I dig Tennessee. And I think the reason I enjoy the area so much is that it reminds me of Austin. The folks are hospitable, timing isn’t all the important, and there’s just a general laid back vibe all around. You gotta dig pretty deep to find anything too pretentious around these parts and frankly, I’m never around long enough to even catch a glimpse of anything less than novel. All in all, it’s a pretty damn good setting for a bunch of old farts in old cars.
I arrived in Chattanooga just last night. Jess Hoodenpyle picked me up at the airport, took me out for some fine BBQ, and then dropped me off at the hotel in order to get ready for the big day today. Having never been to or driven in a “Rally” of any kind, I had no idea what I was in store for. All I knew was that I was to meet my navigator (Jeff) and that he would help me tune my speedometer and show me the ropes.
All morning, I walked around asking folks for Jeff.
“You mean Jeff Stumb? He’s your navigator and you’re a rookie? Boy, he’s competitive. I hope you have your wits about you.”
As I continued my trek around the Coker campus looking for Jeff, I began to take notice of certain peculiarities. For one, this is an older crowd – I’d guess the average age of the competitors to be well over 50. Secondly, their cars featured subtle (and some not so subtle) differences from what I’m typically around. The seemingly avid competitor drives a 30’s era Ford although there are some odd ball makes, models and years around such as 70’s era porsches and even a later model Blazer. It seems to me, most of the diehards and event favorites drive “crazy old” speedsters that look like very early Indy cars and feature the appropriate power plants to boot – flathead fords, 4-bangers, straight sixes of various manufacture, etc…
Most of the cars are covered in decals from past rally events and none of the competitors flinched as tech inspectors added even more for this event. NASCAR would be proud.
Tech inspections continued and I had yet to find my nav man, so I kept walking, exploring, and meeting folks. It seemed like every ten minutes or so that I would meet a 60 to 70 year old man and hear about the story of him and his wife driving their 1917 “so-and-so” from coast to coast multiple times. Most had won what sounded like an important rally in the process. Of course, the conversation would inevitably end with, “Ohhh… You are Jeff’s partner? Hope you’re ready!”
And then, finally… I found Jeff. He wasted no time in getting me acquainted with the car that I was to drive during the event – Corky and Honest Mike’s ‘32 roadster powered by a blown flathead. Within minutes of our meeting, he had me installing what looked like a seriously sophisticated speedometer in the car and buttoning up any lose ends. Half an hour later and we were on the highway calibrating that speedometer.
“Hold it at 50 mph for the next 5 miles. Not 51, not 49… But 50 mph!”
It sounds easy enough, but you try to do it… Especially if you are driving a seriously hopped up flathead that is just begging to go twice that speed. I managed, but just barely.
The question, however, remains… Will I be able to keep hold of these reigns during an entire day of rally racing tomorrow or will I give into my hot rodding heritage and let it rip? And if it’s the later, what are the chances of Jeff strangling me with a piece of bailing wire liberated from my speedo install?
Only time will tell gentlemen. Tune in on Monday to read for yourself.
Note: No idea if I’ll have the time or not, but I might be updating my “from the road” blog here as I rally my ass off.
It was either very late at night or very early in the morning when the idea for the Hot Rod Revolution spawned. Keith Tardel and I started the conversation and it wasn’t long before our better halves, Mary and Marcie, joined in. Over the course of way too many margaritas, the Hot Rod Revolution was finalized. It would be a small pre-48 traditional hot rod show set in a small town in Northern California that focused on quality over quantity.
The first year (2006), we had around 100 cars show. It was a tiny get together of some of the best cars Northern California had to offer. Walking on to that little baseball diamond in Penngrove, CA was the hot rod equivalent to walking on to the golf course at Pebble Beach during the Concours d’Elegance. In my mind, a more perfect car show had never been held.
In 2007 we gave it another shot and despite the wet/freezing weather, the event stayed true to tradition. Diehard hot rodders rolled in one-after-the-other. The drivers and passengers were bundled up, tops (if available) were snapped shut, and folks shivered anyway. It was cold… Really damn cold. But the show was still amazing and the company was still perfect.
In 2008, we fumbled. First, we were gonna have the show. Then, it was canceled. Then, it was back on. See, Mary Tardel was pregnant with my god daughter and we would all be damned if we were gonna let our little car show get in the way of that deal. In the end, we decided to let it slide… and I’m still glad that we did. Priorities are important, right?
It’s now 2009 and the Hot Rod Revolution is back with a vengeance. Along with all of the incredible pre-48 traditional cars we’ve featured in the past, we are also trying to focus on cars that have appeared on the salt at speed. To be honest, I’m not sure exactly what cars will be making an appearance. There is just no telling… BUT, I can tell ya that the awe inspiring Tom Cobbs roadster will be at the show. It’s gonna rule gentlemen…
In any case, that’s my pitch… If your interested in joining us at the Revolution on September 26, you can get all of the details here. And I would be amiss if I didn’t mention the companies that are helping us on the financial side. Riley Automotive, Coker Tire, RediRad, and Pete & Jakes have all been REVOLUTIONARY.
And finally, here’s a few of my favorite shots from past Revolutions:
Joyo and I got off the airplane in Salt Lake around noon. I had always imagined driving into Wendover in something a bit more rebellious than a rented Chevrolet Malibu, but we were both eager despite our wheels. Those late model aluminum rollers were, after all, wheels of fortune and the Bonneville Salt Flats were our destiny. We were sure of it. So sure of it, that we just took off from the airport and headed south with no regard given to maps or GPS of any kind. Unfortunately for us, however, Wendover is west of Salt Lake.
Once straightened out, Joyo and I set the cruise control on 85 mph, turned up the sounds of gansta rap, and headed for our destiny. About ten miles outside of Wendover we noticed a salt lake and halted at a rest stop to take a taste.
“Yep. Tastes like salt.”
We continued on and arrived at the Wendover Nugget Casino and Hotel at around 4:00 pm. The Old Crow Speed Shop fellas, our hosts for the week, weren’t off the salt yet, so Joyo and I decided to take a look around the joint while we waited. After taking a peek at a few street cars that had gathered in the parking lot, we ventured inside and into another world. The sights and sounds of the interior Nugget were… foul… wretched… loathsome. Imagine Vegas in 1984 - the patterned carpets bring headaches, the PA system delivers the best of 1980’s pop music (24 hours a day), and the Ukrainian waitresses on work/study visas bring watered down drinks so long as you over pay them. None of this seemed to bother the local blue hairs as they stabbed coin after coin into slot machines.
We must have been wide eyed when Bobby Green and Lucky Burton showed up to check us in. Two Texans in the middle of a terrible Vegas dream (or Utah or Nevada or wherever the hell we were) had to stick out in the most pronounced of ways. In any case, we didn’t scare the Old Crow team off and plans were set to meet at the salt at 7:00 am the next morning. The group of us gobbled down some shitty buffet food, took some drinks from the Ukrainians, and then hit the sack.
It took a long time for that morning to arrive. Joyo and I discovered just how hard it can be to sleep through Cindi Lauper with a broken air conditioner humming along to fill in the short breaks between her hits. When the time finally came, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Wendover was one of the weirdest places I had ever been. What in the hell had I gotten myself into?
We took the Speedway exit, drove past the “bend in the road,” and creeped (in honor of Creepy Jack) out onto the salt for the first time. This is where the fancy words and creative elaborations stop. There are no words to describe Bonneville. You can’t adequately put together sentences and expect folks to realize what the salt is ACTUALLY like. I assume it’s different for everyone, but for me it was one of the most spiritual moments of my life.
“Holy shit Joyo. We aren’t in Wendover anymore.”
I don’t think John or I said much for the first few miles. We just took it in and processed it all in our own way. Ten or so miles later and we found ourselves at the Old Crow pit. The belly tank looked incredible parked on the salt, but we had no time to marvel as we were already running late for the driver’s meeting.
The driver’s meeting is about what you would expect. An SCTA official goes over the general course layout, talks about safety, introduces “Glen Fryburger,” and then everyone goes about their business. About half way through, I lost interest and wondered off down the salt. It’s a brutal place. Imagine dumping a bag of salt on the ground, wetting it, and then stomping the shit out of it. Now, imagine a couple hundred square miles of it and an incredibly bright sun. Bonneville quite literally is a miserable place.
That said, you don’t notice how miserable you really are on the salt. The incredible imagery mix of vintage steel, modern technology and bizarre speed freak personalities distract your ability to feel all together. You just are on the salt. My brain was never fully able to comprehend everything around me. Similar to how I handled the Nugget, I just coped.
In any regard, it wasn’t long before one of the Old Crow guys grabbed me and told me to get my ass in the truck. It was time to get in line and wait… wait… wait… You do a lot of waiting at Bonneville. It might sound a bit agonizing and well, it is. But there is also something enduring about it. The staging lines move slowly and most of that time is spent bullshitting with the folks around you. Joyo and I got to know the Old Crow guys pretty damn well - Bobby, Lucky, Jack, Joe, Max, etc… I could tell you most of their life stories and getting this background on the fellas was somewhat convenient. See, my first ride in the push truck changed my life forever and it was comforting to actually know the fellas around me at such a profound moment.
The starter gave the sign, Lucky gave his truck gas, and Bobby revved away on that little banger motor. The instant the belly tank pulled away from the push truck, I felt something drop in my stomach. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. In a split second, I thought about my favorite old Bonneville photos, my favorite old cars, our history, our pals, everything that makes traditional hot rodding what it is… and I thought about it all at once. The feeling was more than a sum of it’s parts. It was salt fever fellas… And I have it.
After a couple of more runs, it was time to pack it up for the day and head back to the Nugget. As scary as that vile little casino is, John and I welcomed the chance to get out of the sun and off of our feet. It was another long night of 80’s pop and hot temps in room 137, but I felt fresh in the morning and couldn’t wait to get back on the salt. And that’s another weird thing about Bonneville - no matter how dead tired you might be, the salt brings you back to life.
A perfect example is my Sunday morning. The night before, Keith Tardel and I spent way too much time paying the Ukrainians. After a number of tequila shots and more than a few beers, we called it quits at 4:00 am. Of course, I had to meet the Old Crow guys in the lobby at 6:15 am. With less than two hours of actual sleep time and what should have been a pretty mean hangover, I showed up on the salt ready to go and no worse for wear on Sunday. Somehow, the salt breeds life.
In any regard, Sunday was disastrous for the Old Crow team. We had been mis-reading the exhaust temp readout (Celsius… Fahrenheit… What’s the difference?) and as a result were running that poor little H&H banger motor way too lean. Eventually, it caught up to the boys and a burnt piston had to be replaced. They worked most of the day and into the evening to get the deed done, but did just that… I was impressed with their focus and determination.
With the piston fixed and the exhaust temps figured out, the fellas quickly calculated that they needed more gas. As luck would have it, Clive (of Stromberg fame) was in town from England and had three brand spanking new 97’s to stuff on top of the banger. With little time to tune, the crew got the tank in line and down the salt. Bobby ran 133 and some change, but wouldn’t come any closer to his own 135 record. Frustration was short lived, however, as the boys had a back up plan.
On Tuesday, Lucky bolted some fenders on to the tank and reclassified the Old Crow as a streamliner. The class change allowed Bobby to go out and shoot for another one of his own records that was set last year at 104 mph. He crushed it with a 128 mph pass and then backed it up on Wednesday. The new V4F/FS world record is now just over 128 mph and is owned by Old Crow.
Of course, by the time the Old Crow team was downing their celebratory Old Crow Bourban, Joyo and I were headed back to Texas. We were close to death… Too many long days on the salt and late nights with Cindi and the Ukrainians will do that to ya. We did however survive and plans are already in the works for next year.
I’m a changed man.
…………..
There is a ton of coverage of the 2009 Bonneville Speed Week on the H.A.M.B., but here is mine just in case your itch isn’t scratched:
The above video was taken from multiple angles on the pass that burnt the Old Crow piston. It’s gorgeous footage that is hard to watch just once… Pay particular attention to around the 2.5 mile mark. You’ll hear the motor cry and a puff of smoke appear just below the canopy.
Lee Pratt and I left Dripping Springs, TX yesterday morning at 7am. Lee was driving his fabulous shoebox Ford while I rode shotgun and played navigator. In Austin, we were joined by the Kontinentals - namely Steve, Reggie, Gary, and Norm. The goal? Salina, KS for the Kustom Spectacular. It’s a 650 mile trip straight up I35 and it all seemed innocent enough.
Much of my morning was spent day dreaming out the chrome garnish mouldings in Lee’s ‘49. The Oklahoma and Texas country side blended beautifully with traditional custom’s flathead Ford and the early R&B that Lee played through its speakers. For a few hours, it was euphoric… Just perfect.
And then, we hit a bump. A very big bump… The oil pan relented and released its oil. Lee thought quickly, killed the motor, and let the car coast to the next exit. After a couple of hours and some help from some Oklahomans, we got the oil pan patched up and refilled with 30 weight. Once back on the road, we realized we had other problems. Oil pressure was low and a death knock was evident. We popped the hood and noticed a sloppy fan belt and a wobbly crank pulley… It’s sad so see a flathead die.
Of course, this group doesn’t leave anyone behind. We dropped Lee’s car off at my in-laws in OKC (Thanks Jay and Nancy!), piled into the remaining the cars, and got back on the road. After one hell of a day, we arrived in Salinas at 3am… 19 hours after we left home.
I’m going to try to keep tabs on the rest of our trip from the “on the road” blog. If you’re interested, you can follow us here. I’ll also be uploading the occasional video here.
