I wrote this when I was 19, I'm 27 now. I grew up long after the muscle car era, so here's a glimpse at how those of us who weren't there romance about it. Still to this day, the '68 Charger is and has been my dream car, and truly the most beautiful car ever built. I've felt that way since I was 14, and that's never changed. Hopefully some of you will enjoy it.
It's a late Friday afternoon deep in the summer. I get off work at the shop where I wrench on cars all day and bullshit with the guys for a while before deciding I had best get to the tuning shop to pick up my new Holley 750 double-pumpers so I can get them on in time to cruise the strip tonight. I walk out of the shop and head towards my car which is backed in at an angle against the curb with the wheels turned, yielding an aggressive stance. As I light up a smoke I can't help but smile as I get in and slam the door of my first brand new car-a nasty black 1968 Dodge Charger R/T with a 440 Magnum and a 4-speed. I depress the clutch using all the power in my left leg and crank the key and Detroit's newest brutal bastard roars to life with a snarl like nothing else, and Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower" blasts over the 8-track, competing with the long-duration cam which causes the massive 440 to have an idle that sounds like Hell itself is under attack. I lean over and crank the windows down because it is hotter than **** outside, while I push in the brake pedal as hard as I can-no power brakes or steering on this baby, who needs that ****? Ready to rock and roll I flick my ash out the window and inch the beautiful Mopar forward until I feel the stiff clutch disengage at which point I give her a little throttle as I turn out of the parking lot. Without effort the tires chirp hard around the corner and as I look in my rear-view I see two puffs of blue smoke come off the tires.
Another nasty Mopar is now officially on the streets pounding the pavement right alongside the rest of Detroit's muscle. It's the summer of '68. Horsepower is king, fuel is cheap, and cruising the strip all night with a few clandestine romps into the darkness is what America's youth lives for. I've been saving for a Mopar since I graduated high school in 1966 and after two years I managed to save my dimes and get together $800 to put down on the $3,600 price of admission to owning one of these mean motherfuckers. I've had the car two weeks but already I've voided the warranty by de-arching the leaf springs, adding traction bars, ditching the dual pipes for open headers dumping right under the firewall, and now I'm about to allow the 440 to take deeper breaths and burn more fuel with the new Holley carbs and Edelbrock intake.
I get to the shop and shoot the **** with those guys too; I graduated high school with a few of them and they always get me a hookup on my parts. Buddy has a Marina Blue '67 Camaro RS/SS with a hot 350 under the hood. He's been turning low 11's at the drag strip on slicks and he's been handing more than one Mustang its *** out at the illegals late at night. Dennis has a '66 Plymouth Satellite-he got it as a graduation gift from his parents. He wanted to enlist and go to 'Nam and fight alongide lots of the other guys we went to school with but his parents told him they would get him a new car of his choice after graduation if he promised not to enlist. I like Dennis because he's a Mopar guy like me, and a B-Body Mopar guy at that. Back in high school we used to bench race different Mopars all the time at lunch always lusting over the day when we too would race them for real. Those days are now here and we revel in them. We continue to bullshit for a while bragging about our wins almost contest-like to see who has the biggest dick when we recall the last time we saw John, who also worked at the tuning shop. Last we saw him was a Saturday a couple months back. He had just picked up a '63 split-window 'Vette that morning and that same night he was found dead in the car after wrapping it around a telephone pole. The cops said he was doing about 140 M.P.H. at the time while racing a '65 Barracuda but looking at what was left of the car it looked like he was going faster than that. A little more somber than when I arrived, I decide it's a good time to get my parts and head out. I still have to put these parts on, tune, wash my baby and pick up my girl so we can hit the local A&W hotdog joint for dogs and rootbeer floats before sizing up the strip and matching up for the illegals out in the country.
I get home after an impromptu run at a light with a '68 Mustang G.T. with a little 289 in it. I beat the snot out of it and laid two 100 foot tracks in the process. I pull in my driveway and open the heavy slab of a hood on the steel-bodied car. I stick my fender covers over the fenders and front end so as to not scratch the beautiful single-stage black paint. I get to work and within an hour the new intake and double-pumpers are in place. I tune by ear and adjust the throttle linkage properly. I take it for a spin around the block and my seat-of-the-pants-dyno tells me I've just picked up twenty horsepower-bitchin'. I bring her around the block back into the driveway. I start with the inside, making sure to Armor-All every dash surface and condition the black vinyl seats before vaccuuming the carpet. Inside clean, I pull out the soap and massage the crisp, sleek lines of the Charger with my soft soapy sponge and as I flood the surface of the hood with water I see it beads off immediately. I spend considerable time polishing my Cragars; the iconic aftermarket mag wheel of the era, there isn't a single muscle car running any rims other than chrome 15-inch Cragar S/S wheels shod with B.F. Goodrich Radial T/A white letter tires-and I got my set, with fat 285s all around.
I finish up and shower. Like the sun slipping over the horizon, I slip behind the wheel of my clean Charger knowing that the sunset is reflecting in the gorgeous mile-deep black paint and my shiny Cragars are only drawing more attention as I cruise towards my girl Mary's house. I pull in the driveway and honk and her old man gives me a smile of approval as he continues to mow the lawn. Mary comes skipping out from the garage and waves and smiles while her mom gives me the standard look of disgust. Partially because it's just me, and partially because I'm picking her daughter up in a car that would make even her old dried up pussy moisten her panties for the first time in fifteen years. She's never really trusted me, especially since John's accident and especially now that I've gone to the dealer and picked my poison. It doesn't matter to me though as long as her pops is fond of me which he seems to be. He's got an appreciation for wheels-I mean ****, the guy's got a '53 Corvette. Mary told me that when he came back from Korea it was the first thing he bought even though her mom was totally against it. Once in a while I'll come over and while I'm waiting for Mary to get ready her old man will crack a few beers with me and tell me stories of what he saw while fighting in Korea while I help him wrench on the 'Vette. I can't ask for a cooler guy to have as my girlfriend's dad.
Mary hops in my car and gives me a big hug and a kiss. I light up another smoke and we start heading towards the strip where the A&W is. We pull in among a parking lot filled with horsepower. I find a spot to stick my B-Body right inbetween a '68 Roadrunner and a '65 Belvedere. The little brunette carhop comes out on rollerskates to take our order and tells me I have a nice ride while she smacks her gum and winks at me. I order four dogs with ketchup and two floats which costs $1.50. The carhop winks at me again and skates away making sure to shake that little *** in its short pleated skirt as she passes in front of the car. In the meantime we all pop our hoods and walk around checking out each other's machines and we all talk a little smack to one another. A little while later the food comes so we go back to the car and eat it. Once finished we fire up the 440 and it vibrates in the frame so much that Mary and I can feel it in our chests. The engine produces so much torque that when I rev it, it tries to twist itself out of the frame so the engine has two large chains connecting its block to the driver's side frame rail. With each rev the chains pull taut. Totally badass.
We cruise the strip for a couple hours just like something out of "Grease." Yelling back and forth between cars is difficult because of how loud every car is. No doubt every car is running illegal setups, my own included with the open headers but the cops don't give a ****-this is 1968. Cops turn a blind eye to this stuff because most all of them ******* love it just as much as any other self-respecting man, and half of them have Detroit iron in the garage at home as well. Although, the man does try to put us down when we are out at the drags late at night.
It's a late Friday afternoon deep in the summer. I get off work at the shop where I wrench on cars all day and bullshit with the guys for a while before deciding I had best get to the tuning shop to pick up my new Holley 750 double-pumpers so I can get them on in time to cruise the strip tonight. I walk out of the shop and head towards my car which is backed in at an angle against the curb with the wheels turned, yielding an aggressive stance. As I light up a smoke I can't help but smile as I get in and slam the door of my first brand new car-a nasty black 1968 Dodge Charger R/T with a 440 Magnum and a 4-speed. I depress the clutch using all the power in my left leg and crank the key and Detroit's newest brutal bastard roars to life with a snarl like nothing else, and Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower" blasts over the 8-track, competing with the long-duration cam which causes the massive 440 to have an idle that sounds like Hell itself is under attack. I lean over and crank the windows down because it is hotter than **** outside, while I push in the brake pedal as hard as I can-no power brakes or steering on this baby, who needs that ****? Ready to rock and roll I flick my ash out the window and inch the beautiful Mopar forward until I feel the stiff clutch disengage at which point I give her a little throttle as I turn out of the parking lot. Without effort the tires chirp hard around the corner and as I look in my rear-view I see two puffs of blue smoke come off the tires.
Another nasty Mopar is now officially on the streets pounding the pavement right alongside the rest of Detroit's muscle. It's the summer of '68. Horsepower is king, fuel is cheap, and cruising the strip all night with a few clandestine romps into the darkness is what America's youth lives for. I've been saving for a Mopar since I graduated high school in 1966 and after two years I managed to save my dimes and get together $800 to put down on the $3,600 price of admission to owning one of these mean motherfuckers. I've had the car two weeks but already I've voided the warranty by de-arching the leaf springs, adding traction bars, ditching the dual pipes for open headers dumping right under the firewall, and now I'm about to allow the 440 to take deeper breaths and burn more fuel with the new Holley carbs and Edelbrock intake.
I get to the shop and shoot the **** with those guys too; I graduated high school with a few of them and they always get me a hookup on my parts. Buddy has a Marina Blue '67 Camaro RS/SS with a hot 350 under the hood. He's been turning low 11's at the drag strip on slicks and he's been handing more than one Mustang its *** out at the illegals late at night. Dennis has a '66 Plymouth Satellite-he got it as a graduation gift from his parents. He wanted to enlist and go to 'Nam and fight alongide lots of the other guys we went to school with but his parents told him they would get him a new car of his choice after graduation if he promised not to enlist. I like Dennis because he's a Mopar guy like me, and a B-Body Mopar guy at that. Back in high school we used to bench race different Mopars all the time at lunch always lusting over the day when we too would race them for real. Those days are now here and we revel in them. We continue to bullshit for a while bragging about our wins almost contest-like to see who has the biggest dick when we recall the last time we saw John, who also worked at the tuning shop. Last we saw him was a Saturday a couple months back. He had just picked up a '63 split-window 'Vette that morning and that same night he was found dead in the car after wrapping it around a telephone pole. The cops said he was doing about 140 M.P.H. at the time while racing a '65 Barracuda but looking at what was left of the car it looked like he was going faster than that. A little more somber than when I arrived, I decide it's a good time to get my parts and head out. I still have to put these parts on, tune, wash my baby and pick up my girl so we can hit the local A&W hotdog joint for dogs and rootbeer floats before sizing up the strip and matching up for the illegals out in the country.
I get home after an impromptu run at a light with a '68 Mustang G.T. with a little 289 in it. I beat the snot out of it and laid two 100 foot tracks in the process. I pull in my driveway and open the heavy slab of a hood on the steel-bodied car. I stick my fender covers over the fenders and front end so as to not scratch the beautiful single-stage black paint. I get to work and within an hour the new intake and double-pumpers are in place. I tune by ear and adjust the throttle linkage properly. I take it for a spin around the block and my seat-of-the-pants-dyno tells me I've just picked up twenty horsepower-bitchin'. I bring her around the block back into the driveway. I start with the inside, making sure to Armor-All every dash surface and condition the black vinyl seats before vaccuuming the carpet. Inside clean, I pull out the soap and massage the crisp, sleek lines of the Charger with my soft soapy sponge and as I flood the surface of the hood with water I see it beads off immediately. I spend considerable time polishing my Cragars; the iconic aftermarket mag wheel of the era, there isn't a single muscle car running any rims other than chrome 15-inch Cragar S/S wheels shod with B.F. Goodrich Radial T/A white letter tires-and I got my set, with fat 285s all around.
I finish up and shower. Like the sun slipping over the horizon, I slip behind the wheel of my clean Charger knowing that the sunset is reflecting in the gorgeous mile-deep black paint and my shiny Cragars are only drawing more attention as I cruise towards my girl Mary's house. I pull in the driveway and honk and her old man gives me a smile of approval as he continues to mow the lawn. Mary comes skipping out from the garage and waves and smiles while her mom gives me the standard look of disgust. Partially because it's just me, and partially because I'm picking her daughter up in a car that would make even her old dried up pussy moisten her panties for the first time in fifteen years. She's never really trusted me, especially since John's accident and especially now that I've gone to the dealer and picked my poison. It doesn't matter to me though as long as her pops is fond of me which he seems to be. He's got an appreciation for wheels-I mean ****, the guy's got a '53 Corvette. Mary told me that when he came back from Korea it was the first thing he bought even though her mom was totally against it. Once in a while I'll come over and while I'm waiting for Mary to get ready her old man will crack a few beers with me and tell me stories of what he saw while fighting in Korea while I help him wrench on the 'Vette. I can't ask for a cooler guy to have as my girlfriend's dad.
Mary hops in my car and gives me a big hug and a kiss. I light up another smoke and we start heading towards the strip where the A&W is. We pull in among a parking lot filled with horsepower. I find a spot to stick my B-Body right inbetween a '68 Roadrunner and a '65 Belvedere. The little brunette carhop comes out on rollerskates to take our order and tells me I have a nice ride while she smacks her gum and winks at me. I order four dogs with ketchup and two floats which costs $1.50. The carhop winks at me again and skates away making sure to shake that little *** in its short pleated skirt as she passes in front of the car. In the meantime we all pop our hoods and walk around checking out each other's machines and we all talk a little smack to one another. A little while later the food comes so we go back to the car and eat it. Once finished we fire up the 440 and it vibrates in the frame so much that Mary and I can feel it in our chests. The engine produces so much torque that when I rev it, it tries to twist itself out of the frame so the engine has two large chains connecting its block to the driver's side frame rail. With each rev the chains pull taut. Totally badass.
We cruise the strip for a couple hours just like something out of "Grease." Yelling back and forth between cars is difficult because of how loud every car is. No doubt every car is running illegal setups, my own included with the open headers but the cops don't give a ****-this is 1968. Cops turn a blind eye to this stuff because most all of them ******* love it just as much as any other self-respecting man, and half of them have Detroit iron in the garage at home as well. Although, the man does try to put us down when we are out at the drags late at night.
