Viewing the road ahead through the passenger door window might seem a bit disconcerting, even unnatural to the average person, but to a hillbilly is just so much fun.
Driving sideways
Normal people have their own ways of getting an adrenalin fix. Out here we have cars. And lots of un trafficked roads. Growing up among a family of backwoods race car drivers meant thrill a minute commuting anytime the opportunity arose, which was often. Barnyard and shade tree specials emerged on a regular basis requiring a test ride to verify the detonating ferocity of a monstrous machine and skill of its handler, as well as the loyal courage of its passenger.
A “whooppittydo” is a two-lane mogul situated especially for the airborne acrobatics of a hillbilly rollercoaster. Ralph Nader would be proud of the Corvair motors left lying in the trough of some backcountry road.
Mailboxes were simply a nuisance to the open road and an overabundance of rubber was left behind at every stop. Doorhandles and sideview mirrors were extraneous fixtures jettisoned while executing up-on-two maneuvers. Brakes were optional since the real man has gears.
Only a single moniker was permitted among the inner circles. MOPAR. All others were scorned and ridiculed especially if a brother dare bring an interloping Ford into the stable. Isolated and rumored over, the rebuild was destined to suffer a case of seized bearings or exploding pistons and would never see macadam again.
These were the glory days of Detroit iron with so much raw material to feed the insatiable appetite there was no reason to marry a car when it was just as easy to build out another one. Build it, drive it at maximum velocity and if the motor held up it could be traded for something faster, more fearsome, more sheet metal. Elephantine Plymouth Road Runners and svelte Dodge Coronas and who could forget the Barracuda. Bull chains to counteract the clockwork torque of a massive V8, drum brakes, torsion bars and no ability to stop or turn. Straight line speed, “press on the gas” was all the consumer wanted, and Detroit was more than happy to deliver.
Stanley was at the wheel of one of these while the passenger was a teenage me. A “T” intersection with two lanes of opposing traffic and an overpass. When a gap appeared, Stanley opened that Plymouth up and entered the highway sideways. We continued travelling sideways first one side then the other pivoting on the fronts as we passed beneath the overpass, horrified onlookers seated in the cars of opposing traffic. We continued on our way, laughing uncontrollably after the car, of course, was gathered up.
When the unmistakable whine of a MOPAR starter was heard, like music to the ears, the air was filled with anticipation as life was breathed into yet another monster. It’s worth mentioning that the internal combustion engine is no less than a controlled explosion just in front of a passenger compartment. This fact is not lost on the intrepid hillbilly who will do his darndest to maximize that explosion and exploit detonation as best he can.
When finally, another iteration of fun-loving mayhem came chugging out the barn, once again, Stanley was at the wheel. A wager went up that he could coax all four gears in the space of the barnyard, barely big enough to accommodate the car. Whaaaaaaah! went a screaming, bucking, lurching monstrosity barely in contact with the ground, light as a feather describing a perfect circle as each gear gave new lift while the dust storm seemed to get pulled into the very vortex of a man and machine maelstrom. Luckily, it was only a gentleman’s bet. We weren’t naive.
Dropped driveshafts, blown pistons, wiped bearings and cam lobes were a way of life, the price paid and as stated in The World’s Fastest Indian, Burt Monroe, “offerings to the god of speed”.
Honorable mention goes to the Fury and New Yorker as everyday drivers while the Buicks and Chevys were grist for the mill. Larry (Skins) got hold of a T Bird once and while sculpting donuts in a back lot its driver side door opened depositing him neatly while his ride kept describing a circle around the boy as the engine idled down.
Life is never more exciting than when a freshly liberated mailbox enters through a windshield and exits the very same hole. Oh, the times.
Sideswiping a hapless traveler only meant fresh cans of spray-paint to create the illusion of innocence. Cars are dangerous, that’s why we love them.
The Germans build for reliability, the Italians build for style and the French build for the curves; that’s why Renault became my chariot of choice. Since the American cars were built solely for speed my R10s could tag the bumpers when things got squiggly. Love the Rally.
If you’re not a two footed driver, you’ll not have a chance against me even in my oversized pickup. Pitch, yaw and roll only add to the fun. My GTA could do a U-turn on a narrow country lane and be in the next county before your car finished a K turn. Oh, we’ll let you have the lead, but you ain’t gonna shake us, not ever. And if we’re in front we’ll bring you to a full stop then launch ahead before you can react, giving us five car lengths no problem.
We’ll take you to a road, title for title if you make it to the other end with the cruise set at 25 mph. Touch the brake and your car is mine.
Maybe you wouldn’t want to ride with me if you’re the nervous type. My brother tells me my driving is too slow, but he totaled his mother’s cars before the titles were mailed.
Rollover-crash-up-derby-dirt-track-rally-bailin’-wire and screwdriver ignition-no exhaust-low inflation-three cornered-down a cylinder-out to the movies-strip cruisin’- hit and miss-magic carpet rides. Lookin’ for a date.
John was my classmate in high school who made fun of my dirty underwear and went to work with a first-class Renault mechanic and pilot. He built all of my cars right up to 2006 when parts got scarce. Air cooled rear engine rear wheel drive diminutive cars and in the hands of a skilled mechanic the nearest thing to a perpetual motion machine. We’d find a derelict carcass, then John would build the motor and while on the stand, run it full throttle for twenty minutes and if the motor didn’t blow, put it in the car. By the time it got to me the odometer was gone, so mileage was irrelevant. Getting heat from the back to the front was about enough to prevent hypothermia in winter. Four of us could pluck it from a snowbank and drop it back on dry road. They were driven hundreds and thousands of miles, some down to a single surviving cylinder, some opened up on a motocross track just going through the gears until it no longer could turn, then driven to a scrapyard. One lost the entire front fuselage to a Torino, all that was left were the front wheels and battery tray. We got it home and drove it around the cornfields.
Renault was misunderstood and abused in the American market, but for those who understood them they were a force to be reckoned with. Full on Rally ready, not fast but cornered like a banshee so long as the driver didn’t make the mistake of turning the weight of its rear engine into a pendulum by oversteering. Good in snow, good on fuel, starts and runs. Not the fastest but the undisputed shortest stopping distance of any automobile of its time. And very safe. Twice in rollovers the front and back windscreens were designed to drop out leaving easy escape without shattered glass.
After decades of driving, building and collecting we knew of only one serious injury in these cars, and that one clearly driver error. They were tough little cars.
Last word: my biological father was a career police officer and the first one to retire from his precinct. Not well liked among his superiors because he was a practical man who left most minor traffic violations go with a warning, except stops, which are not minor violations. A vehicle is mostly a heavy object with air filled tires and sprung suspension and a full stop is the only lawful maneuver at a sign or light, anything else is the same as running it and is a serious violation since highly dangerous. The only condition for a full stop is when the wheels are not turning. That doesn’t mean the vehicle atop them is not moving because unless you’re in a full-on skid, when the wheels stop turning the vehicle will pitch forward as it tries to defeat the wheels with momentum. The rear of the car will rise and then lower back into its standing position and that is easily observable to a police officer. Now a stop also means go when the way is clear and when clear there is no definition for the duration of a stop. With one foot on the accelerator and one on the brake the driver can brake to a full stop with instant acceleration available and launch from a full stop leaving that pesky tailgator in the dust. By the time he recovers, you’ll be home.
Just remember to let the car pitch back before launching. If done properly you have fulfilled the legal requirement of a full stop while the vehicle itself was never in a complete standstill, and if it’s rear wheel drive the action of lowering the rear only adds power to the ground (called gription).
Who knew you guys were getting up to this? Must be all those empty back roads calling out for some daredevilry. Can't say I remember that happening where I grew up.
I remember the good ole days when we'd tie our bicycles to the bumper, flying down the road.