Let’s See Some Pictures of those 1975-1979 B Bodies

themechanic said:

Uncle Bill, RIP, had this for about 6 months before buying the 70 Cuda. It had a 6 barrel, cam and headers.

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I’m surprised he didn’t mention the Crown Roof option. This is only the second ‘77 Cordoba I have seen with the Crown and sunroof combo.

By the time Warren hung up his helmet, the numbers told a strange, bittersweet story. Seventy-two laps led — out of nearly eighty-nine thousand he had finished. In racing math, that’s a sliver. But every single one of those laps had been fought for, wrung from the car like the last drops from an empty gas tank. His total career earnings stood at $625,886 — not bad on paper, though in today’s money it would be just over $2.3 million. Still, it wasn’t the kind of fortune that set a driver up for life. His average finish? Twentieth. Which, in a world of forty hungry cars on the grid, meant he was no stranger to the middle of the pack. And yet, there he was — running 103,495.4 miles of hard, unglamorous asphalt battles, the equivalent of circling the Earth more than four times.

He was stubbornly loyal to his machinery. While others moved on to sleeker, fresher rides, Warren clung to his Dodge Magnum, wrestling it through NASCAR’s top stock car circuit right up to 1980. When the rules changed the next year — smaller 110-inch wheelbase cars becoming the new standard — he didn’t have the money to rebuild. That was it. The big Dodge stayed parked. No tearful press conference, no golden farewell lap. Just… silence.

But Warren wasn’t the kind of man to stay gone. Through the 1980s, you’d still catch him on the ARCA circuit, usually in a Chrysler LeBaron, with “Native Tan” splashed along the panels. It wasn’t the same as NASCAR’s grand stage, but it was racing, and racing was the bloodstream.

He had his battlegrounds. Flat tracks and short tracks were where he shone, carving out steady 17th-place finishes that, in his world, counted as small victories. The road courses, though — those were his undoing. Twenty-third place, give or take, was the norm there. He didn’t have the rhythm for them, or maybe the patience. But every driver has a track that gets in their head.

When you look at the record, you can measure Warren’s career in miles and money. But to understand it, you have to measure it in grit — in the stubborn belief that even if you weren’t the fastest, you still belonged out there, engine roaring, chasing something just beyond the next turn.

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Frank Warren

Frank Warren, Riverside Turn Six



Marty Robbins and Frank Warren - Magnum Force