A record that still stands

Rob Caveney

In 1970, I had just graduated from college, while my younger brother was three years behind. Back then, summer vacations were three months long and allowed for a good long vacation. In our case, it was a good long drive.

We decided to drive my 1958 VW bus completely around the perimeter of the United States. We missed everything south of Miami, all of Maine, and everything northwest of Wyoming, but even so, we logged over 10,000 miles in about two months.

A little outside Winnemucca, Nevada, we actually stopped to celebrate the odometer turning over the ten-thousandth mile of our trip. We took a picture holding a sign with “10,000 miles” on it, to remember the moment, then stood on a flash flood overpass and pee’d into the vastness of the desert.

We were west bound approaching Yellowstone Park just before dawn. I did most of the daytime driving while my brother took the night legs. The 12 year old bus seemed old even then, and with a stock 36 HP engine laboring away in the back, we pretty much had to drive 24 hours a day to get anywhere. The very low gear ratio was apparent when confronted with any sort of up hill or headwind. To say we were we speed and power challenged would be an understatement.

To make the situation worse, the bus was equipped with larger diameter tires, which was fine for straight and level, no wind (except tail winds) cruising. When a hill or wind presented itself, the little 36 horses didn’t have the umph to keep up the speed in fourth gear to keep the engine from bogging down and over heating.

This meant that we spent nearly two months in 3rd gear, and 35 mph, while we motored around the edge of the US. It’s not like we were in a hurry, but it did require an exceptional degree of patience.

So, there we were headed west towards Yellowstone. I was sleeping in the back and my brother was finishing an all nighter behind the wheel. It was just getting daylight and I remember waking up to the sound of the air slipping silently past the outside of the van. Not unlike the sound inside a glider in flight.

The engine was off, but the rocking and rolling of the van assured me we were still moving at a pretty good clip. The bunk was along the side just behind the driver so I got up on an elbow and looked at the speedometer to confirm we weren’t parked and being buffeted by a strong wind.

To my astonishment, it was pegged at 80 mph. (There really was a peg on the dial preventing the needle from going any higher.) I asked my brother what was happening. He replied in an oddly excited voice, how he had spent most of the night grinding his way up a long grade and was now coasting down the backside.

The fuel saving was spectacular. Miles and miles hurtling by without costing a cent. A gallon of gas was way less than thirty cents, but every mile meant money in our pocket. Saving a couple gallons was worth the danger of colliding with a moose or buffalo.

I have no idea how long he had been going that fast before I woke up, but maintaining 80+ mph in that old bus, for that long, was a record that still stands. The trip was a very bonding experience for both of us, and when we finally reached home, I don’t know who was more relieved, us, or our parents.

Mexican Road Construction

Tom Strickland

These stories are bringing back a lot of memories.

I was down in Mexico in the Austin Healey with my girlfriend sightseeing. On the way home at night at about 55 mph I hit a three foot high sand berm in the middle of the road.

We went airborne and the lights went out, the engine died and it was pitch black. Somehow I managed to get the car stopped and off to the side of the road. The battery had bounced around and lost one of the cables.

This was how they let you know in Mexico that there was road construction ahead.

The day I became a motorhead

Brett Pruitt

Here is my story …

It was the summer of 1970. I grew up about forty minutes from downtown Chicago in a town that was built during the baby boom fueled by the WW2 G.I. bill.

My oldest brother had just come back from Vietnam and was working at our hometown Chevy dealership. He would make extra money installing performance parts on customers’ cars after hours. One night he brought home a brand new SS Chevelle 396 that he just installed “ladder bars” and “cheater slicks” on. He told me and my twin brother that they help the car launch at the dragstrip. He asked if we wanted to go for a test drive. Well you can imagine how excited two 9 year old boys were. So off we went.

Our town had a huge industrial park. This meant street after street of factories and warehouses. The roads were wide to accommodate the trucks, straight as a string, and in those days completely empty at night. We’re in the back seat of a white big block SS Chevelle with black racing stripes and a cowl induction hoodscoop doing long burnouts, as we begged for more and more runs!

The feeling of when that car hooked up and threw you back in the seat made me a motorhead for life. It was a wonderful summer going to the drag strip. My brother Bobby got married that fall and moved out of state. That summer changed me forever. When you look at my senior photo in my high school yearbook that isn’t gel in my hair, it’s ATF from my best friend’s Dodge Challenger R/T (440 magnum).

So needless to say, I spent some fun summer nights on those industrial park streets.

My first race

Doug Munson

It was the summer of 1960 and at 17 I had far more testosterone than brains.

I had recently bought my first car — a 1954 Ford with the 239 in 3 OHC V8, producing a whopping 130 HP. After some hopping up, I was driving on one of the main thorough fares in downtown Minneapolis, stopped at a red light, and what should pull up but a hated 1955 Chevy V8.

After a major face off (think Christian Bale in Ford vs Ferrari) it was clear we were going to have a go. So I revved it to about 3000 rpm, and when the light changed, popped the clutch, and promptly blew the cluster gear. It’s hard to look cool when you are picking up transmission parts and wondering how you are going to get back home.

Somehow I needed to explain this to my parents so I didn’t get grounded and lose the keys. So I said that I was innocently waiting at a light when my foot slipped of the clutch and this happened. I didn’t think they bought it, but they weren’t sure, so life continued.

It cost me $25 for a used transmission at the junkyard and I think he charged me $10 to put it in.

After my Dad died, I read his journal, and he clearly hadn’t bought it, but remembered what it was to be young and dumb.

Oh, for the good old days.

The friends we make along the way

Ed Kokubun

It was a Labor Day weekend in the mid 1980s and my Jaguar E Type was sprinting through the hills of Berkshire, Massachusetts on a crisp fall day, crimson and yellow leaves swirling in its wake. But alas my euphoric, dreamlike state was abruptly shaken to consciousness by the horrendous screech emanating from under the bonnet. A frozen alternator and shredded fan belt awaited my fearful inspection. Hours later bathed by the soft glow of a New England sunset, AAA road service solemnly returned the fallen E Type to the B&B where we were staying.

The next day, Labor Day, I desperately searched the Yellow Pages for assistance and in a sudden turn of good fortune located a Jaguar repair shop in northwestern Connecticut. Even more astonishing was that a gentleman actually answered the phone when I called. He apologized that his shop was closed and his mechanics had the day off, but proudly proclaimed that he had a correct NOS alternator in his inventory and assured me he could get the job done.

He arranged for a tow truck to pick us and the E Type up from the B&B and bring us to his shop. We were soon backing into the driveway of this beautiful house set on the shore of a large, tranquil lake rimmed with trees ablaze in fall colors. Upon arrival the tow truck operator lowered the E Type and left us standing in the driveway of this home that had no signage nor any indication this was a Jaguar repair shop.

Knots in my stomach began to pull and turn. Moments later the door to the house opened and a gentleman with his wife at his side approached us, his white cane swaying and tapping in perfect cadence from side to side on the sidewalk. My apprehension and concern began to mount faster than the temperature gauge of a Jaguar stuck in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.

During the ensuing introductions, no reference was ever made of his visual impairment, although it was clear to me that he could not see. With the tow truck long gone there was very little we could do but let the events play out.

He proceeded to feel the lines of the car’s body as if to confirm that it was indeed a Series 1 FHC and after I opened the bonnet, he immediately began his own assessment of the E Type’s condition through his purposeful touch and feel. He soon left the three of us standing in the driveway, awkward conversation followed, while he confidently made his way to his work shop. Minutes later, he returned with the NOS alternator and assorted wrenches. Wasting no time, he dropped to his knees, hunched over the front wheel and began to deftly remove and replace the alternator. There were no miscues, second attempts or periods of doubt or indecision on his part. He simply got the job done, while my wife and I watched in silent amazement.

There were many other incredible details of that day that I have omitted in the interest of time; however, I’ll end my story to say that after that fateful day, Stew and Karen Jones became our close friends and the E Type began a new and rejuvenated chapter in its life under the expert care and guidance of Stew Jones Restorations. Oh … and the alternator remains in place today, the mounting bolts torqued just as Stew left them on that glorious autumn afternoon some thirty-five years ago.