Better Off Dead is a fucking stellar movie. If you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so.
It came out in 1985, roundabout the years I was learning to form my own opinions and tastes. I fell madly in love with someone in that movie too, Lane Meyer’s ’67 Camaro. It’s probably the first independent car opinion I’d formed. She was sleek and powerful but her flared hips gave her a feminine edge. I knew I would need a first gen Camaro. Need.
In high school, I had a boyfriend who had a ’69 Camaro. Their hips aren’t as flared, but the ’69 has cool shark gill looking accents on her rear fenders. It was a lovely rust primer color. Most of the value in the car was in the pioneer cd player where Thorogood blared too loudly for the quality of the system. It was barely road worthy. One evening as we drove home, the rear window just fell out, tumbled down the trunk and shattered on I5. You know, like happens never.
Life moves on. I was, married, settled, still jonesing for a Camaro to call my own. Brian called me one day, probably from a bag phone. “There’s a ’67 in yard across from my work. It’s only got one dent in it.” My guy failed to mention that the one dent started at the headlight and ended at the tail light, but that didn’t stop me. The car “slept in an auto cocoon” (-Better Off Dead quote) for a couple years. A beacon of hope cloaked in a tarp. Next to another symbol of dreams, the bored-out 350 from a totaled ’77 Chevy pickup.
More life moving on, it was time. We needed a shell. I placed an ad in the Nickel (that’s how freaking long ago this project was) seeking a body for my running gear and transmission. One was found and the project began in earnest.
You don’t really think about how much goes into car restoration until you find yourself ordering things such as window rollers, braided hoses, shift pedal, the little slidey thing that controls the heater, so many things. The order frequency was enough that toddler Daniel developed an affinity for what he called the P.U.S. man and went dressed as parcel deliverer for Halloween. Hands were cracked from sanding, blood pressure was experiencing intermittent highs. There were very few battles. I wanted gloss black. Brian worried about it showing imperfections. We compromised as in, she’s pearl white with rally stripes that are a turquoise akin to the color of money. There was also debate about the spoiler on the trunk in which we compromised again, as in it didn’t go my way.
She turned out to be my kind of imperfectly perfect.
Built on a budget. Made with love. Her interior almost matched itself. The paint done in a fellow tuck mechanic’s garage gleamed. The door would close all the way if you did lifted it just so as you were closing it.
Driving her makes me feel alive. I like the sense of accomplishment that comes from such adventures as when I drove her and the kids by myself to the coast. Jamming the gears, feeling the horsepower. Intermittently pushing the visor back up and hoping the tape will hold it out of my way. She got compliments which she loved, because what girl doesn’t. She was responsible for some random stranger proposing marriage to me.
It takes courage and skill to drive her competently. The steering wheel is more like a suggestion for where the tires should go. The interior looks like every crash test dummy’s nightmares. I have to concentrate and REALLY be present when I’m piloting her. It causes a connection to the adventure of travel that’s absent in driving newer cars. It causes my cheeks to flush and my heart to race. There’s few things better than having her out on a warm summer night all to myself.
When she was in the build phase, there were bets laid about how long it would take for me to wreck her. She’s so light and powerful, and I’m so easily distracted, I completely understood the worry. I play safe with her. I mean, yes, I will try to destroy the tires burning out every chance I get. And, yes I will cram through her gears as quickly as possible. But, all safe. So far. And,…no tickets yet. I pitched her sideways right in front of RPD the year before last. The mercy given to me was probably because it was Kool April Nites week and I’m sure they thought that my keeper would take my keys away before I hurt anyone. “Yea. There’s no way that middle aged woman did that on purpose.” Which is true. That one was an accident. All my best burnouts are. It’s a curse.
I’ve called her mine. I know she’s not just mine. Over the years I’ve done things to confound the message of to whom she belongs. Like the year that I bought Brian a gear drive for her for his birthday. (Jerk move on my part, but damn does it sound good!)
I wanted to take her to the drag strip last year. I’ve never raced. I was excited and nervous. Brian tuned her up. Which immediately led to him losing control of her in front of the house and putting that beautiful baby into the fence. In retrospect, “what the fuck?!” should have come AFTER “are you okay?” I am thankful that it happened here instead of where someone could’ve been hurt. But I’m still sad.
She’s not totaled but because her uniqueness, I don’t know when she’ll get back to fighting shape. She came to me as a rusty pile, so I suspect that there’s an opportunity for her to reclaim her beauty. Just give me another couple decades.
Bifocals and Barbells 