growing up in southern california in the 70s was a gearhead's dream come true. but before that, we lived in northern california, and i was just too young to drive. my best buddy lived in schellville, an unincorporated area just south of sonoma. we'd sleep outside in his backyard, and listen to the street races all night long. that happens to be where the race scene in american graffiti was filmed. we moved to socal, and i started driving and racing. every weekend we raced. the local scene in santa barbara was hopping. cruising state street all night long, the burger joints would be packed with local legends and their cars. my first hotrod was a 69 satellite wagon with a 318 i built in my parent's garage. it had a street hemi cam, headers, a holley 600, 4:10s, and a 3000 stall converter. the preferred local race venue was highway 217, which went from hwy 101, to the beach and ucsb. divided 4 lane highway as flat and smooth as, well, a dragstrip. the return lanes had a 1/4 mile stretch marked for our convenience and enjoyment. a white starting line (marked start, for the neophytes), and a red line EXACTLY 1/4 mile down the road marked "finish". that's where all the big local races went down. we were very organized. there was an area the police would gather in anticipation of a busy night, and if they were there, we'd eschew racing for the moment. we'd meet at the beach for a "drivers meeting", and agree on starting line protocol, and egress protocol, should the need arise. if we were feeling like a road trip, we'd go down to ventura, where the big guys were. some would come up from los angeles, and a lot were on trailers. the bean fields west of town were the place. rose, and rice ave. there was a dairy queen in the middle of the bean fields, with divided road, and a stop light thoughtfully erected for the sole purpose of facilitating our shenanigans. the police would be lurking in the shadows, but, as long as we adhered to "the code of common sense", they'd leave us alone. if someone did something stupid, the police would descend upon us with a great vengeance, and we would disperse immediately, if not sooner. by that time i had a nitrous injected 340 duster, and was the only car i (or anyone else for that matter) knew of that had nitrous. i was hailed as the "mad scientist" of the bunch. the car was untouchable with fresh spark plugs and a full bottle. it ran 12s, which was super fast back then. it was undefeated, and i refused to race for money. most of the "heavies" thought that strange, but, really, i think the thrill of street racing was such that involving money would dilute the experience for me. and of course, there were the buffoons screaming for a "race for pinks". i'd jeer, telling them i didn't want their car, i just wanted to race! my boys are grown men now, and i feel free to share (some) of my adventures with them. and when we watch "american graffiti", i tell them, with maybe just a little wetness in the eyes, "yes, it was just like that."