My dad has had a bunch of old cars. Of course, “old” is a relative term. His high school car, a belly-dragging ’51 Ford Vic was eight years old, as his small block Chevy-powered Ford roadster was less than ten years his senior. For me growing up, his ’72 DeTomaso Pantera – a mere six years older than myself – was the “old” car I was most readily exposed to. One of the eleven original Mike Cook-modified Panteras touting transplanted Bow Tie 454s in lieu of the 351 Ford, he purchased the Italian-built, Detroit-powered sportscar from an enthusiast in the Midwest. My mother rarely rode in it, it notoriously leaked oil, and spent countless weekends up on jack stands. It rotated from yellow to black to a really deep House of Kolors purple over the years. He drove it to church, picked me up from little league games in it, and even threw noisy open-header revs in front of my middle school. It was, especially for a kid, extremely cool.

I was too young to really grow up working on the car with my father. My older brother helped rebuild and ultimately replace “Old Smokey,” a notoriously leaky big block, with a 511-inch aluminum-headed Chevrolet. He also tackled the colossal task of replacing all of the car’s untreated cancer, inspiring my brother to one day scream, “Where the hell did Dad get this thing? Lake Michigan?” Instead of turning wrenches on the Pantera, my father insisted that my brother and I break our knuckles alone on our own cars. A sort of refiner’s fire, I supposed. As I near middle-age, I understand the points he was trying to make: 1) It’s your car, you should know its every nut and bolt, and most importantly, 2) It’s your car, you should love it. So, when I purchased my ’69 Dodge Charger, I made the promise to adhere to those very tenets.

I’ve blathered like an idiot here before about my ’69 Dodge Charger, I know. Regretfully, although it’s been nine years, I’m nowhere near being done. I can pretend its because I’m slowly savoring the process, but the reality is that 1) its expensive and I’m pretty cheap, and 2) I’m a lot lazier than I’d like to admit. Despite these excuses, I do relish the time I spend out in the garage beneath the Saturday sun unraveling the Christmas lights-like web of the dash wiring. Albeit modest, my tiny single car garage is rife with boxed bits and pieces, extra parts filling shelves and hanging from exposed rafters like Dr. Frankenstein’s utility closet. Yet, amid the chaos, I am proud to know where everything is and – more importantly – where it belongs. Time and again, I’ve poured out my Folger’s coffee can full of sheetmetal screws and identified all the fasteners I needed; and that makes me smile.

So, am I saying all of this as a ribbing toward those who pay others to build their cars for them? Not necessarily. I know plenty of muscle car enthusiasts who love these machines who couldn’t distinguish W-headed Z11 from a SOHC 427. Does that mean they should be disallowed entry into the annals of classic car ownership? Not at all. Nor should those constrained by time. It’s those rare few who chose to outsource the process merely because they canthat I question. The countless hours I’ve dedicated to turning wrenches, sanding sheetmetal, disassembling, reassembling and realizing that I forgot the lock washers, necessitating me to disassemble and re-reassemble all over again have all been part of the personal, intimate experience of building my car; and that is what is more important than having the car done today.

Light ’em up,
-Kevin