I was just watching a TV show full of hot cars doing burnouts for miles. Not surprising. I watch all sorts of "F&F" style programming. Have all my life. Big Time car guy, me. Owned 128 of them (not a typo; list to follow). Caused to me to think back about my own excesses as a rambunctious late teen with the very hottest car in town. In a town known far and wide for its hot cars.
Turns out it was my 19th birthday and my present to myself was a new car and 3 speeding tickets. In that order. Say what?
The first happened upon my arrival back in town from Kansas City, Missouri. I had just written a check for a brand-new 1962 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport. A 409 Chevy Super Sport. A 409 horsepower, 409 cubic inch, two four-barrel carbureted, positraction terror that was emblematic of everything my hot rod soul wanted in life. And so did every other kid.
Although 409 horsepower doesn't sound like so much these days, back then it was the HOLY GRAIL! Remember, I owned this car while the Beach Boy's song "Giddy Up, Giddy Up, 409!" was No. 1 on the charts!
So I'd learn from my Dad how to shoot a mean game of pool and I took to it like a Democrat takes to deficit spending. I began at 13, was a terror by 14, and a traveling, full-blown hustler by 16. By the age of 19 I was making $Thousands a week, wore a money belt and carried a gun. I thought everybody did. Just your normal, everyday, average teenager.
I never kept track of my actual winnings, but I averaged at least two new cars a year for years during this period. And this Honduras Maroon, black leather bucket-seated, 4-speed dynamo was clearly THE Main Attraction in my home town of 9,589 White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Christian souls.
So, a check for $3,830.23 and I was out the door, windows rolled down even though it was freezing out that November 12th, headed back to Chillicothe. The butterflies on my twin four-barrel carburetors open wiiiide whenever and wherever possible all the way home. I can still hear the "bwwwwaaAAAAA!!!" as the carburetors sucked in the atmosphere.
So I got my first ticket that day as I rolled into town around dusk. There's a 4-mile stretch of four-lane I-65 highway unfolding from the south of Chillicothe with a 40 mph speed limit. For others, perhaps. For me? That day it was 66, or so the ticket read. S**t!
Ticket #2 came about an hour later as I "engaged in a demonstration of speed." Or so the cop said. Actually, I left a stop light as it turned green a little faster and louder and with more tire smoke than the portly policeman preferred (an alliteration for your reading enjoyment). He said he measured my black marks at 85 feet long.* So that was "careless and imprudent." 3 more points on my license, just like the one earlier that day.
#3 came as I decided to find out how fast my 409 Chevy would go. You need to know that, right? I mean, I'd owned it almost a day! I found out about 1:30 a.m. the next morning. On Highway 36, which is a nice, wide, two-lane stretching all the way to Utica, Mo, some 8 or 9 miles distant. And if you can pick your time, it's occasionally deserted. Yummmm!!!
So, me and my little buddy Dick Saccaro hop in the car and let it eat! I buried the speedometer quickly, which would be about 130, and let it go for another minute or so after that. I'd guess we were going about 150, which demanded our complete attention. So much so we didn't see the flashing lights. In the rear view mirror. The flashing red lights.
Patrolman Dick Defreece was the Mo. State highway patrolman on duty as I streaked by that night. He said he was glad I pulled over for him as he knew he'd never be able to catch me in his '62 Dodge Polara. He wrote the ticket for "80-plus" as a favor (he had my driver's license number memorized) and I went on home. Slower, this time. 3 more points. A bit excessive, to be sure. 9 points in one day, when the maximum one could accumulate in a year before license suspension was 12. But then, what the Hell...
EPILOGUE: I kept waiting for the letter from the State to arrive yanking my driver's license. I knew I was way over the permitted point limit, so it wasn't a matter of "if," but rather "when." But that letter never came. We all learned exactly why a year or so later. And that "why" deserves the retelling. Turns out Sheriff Kelsie Reeter was caught "doing" a local Black prostitute in the front seat of his patrol car. Her bare footprints were found on the inside of his front window. Think about that for a minute. He was fired and sent packing. They later opened his desk drawer and found hundreds and hundreds of tickets, large and small, the copies of which he should have sent to the DMV in Jefferson City for processing. When he didn't, the statute to limitations ran out on them and we were all home Scot Free! Hundreds of us!
I skated on 23 points! There is a God!
* It's all true. All of it. As Ripley would say, you must "believe it or not." I can't say I'm proud of all of my indiscretions as a young man, however it was a different time back then, and I can say I didn't wind up in jail. Came close a couple of times, but no cigar! Plus, I had a Hell of a good time!
However, as to black marks on a highway, my car was delivered with a rear axle ratio of 3:08 - 1, which is extremely "high." That meant the car would go very fast but get there a bit slower than if it were geared "lower." And it meant that my 1st gear could wind out to about 65 mph. A quick shift while the rear tires were still spinning and this car would lay rubber from a dead stop to more than 150 miles per hour.
EPILOGUE #2: My car was delivered that Saturday with 7:50-14" General Jet-Air Thin Line White Wall tires. The first year these tires became available. That means those tires had a contact patch area of only about 16 sq. inches! Smaller than your palmprint, BTW. Scary small, considering the mammoth motor residing up front, it's more than 3,850 lb. weight, and my relative inexperience as its driver. But as noted earlier, this car would do burnouts. In fact, it wouldn't NOT do burnouts. To the extent that I sold the bald rear tires to a local tire recapper 8 days later for $1.25 apiece.
Burnouts? You want burnouts? I had all the stinkin' burnouts you could possibly want...
Awsome story
ReplyDelete