|Hot Rod? Yeah ... sleek, classy ... I like it!|
Maybe it was just because ... he liked me? He sure as heck liked cars. Especially hot rods. Still does, because he's a real deal gearhead. Which means, since we were teenagers, he's been a skilled shade tree mechanic who can pretty much rebuild an engine with his eyes closed and both hands tied behind his back. Slight exaggeration, but not by much.
Now, as I've explained a few times before, I come from a long line of wanderers ... y'know, people who possess an inordinate ability to get lost. When we were dating, hubby would entertain himself for hours by driving somewhere, and then letting me direct him home from the middle of that God-only-knows-where nowhere. So, I suppose it's somewhat understandable that my father was, shall we say, dubious when, in the fall of 1968, I told him my favorite gearhead and I were going to enter a road rally. With him behind the wheel, and ME (har-de-har-har) as the navigator.
This is the car he drove back then. Big Red, we called her. A 1961 Chevy Impala. Not exactly the kind of car one associates with a road rally, is it?
At registration, each team received multiple pages of instructions. In code. Kinda. It might say something like "2 L after circle S." That meant to take the second left turn, and the "circle S" turned out to be a monogrammed screen door on one of the houses at the side of the road. Tricky, huh?
We ran into a teensy bit of trouble with one of the directions. It said RT. Right turn, right? That's what I thought, too. But it wasn't. It was "Right AT THE T." So we lost some time getting back on course. Not to worry. We (ahem) made the time up quite handily. However, when we flew over a covered bridge, we literally FLEW. Pulled a regular yee-HA General Lee kinda maneuver. When Big Red came back to earth, I was sitting under the steering wheel. On his lap. Nice, but not terribly conducive to good driving. (He installed seat belts shortly after that.)
|First Place Driver!!!|
And if you can believe it, this direction-impaired, can't fold, let alone read a map person?
|Holy moly! I won first place, too!!!!|
After we moved to Georgia and were raising a family, he was too busy being an engineer at the foreskin of technology, (his words, not mine) to spend much time playing with cars. However, in the seventies, he and a buddy did build an econorail. You know ... a dragster?
That's ME sitting in there. Wow! It felt awesome.
Now, lo and behold, my better half is once again enjoying life as a gearhead. His three project cars are a gorgeous banana cream El Camino with a black racing stripe, a Corvette, and my personal favorite, the Rat Rod:
|1930 Model A|
He put the original Model A body on an S-10 chassis, which facilitated a lot of modern safety features. How do you like that1958 Mercedes grill? We found it at a car show/swap meet when we went to Florida.
|Another shot of his baby.|
Hmmm, know what? He hasn't called me Hot Rod for quite a while. Shoot, I dunno, maybe he oughta start calling me Rat Rod, instead. After all, I may not have much rust, but I could use some extensive body work. And a good paint job. (But I still have plenty of VROOM under my hood!)
Oh, yeah. There IS a moral to my road rally story, if you think about it:
With the proper drive(r), you CAN overcome your weaknesses ... and you CAN win.
|Still together, after all these years.|
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.