Name That Car
He finally found one beauty of a beast.
When we baby boomers came of driving age, high performance wasn’t just an option, it was a movement. Premium gas was 35 cents a gallon—who cared about economy? In high school, I’d see some of the neighborhood’s hottest cars being driven around the block. Like a lot of the kids who were walking instead of riding, I was in awe. I wanted one.
Big-block, high-performance cars like these were always described by the cubic inches under the hood: 426 Ramcharger, 426 Hemi, 409, 427, 389, etc. Many of the cars came with multiple carburetors and suspensions tuned up for drag racing. Naturally, they weren’t fuel sippers; most averaged 10 to 12 miles per gallon in normal driving.
My friend Wayne’s sister owned one of these beasts and often let him drive it. Acceleration was an art form on the streets and in the culture, and Wayne had a gift for it. I’d smile whenever he’d peel out—floor it from a dead stop so the back tires would spin in place—and burn out— mash the gas while braking with the other foot, which caused the rear tires to smoke.
In 1998, 35 years after high school, I found a ride like the one Wayne’s sister had. It has two four-barrel carburetors, a 425-horsepower
409 engine, a four-speed manual transmission and a Positraction 4:11 rear end. It was a dream come true for that kid who stared with longing at those muscle cars years ago. But I confess: I’ve retired my car from burning up the drag strip. Parts are too expensive and hard to find.
Oh, and I still get only 10 miles to the gallon.