An All American Teenage Sex Life II Sophomore SeasonChapter 13
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I was up and at it early again Saturday morning with rather pleasant thoughts from the night before. Mom hustled me to grandpa’s shop and I went to it.
Grandpa had clearly made more progress on the pit cart, with some metal cabinet doors now in place, along with a thin steel plate top. Work benches were getting cleared off and this was starting to look like a proper race shop again.
Grandpa was out to help about an hour after I arrived. He ambled into the shop with a big thermos of coffee and muttered a greeting.
He handed me a notebook as he started to take measurements of different spots on the car, telling me to write them all down. I was jotting down length from axle to axle, rear axle to rear motorplate and so on. Once that was done, we jacked the car up onto two triangular stands holding up the chassis. All the wheels were next to come off, and lesson one was presented to me.
“The right rear wheel is on a single big nut that threads over the axle and is a left-hand thread. Just remember to tighten the rear wheels by turning the big wrench toward the back of the car, or to loosen the nut by cranking it to the front of the car.”
We stacked the big wheels and tires off to the side, the smaller front wheels had three nuts each, holding them to aluminum hubs. He told me to grab a couple of three-quarter inch wrenches and he got to work labeling suspension parts.
A sprint car is an incredibly simple machine. There’s no battery. There’s no starter. There’s no transmission. There are maybe four dozen bolts holding the entire thing together, and most of them are the same size. We had much of the car in small piles of pieces in just over an hour. In fact, only the requirement to have two people to pull the heavy rear axle out of the chassis prevented someone from taking the car apart on their own.
Simple metal tabs held fiberglass panels and the hood in place, and those came off easily, leaving a motorplate and firewall in front of where I’d sit, and the tail fuel tank.
Grandpa found a couple of plastic plugs for the fuel lines on the tank, and that was removed as well. I set to work on the firewall, removed it, and tucked it away with the rest of the parts.
Just like that, Grandpa and I were staring at a bare red frame.
“Royal blue, you say?” Grandpa drawled, running his fingers over the downtubes.
“I was hoping so, but if it saves money to skip painting the frame, I can live with that.”
“Nah, it’s pitted and chipped, and worn off entirely on the lower left rail,” he considered. “Needs fresh paint anyway.”
“Alright then, what’s next?”
“Lunch.” Grandpa said instantly. “I’ll tell grandma we’re going to the cafe.”
“I don’t know where you put all that, but I guess you’re growing pretty fast,” grandpa drawled pointedly. I had just polished off a two-egg and chicken fried steak platter with gravy, hashbrowns and toast.
“Growing boy,” I patted my stomach with a wide grin.
Grandpa got a good belly laugh out of that.
“Say, you have a license or permit of some sort so you can drive with an adult, right?”
“Yeah, learner’s permit, why?”
“We’re about done with the car for the day. How ‘bout a driving lesson?”
Driving lesson one was in grandpa’s old Chevy truck on a gravel road.
“Throttle control,” grandpa said with a voice as gravely as the road we were on. “Start at 20 miles an hour, then go to 50.”
I grinned and did as ordered, mashing my foot down on the gas pedal. The truck sprayed gravel and I had a little fun with the steering wheel as the back of the truck fishtailed a little on our way to 50.
“Feel how the back tires are breaking loose? That bleeds off speed and control. You gotta learn to roll in and out of the throttle. Go back down to 20 and start over.”
I picked my foot up off the gas abruptly, causing us both to lean forward.
“See there? Gotta roll OFF the throttle too, just like getting on it. You want to keep it as smooth as you can. When you upset the car, you slow the car down.”
We idled along at 20 and I more gently pushed down on the pedal, feeling the tires break loose just a little on our way to 50 once again.
“Better, you’ll feel it in the car when you do it right. Well, you’ll feel it in the car when you do it wrong too,” he looked at me meaningfully. “Keep at this and you’ll get the hang of it.”
We made two full laps around a square mile farm section as grandpa imparted more wisdom.
“You’ll learn in the car that you steer the thing as much with the throttle as you do with the wheel. You figure that out, and you’ll be a good one.”
The lesson ended and I thanked grandpa for, well, everything. Most importantly, the chance to race, which had been a dream since I was no bigger than Josh, sitting in my uncle’s car and sawing away at the wheel in a pretend race.
Grandpa took me to the races that night. We had a couple of a loose meat sandwiches. I had a big pepsi and grandpa had a couple of beers. He rarely sat in the stands, and he generally bought a pit pass and hung out with old friends, watching the races from his comfortable place. I was not permitted in the pits until I was 15, and only then as the driver of the car.
I’d practically grown up watching races here, and it was thrilling to know I would soon be a part of all this. Cars were being fired up to warm up against the cool May air. Other cars were out on the freshly wet dirt, packing the mud down to a raceable surface.
“Here’s the beauty of not racing tonight, Jake,” grandpa smiled sagely. “It’s the first night out for most of these guys, and there’s going to be lots of crashes.”
He was not wrong. No fewer than eight cars were damaged through the course of the night, starting with a flip from a limited sprint like mine in a heat race. Two more went over in the featured and there was a big wreck at the start of the unlimited sprint feature.
No one was hurt, but the reality was that sometimes drivers did get hurt, or even died at times in this sport.
My 14-year-old mind was hardly phased by the thought. I was ready to race.
It had been a late night at the races, with all the carnage, but I woke up Sunday morning refreshed and ready for anything. It was already an unseasonably warm and nice day.
After the rest of the family returned from church, dad dropped the classified section of the newspaper into my lap.
I opened it to find an ad he’d circled.
FOR SALE: 1968 Ford Mustang Fastback, V8, blue, 125K miles, $5K OBO
“Dad, didn’t you have a ‘68 fastback?”
“Yeah,” dad reminisced. “It was Highland Green with a 390, four-speed. I loved that car. It looked like ‘Bullit.’”
“Well, where is it?”
“No idea. I traded it for a ‘69 Mach 1.”
“OK, then where’s that?”
“No idea. I traded it in for an AMC Javelin.”
“You did WHAT?” I asked incredulously.
“Oh, it was the fastest of the three, by far,” he smiled with a raised eyebrow. “And before you ask, I got rid of that and bought a pickup and a tractor.”
I was simply speechless. Dad shrugged.
“If you’re interested, why don’t you give them a call? We could go look at it this afternoon or evening.”
“Ah, crap, I told Beast and Tree I’d shoot hoops with them this afternoon.”
“We can probably work around that.”
I decided to call right away. A nervous 14-year-old, I dialed the number and asked about the car for sale. A nice older woman told me it belonged to her daughter, who was graduating from college this month and needed something more practical. She really hated to get rid of it. I made the arrangement to go see the car at 12:30.
I called Beast next and said I’d be free by 3 p.m., but might not need a ride there, and left it that.
The family and I headed to the city and grabbed a quick bite at Taco Bell. We found the house and the garage door was open, and I could see the shiny chrome and distinctive triple tail lights. I did everything I could to keep a good poker face before we knocked on the door.
A couple in their late 50s came out to greet us. Dad talked to them about the car as I walked around it, taking it all in. She was a dark metallic blue, with a narrow black stripe down the center of the hood, going over a small intake right over the carburetor.
She sat on Crager Mag wheels with newer looking BF Goodrich white letter tires. She had a fully black interior, a four-speed, a tachometer, and a modern-looking radio with cassette player.
‘This is a girl’s car?’ I thought to myself. Then I noticed the pink fuzzy dice hanging in the mirror. OK, maybe it did belong to a girl, but this car was about the manliest thing I’d ever stood next to.
I suddenly noticed dad walking over to me with a set of keys.
“We’re taking her for a test drive,” he said matter-of-factly, and tossed the keys to me and squeezed over to the passenger side.
I was frozen for just a second, assuming dad would drive it, but I wasn’t going to miss this chance. I had a lot of practice driving dad’s F-150 5-speed, so this would be no problem.
I slid into the vinyl seat and took it all in. She smelled like an older car, a strong note of vinyl and a coppery metal smell. I looked forward and the hood seemed to stretch on forever, even though I knew she was a small car. I slotted the key into the ignition on the lower dash. I buried the clutch made sure the 4-speed was out of gear.
A brief turn of the key and she came to life, and she was LOUD. I looked to dad with wide open eyes. His grin was contagious. I simply sat and listened to her idle at about 1800 RPM on the tach. I was looking at the white shifter knob to make sure I knew where the gears were when she settled down to a more sedate 1300 RPM. I swear she chugged through the dual exhaust a little like a racecar.
“I’m turning on the air conditioning,” dad joked as he rolled his window down. I did the same. She was even louder through the open windows.
I looked into the mirrors to make sure they were adjusted so I could see. Mom was holding on to Josh, who was jumping up and down a little in excitement. The couple was still chatting with mom.
Dad pointed out a spot in the rear seat where the headliner was torn and the carpet was pretty worn out up front.
Then it was time. “Shall we?” dad asked.
I took a breath and pushed the clutch in experimentally, then shoved the white cue ball on the stick to the left and then down, locking it into reverse.
I slowly pulled my foot off the clutch and she lurched backward, threatening to stall before I gave a little more clutch back. She was rolling slowly into the sunlight and I used the brakes to keep a steady pace. I almost wished I was watching her emerge from the garage as a spectator rather than behind the wheel to witness it. Josh had big eyes, and even mom seemed impressed as the tiny metal flakes in the deep blue paint of the hood captured the May sunshine, sparkling in the light.
I carefully rolled back into the street and dropped her into first. I gave her a little throttle and let out the clutch. That was all it took. I was head-over-heels in love with this car as she lurched forward down the residential street. I could just tell at how I had to shift at low RPM that this growling beast might be a lot to handle. I could hear the tone of the exhaust pouring back at my ears through the open window. This car could turn heads anywhere, and she announced her presence with a meaty growl even before you saw her.
I stopped at the next stop sign.
“How much do we offer?” I asked without hesitation.
Dad laughed heartily. “Let’s shake her down a little and then I want to look around a little more carefully. I’ll talk price with them.”
We drove around the neighborhood and onto a busier street. We rolled past a family restaurant as a big group of people were walking out. Heads were turning, fingers were pointing. This car was like driving your own parade down the street. I. Simply. Must. Have. Her.
We found a bit of highway heading back toward our smaller town. Getting onto the highway and up to the speed limit was like a walk in the park. This car rumbled down the highway at 55 MPH like it was nothing. She had plenty of power left.
We drove back to the house, and I almost sadly turned the key off with the car parked in the driveway. She sputtered one last moment and went silent. Mom couldn’t hold Josh back any longer and sprinted over to my door.
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