Kevin Shaw: Your Muscle Car Isn't Like The Fancy Towels Your Wife Won't Let You Use

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Years ago, I stopped by a friend's shop. Larry, the owner of the three-bay garage, kept his cherry-red '69 R/T Charger parked in the back corner. Larry - like me - has been slowly piecing his Mopar together over a decade, pinching his pennies where he could and doing as much as he can before farming anything out. Enjoying the chill of his air conditioned office that summer day, he asked, "Did you hear about Dave's Charger?" I responded that I hadn't but knew it was exceptionally rare, only 1-of-2 '69 HEMI R/T cars equipped with a four-speed painted in F6 green and featuring white interior, a factory-delete bumblebee stripe as well as some other bells and whistles.



"Dude," Larry continued, pausing for effect. "It let go on the freeway and windowed the block." It sadly made perfect sense. After an exorbitantly expensive restoration, the Charger was stored in a single-car garage and trailered in an enclosed toy hauler wherever it went. Considered far too valuable to risk exposing to the open road, the 426 was never allowed to stretch its legs. Rather, Dave would occasionally fire it up for a few minutes on uneventful Saturday mornings. Despite having been dyno-tuned after assembly, the HEMI was never truly broken in. Engines need plenty of time to fully break-in and seal up, and this HEMI never got the chance.

Sold to a young man who had made a small fortune on the Internet, he attempted to drive the HEMI Charger home to San Diego despite Dave's protests. Prior to this trip, the car was never "shaken down," taken out and driven (even, dare I say flogged) to "shake out" all the identifiable quirks that inevitably appear when a car's in motion and under power; a necessary step to diagnosing and repairing problems. Rather, this rare Charger was rebuilt not according to the needs and specifications of an automobile destined to be driven, but to those of a nonfunctional piece of artwork.

Working for a couple years as the Associate Editor of the now defunct publication, "Corvette Fever," I came across countless big-block 'Vette owners who adamantly refused to drive their cars. Rather, these machines sat in hermetically-sealed temperature-controlled garages. At the time, I likened this to purchasing a thoroughbred race horse fresh from winning the Kentucky Derby and stowing it in an opulent barn. There, in plush captivity, it's muscles would atrophy, it's senses dull and its keen vision destined to dim. Rather than retaining the horse's stature, isolating it and barring it from exercise will ultimately reduce it to yet another mare.


James Cook's original '69 Plymouth Road Runner 440 Six-Pack is a regular participant in the Factory Appearing Stock Tire (F.A.S.T.) racing series. Without fear, James flogs his original A-12 Plymouth down the 1320 in 11.43-second at 123.46mph, clicking off an impressive 1.76 60 ft. Painted in R6 Red, the matching-numbers engine was removed for a 528ci stroked big block.
Image: F.A.S.T.

In an article I wrote early in my career, which incurred the wrath of many, I claimed that the TV show "Overhaulin'" was - to quote in my original cadence - "bogus." What I failed to communicate was the fact that 90-percent of the cars featured during the show's five-year run required weeks of follow-up attention. Loose hose clamps, missing retainer clips, mysterious rattles, leaky gaskets, and all sorts of run-of-the-mill gremlins that plague any car build needed to be addressed and couldn't be done so within the show's frantic seven-day time frame. Pay attention to how many episodes end with the car actually being driven.

Paint chips will happen, breakdowns are par for the course, and realizing this will help ease the undecided mind. Refusing to drive a muscle car as it was intended denies that its identity. The argument is often made that preserving these machines in pristine condition ensures their survival so that future generations too, may come to love them. Albeit a sound point, static museum displays do not have the emotional impact of the roar of exhaust, the vibration of a solid-lifter camshaft rumbling up through your feet or watching as they obliterate their tires in a haze of inky blue smoke. That's what makes a kid fall in love with a muscle car.

Light 'em up,
Kevin

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