drop back where my front fender is even with his door and I can see him thinking he can get me before he gets the parked car. I dropped back to his rear door. we're getting close the parked car and going 70+ and I jump on the gas and put his front end in the middle of my door. we're going way to fast for him to stop in time and he slams on the brakes and so do I ..............I got soft at the very last moment and gassed it so he swerve and miss the parked car. next light he pulls up on the left and flips me off like I'm the Asshole. the light turns and he jumps on it and I blow his doors off by 30 car lengths and he really turned right at the next light. I guess his big block wagon must have weighed double my 2800 lb coupe
Jim Arnold
April 27 1942

 

Great thread! I grew up in Southern Cal in the mid 60's, you could buy a good running car for $20.00 to $35.00, gas was 18/19 cents a gallon and you could buy a pack of smokes for 22 cents. Cruise all night on a dollar! The "Wolfman" was on the radio and life was great.

 

Don't want to piss on anyones parade. I do not know how old you are! I quit smoking June 6 1960 the day cigarettes went up to 25 cents! before that they were 23 cents and in machines they slit the cellophane and included 2 penny's change

 

I'm 64.

My first and only organized drag race.



This is not it but it a pretty close clone. Mine had chromed front wheels (it still was 6 lug)

In the mid 60s our club decided to all take our cars to the Wed. night test and tune at "75 and dusty" (75 & 80 drag strip). A friend flat towed my 38 Chevy coupe up to the track. I had recently put a used 383 Chrysler, an Isky hyd cam and a torque flight in it. This was my first and only time actually driving at the strip. I was scared shitless. I always shifted by ear. They made me wear a helmet and I was all messed up.

It was an impressive sight. It had the gasser stance with my home made fenderwell headers just peeking out below the front fenders. The flames would lick the ground everytime you cleaned it out.

This was a low budget track back then and only the winner got timed. They matched me up with a 55 Chevy typical gasser of the day. He motioned for me to make a solo run. He was afraid that I'd win and he would not learn anything about what his car was doing. If he only knew!

After you went through the traps the track went up over a hill and disappeared. I had no idea how much room there was to slow down. So I made my first ever run. I ran it up through first and second gear and the slid it up through D into neutral and coasted through the traps. 17 flat and 70 something MPH. I was tickled pink. I had coasted 1/3 of the track! This bitch was going to turn a pretty good time for a street car in that era.

So I get in line again and this time I held her on the wood But it seemed to be falling off in high gear. It didn't feel nearly as good as the first run. When I shifted into neutral the engine quit. It wouldn't turn over when I tried to restart it on the return road. It had spun a bearing and locked up.

That was the extent of my racing career. I decided that street cars driven with some sense of sanity were not as prone to break and cost me addition money. I'm too tight to be a racer.

One of the other club members drove his beautiful 34 Chevy that was powered by a 394 Olds and a hydromatic. He blew the trans and had to be towed home. The club supervisor was a DC cop. He flat towed it home with a 65 Chevelle L79 327-350 4spd. On the way home this guy pulls up alongside gaulking at the 2 cars. My buddy tried to get away from him and they both got pulled over in a speed trap. He was clocked at over 90 MPH flat towing!. It turns out the other guy was a cop too and got proffesional courtesy from the ticketing officer. My buddy never told the policeman that he was a cop too.

 

I am 63 and keeping four women satisfied...OH? not that kind of story? OK...to hop on the radio theme...
In the Gulf South.................
Daytime was WNOE...New Orleans...at night we listened to KAAY in Little Rock while we were on a date, but switched over to WLAC in Nashville after we dropped the girls off. http://www.geocities.com/~jimlowe/wlac/wlacdex.html
On a good night we could get Wolfman Jack via the high powered transmitters from Mexico. Sometimes we would get WLS out of Chicago.

 

I just turned 60 so here goes. We had a long two lane stretch of road that everyone around used as a drag strip. The only problem was there was a curve at one end and a hill at the other so we usually ran over the hill. I was coming back from Sevierville one night about midnight and decided to see how the old '69 Dart 340 was running. I ran it through the gears was probably doing over 100 when I topped the hill and there was a wreck. One car was on it's top blocking one lane and the other was in the ditch a little farther down the road with the rear end in the other lane. There was a narrow bridge over a creek right before the wreck with a policeman flagging traffic. I hit the brakes but the old Dart had drum brakes all around and they only slowed me down to about 60 before they went away, I started gearing it down and the policeman saw that I couldn't stop and took a dive off the bridge in the creek. There were several bystanders and I could hear them screaming over the engine revving as I got to second gear. Swerved by the first car and fishtailed by the second, heard someone yell "you crazy son of a bitch" as I nailed it and kept going. I figured the law would be waiting on me when I got home but nothing ever happened. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good..
Harrison, you probably know the spot, they just widened the bridge, it's right before you get to Chips Antiques on Newport Hwy.

 

I'm 48, but my father in law is 74, he isn't a member yet, because he hates "these damn computers, all they're good for is lookin' at porn" but I have been getting him to talk more about his youth. He was a bit of a rake in his day, rode a harley to high school, and got a '54 Buick new which was a "custom off the show room floor" in his words. His grandfolks, and his wifes also homesteaded the South Dakota praire. His fabricating skills were born from keeping those farm machines going in the fields, and he has skills that have to be seen to be believed.

We have been working on a '35 Ford pickup and a Tudor (both are still all original steel and wood he has cut and shaped off the originals from Ford) , and a '66 Mustang fastback together in various stages for the going on 30 years I have been married to the finest woman in the world, his daughter. We have both liked our whiskey, and the world will be a worse off place when he dies.

My dad who raised me was 73 almost 74 when he died from lung cancer. Now there was a hot rodder. We raised some hell together when I was a kid wrenching and running with his crew. He used to tell about California in the '50's when he was a sailor out of SanDiego in '52 and going to the bars in Bakersfied in '57 and seeing Buck Owens and Don Rich playing. Over seas on The USS ElDorado out of Yokusaka Japan, all the whoring around they did on shoreleave. He had me convinced that the oriental vagina was mounted crossways as a kid, until I found out myself it wasn't in a "show me show yours" with a little oriental gal I was with in grade school. He had some stories, but most of all he taught me how to work and to have pride in what I do. I'll call him a "member emeritus" William James Ballinger born January 1933, died December 2006. Lives on just as many do in their kikds and grandkids who keep these these traditions.

 

My dad turned 67 today. He tells me the story of helping a friend remove the gas tank from his 53 Vette in about 58 or 59. One of them dropped their end and it sparks and starts the whole mess on fire. Dad runs to a phone, but in the moment of it all, gave the fire dept. the name of parallel streets. The fiberglass smoke rising in the air let them find it anyhow. Burned that 53 in half.

Another story I love is about his older brother (who is about 80) who had a 32 Ford Roadster in the late 40's. Seems my Uncle Paul was out late one night and got himself in a bit of a race with the law and was able to evade them long enough to get to a friends house. He woke up his friend in the middle of the night because the friend had one of those paint bottles you could use with your vacuum cleaner. The hook the whole works up and paint the white 32 blue with that vacuum cleaner in the middle of the night and then my uncle went home. Grandpa never knew, nor ever asked why he got home from work one evening to a white 32 and got up for work the next day and it was blue. I remember dad telling Grandpa that story several years ago and the look on my 90 year old grandpa's face was priceless.

Happy Birthday Dad!

 

I'm 57 and grew up in rural central California, which is more like parts of the midwest than coastal California. Our town was 96% Swedish immigrants, and many people still spoke only Swedish on the street when I was a kid. Lots of great old cars parked on Main every day. Stuff that's considered rare and expensive now was just used car parts in the 50s and 60s. My kid brother had a 56 vette in nice shape, a 57 vette wreck he was working on, 2 Rochester FI setups, and less than $700 in the lot. I bought my first vehicle when I was 15, a '35 Ford pickup in nice shape running for $75. Local judge gave me a provisional license to drive it to my after school job at a local dairy, $1.25/hour. Blew the flathead, sold the truck to my brother for $50, and bought a '50 Chevy for $90. On Friday nights I put $1 (4 gallons) into the tank and cruised main until there was just enough left to make it home. Usually had to siphon a little out of Dad's truck late Sunday night to make it to work after school on Monday. The 2 policemen in our town were WW2 vets like all of our fathers. They walked Main checking store doors after business hours and had one old Dodge to share between them. They were always at Fred's Truck Stop at 11pm for nightly biscuits and gravy. They gave warnings before writing tickets. If you got caught screwing around in town, they told you "take it outside the city limits or I'll have to call your father." Right outside the city limits was a country road called Piss Road for obvious reasons. It ran along a canal with an S curve at the end and was barely wide enough for 2 cars to pass, but was the scene of constant racing. Racing was an every day affair, nothing out of the ordinary, and you ran what you had no matter how lame. Cars were pretty slow by todays standards and nobody got killed that I know of. Drunk driving was another story, lost 4 classmates that way before graduation. Saw a rich kids' nice black '40 upside down in the canal at the S bend one time. It was in the deep spot we used as our swimming hole (no backyard pools). One time 3 lovelies from school ditched and went swimming there. A guy followed them, stole their clothes off the ditch bank, and the girls walked home through town in their undies (40 years ago and still talked about today). These people are leading citizens now. The only law outside town was a constable with a beat up blue Dodge who never bothered us. This was the world before drugs. A boy usually got a firearm for his 12th birthday and brought it to school for show and tell. We had some fistfights, but it never occured to us to shoot each other. It was a kinder and gentler time when kids were given a lot of slack. With all the laws, rules and regulations now, I don't know how a kid is ever given enough opportunity to make enough mistakes to learn to be a responsible adult.

 

When I was in the Marines stationed in Japan in 1960 I got a letter from a bud that had just been discharged, he told me to bring home all of the 10 yen pieces that I could carry. He said that they were the exact size and weight as the US quarter and worked in the vending machines.

At the exchange rate of 360 yen to 1 us dollar that figures out to .028 cents per 10 yen piece. It took me about a year to use them all up and there must have been a bunch of pissed of vending machine owners in Milwaukee.

Smokes for less than mils per pack was a good deal for me.

BB

 

I'm 65... here's a story of me moving to Denver...this one from the mid-60's...it follows along with a few of the drag racing threads...

R-

History's Heady Days

When I was in high school (1958-61), it was a requirement to take History class (history, at that point, was dinosaurs, conquerors, pyramids, Greeks, Romans, volcanoes, Atilla the Hun (always wanted to add that name somewhere in a story -- scratch one more off the list of "things to do"!!!), WWI (and some times II), communism, Galileo and some guy named Michelangelo...history was something that happened to famous people many, many, many years ago. History was always the past. History was not something that was an everyday occurrence. Little did I know that my life, after high school, would involve "history" !

I moved to Denver in May of 1966; took me all of two hours to find and land a job, with a small advertising agency. They needed a staff artist, truth be told they probably would have taken anyone off the street had they known what the working end of an X-acto knife looked like. Suffice to say, my portfolio full of fashion illustrations, B & W still-lifes and rubber cemented pasted-up ads got me in the door...!!!

I got the job.

I hadn't packed much into my '64 Impala for the trip to Denver cuz I figured on heading back to Iowa if and when;I secured a job. I didn't even need what I brought, but I went to the YMCA, rented a room, tossed my stuff in and headed home -10 hours away, to get the rest of what I'd need for my new life in ColoRODo. I had three days to get there and back to Denver in order to start my new job on Monday morn.

I had no idea what to expect in an "advertising agency" being recently graduated from Commercial Art school in Omaha, Nebraska. Each day on the job was a new experience -- we did work for the PGA (Professional Golfers Assoc.). Bill, my boss, played a lot of golf so we landed a major PGA event;and Bill liked rubbing shoulders with moneyed people so we developed the annual program, ads and signage for the event. I got to illustrate "greens", as in: 18 holes of greens, looking down on them from above, with the length in yards shown from the Tee, all the hazards and the par. We also did advertising for Denver clients such as Lloyd's Furs (moneyed people) as Bill's gorgeous wife frequented Lloyd's regularly. We did the signage, logos, ads and brochures for Denver's newest housing; condominiums - The Villas; in Lakewood, across from the new shopping mall - Villa Italia (no longer there); again - moneyed owners. We pioneered some local advertising for a new credit card making the rounds; it was called Visa and we did the advertising for several banks around Denver. But the one business I really got excited about was Sid Langsam's CDR,as in Continental Divide Raceways, just south of Denver; out in the sticks. We handled all the advertising for him --.heady stuff for a 23 year old youngster. Of course, worse part of the job -- I was forced to be at all the races every time they were held, usually once a month at CDR; while the other race tracks ran weekly. I was forced to watch history happen; after all, it WAS my job.

I watched history being made in the form of Alan "The Kid" Bockla and his front engined AA rail; ripping off a new CDR record of 216.34 mph in the quarter - unheard of at that (date and) altitude. I got to watch a field of 18 Top Fuel cars on Sunday, August 20, 1967 and I got to see history made at every one of the "High Altitude Nationals" CDR held. It was my job. I watched "Kansas John" Weibe attempt the CDR records several times while taking on local guys the Kaiser Brothers in their top fuel car or Brown & Butkovich flog their AA rail against locals Rice & Williams. I cheered Ron Leslie in his 427" SOHC engined rail and then again in his 777 Comet or "High Country" Cougar; one of the few drivers around Denver that campaigned two drag cars at the same time. I agonized when Guzman & Dekker's team car, "Assassination" battled it out with out-of-towners that thot they could take down local racers, just wasn't happening; the mile high altitude was a different animal. Later the Guzman & Ward team could, and always would, get their funny car way out of shape screaming down the quarter against the competition; but watching that history being made was after I was done with my job on those particular Sunday mornings. I got to stand at the entrance of CDR as fans drove in and I asked questions about our advertising like: Did our ads get you here? How far did you drive to get here? What do you like about CDR? Dislike? Usually the price of admission was the sore point; it was all of two bucks back then; yep, two dollars per person; parking was free. History was being made and I was in it. Sometimes I wish I was still there!!!

Of course, my own "hot rod" and I use that particular term loosely since it really wasn't a "hot rod" in 1967; more of an early muscle car - sat parked off to the side of our tent. It sported the latest hot item - gray five spoke mag wheels. The car was jacked up high, sixties-style gasser stance. Everything under the car was painted white, including the wheel wells and more than once I had to prove it wasn't a;"farmer's car; even tho it still sported Iowa plates.

On the sides of the top, just above the top's chrome trim was lettered "Gangrene" cuz the car was painted Pontiac Verdoro Green. I'd mounted the requisite tach on the left side of the dash - not on the column like was normal back then. Engine of choice was a built 301" SBC. We'd used a 327" 4 inch bore block and a 283" crank , 10:5 to 1 pistons, Duntov solid lifter cam, 2:02 heads - cc'd - with pinned rocker studs, Hooker headers, aluminum riser and Carter 4 bbl. A Borg-Warner 2:20 low T-10 four-speed, Hurst Competition Plus shifter, 11" clutch and PP, Ansen scattershield and a 5:13 geared Posi rear-end. Inside the trunk was a set of mounted cheater slix.for emergencies and truk driveshaft-sized exhaust exited in front of the rear wheelwells. It was a "gasser" for the street (ran C/Gas in AHRA and C/MP in NHRA) and it was my daily;except when we weren't out cruising Denver's 16th Street.
Funny thing about those pipes-they were cut on an angle, were a full 5 inches in diameter and painted black. I had many a guy pull alongside me and ask "What're you running for an engine with those huge pipes and just as many turn down a street race after seeing them. My friends, Kenny, and Jerry had built the engine, Kenny decided we needed some "impressive" pipes. He hauled home the huge driveshaft, we cut it in half, swedged the ends to mate to the stock exhaust pipe, welded it up and hung it. It looked sinister and sounded wicked good.

For those of us brave enuff to drive our "Gassers" on the street, we had several drive-in hangouts to visit on a Friday or Saturday nite, including Denver's famous Scotchman on Federal Boulevard. I could always find a street race there. Kenny and I would make a huge cruisin'; loop from Denver's 16th Street -- three lanes wide, one way, approx. 12 blox long to Arapahoe where we'd turn and go the 12 blox back up 15th to turn onto 16th and start all over again. That "loop"; would take anywhere from an hour to two hours, depending on traffic. Friday and Saturday nites was always bumper to bumper and we'd start with a full tank of "Ethyl" (premium leaded) fuel; once we'd made the whole cruisin' "loop" -- to the Scotchman, the Paper Tiger on Wadsworth, the A & W on South Broadway and Taylor's on East Colorado Boulevard, we'd be down to less than half a tank of gas -the 5:13's in the Impala could suck some serious gas (Ethyl) fast, of course, putting a foot into the carb to keep it cleaned out didn't help either and the whole big loop could consume over three hours. We'd go thru two full tanks of premium fuel a nite; but, at 33.9 cents a gallon, we almost couldn't afford the beer that kept us going.

Occasionally, we'd get sidetracked, ;a race would materialize. If it was a serious race, with money on the side, we'd pull off on some side street, pull the slix out of the trunk, put 'em on and go meet the other guy. One of the passengers would hold the money until the winner was decided. In fact, I only lost one street race in a couple of years of cruisin' after my car was "finished" and that was to a '64 Ford Galaxie, with four guys in the car. I have no idea what he was running that nite for an engine, but I lost by a car length; and I was alone in my car.

16th Street ended at the viaduct crossing I-25, known then as "The Valley Highway," back then there was a traffic lite at the bottom of the viaduct -- that was the starting point, up and over, ending at a very sharp turn onto 30th. There were more times than I can count that skid marx went up over the curb, left over from someone not making the corner. The viaduct was the place to open 'er up on the way to the Scotchman. It took a while, but the cops caught on; they'd wait at the far end of the viaduct where no one leaving the lite could see them wind 'er out, or race someone over the viaduct; and it was all over for you -speed contest got your license pulled and the car impounded right then and there.

If that wasn't enuff trouble for us car guys, Denver's most famous cop: Buster Schneider made our business his business. Ours was crusin' Denver's 16th Street. Buster didn't like any of us, he wrote more tickets than any of the other cops in Denver - if a car was lowered -- ticket. Dual exhausts -- ticket. Too many people in the car -- ticket. No inspection certificate in the window -- ticket. Beer in the car -- uh-oh, you were done for the weekend; maybe even a couple of weeks. I think he felt he was cleaning up the city, or something like that anyway. As usual, it didn't faze many of us, we were right back at it the next weekend.

Ah, those were the days, and every generation writes their own history; we made ours on the streets and in the heady days of sanctioned drag racing. Believe it or not, history has a funny way of sneaking up on all of us and every day in our lives is a history making event...!!!
Roger

 

Kinda reminds me of that old Merle Haggard song"it was back before microwave ovens,before the Beatles and "yesterday",before Nixon lied to us all on TV,back before Elvis,before the Vietnam war came along,I wish Coke was still cola and a joint was a bad place to be"

 

I had a buddy in the Army from Kingsport we were at FT.KNOX VEITNAM AND FT.HOOD together then lost touch his name is Charles Short