this way about their car?Mad Mike
Moparts Member
Posts: 910
From: Asheville, NC
Registered: Jul 2000
About a Car
“Melissa”
Slick blood flows faster,
as she prepares to run.
Leaning forward in a loaded stance,
her pulse races as she waits for the gun.
Breathing in the cool morning air,
adrenaline rushes to fill a primal need.
Souls meeting pavement, and body leaping forward,
she breathes harder and louder, driving herself onward.
The surroundings rush by in a blur,
though nowhere near her fastest speed.
Her sleek form cuts through the air like a knife,
exhaling poisons and breathing in life.
Finally settling into a comfortable speed,
she is my travel companion, my trusty steed.
Tell any of my friends I once wrote a decent poem; they would say you’re crazy.
Tell them you are serious; they would say it must be about my car then.
They would be right.
I wrote that poem on rainy night in Greenville, South Carolina. I had finished talking to my friends after work and left to go home before the rain hit. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off a little in front of my friends. I slowly pulled onto the street and then buried the gas pedal. Smoke rolled out the wheel wells as the engine screamed to life and my car and I shot down the road. Still running wide open, I shifted into second gear with a satisfying chirp from the tires. Feeling I had adequately alerted everyone including the police to our presence, I let off the gas and settled back down to the speed limit giving her a reassuring pat on the dashboard.
Driving my car always seems to make things seem right with the world and I decided to take my time getting home. Skipping the interstate route I knew, my trusty old car “Melissa” and I rolled through the outskirts of town into the night. No radio, just the mellow sound of her exhaust, the smell of night air, and the occasional glimpse of her reflection in a plate glass window as we passed. I was in a totally unfamiliar part of town now but each new turn just seemed like the right road to be on. It was almost as if she were leading the way like a trained horse from a spaghetti western. I started to worry about being pulled as we cruised into more crowded areas. I had slowed down to what would be a suspicious speed because of the rain combined with looking for road signs and plate glass windows that would give me another glimpse of my car . I smelled like booze and smoke from the concert I had been at and while I was fine to drive I didn’t feel like the hassle of explaining myself if I was pulled over. Somehow we made it how without looking suspicious enough to harass and I pulled her up to the curb and turned off the ignition.
As I made my way back to my apartment I thought of what a fun and reliable car she had been for six years, and how much I wished I had a garage to keep her in out of the rain. I stopped in the rain to look back at her I realized that she had become more than just a car to me. She was a loyal friend who was always there when I needed to drive out my problems, and rain or no rain she would be there in the morning happy to go for another ride with me.
The first time I saw “my car” was on a trip in high school. Riding down the interstate on the bus a car beside us suddenly caught my eye. It was big, flashy, and made no apologies for being bright yellow with orange stripes. It slid casually by the bus, never changing speed or the low tone that came from its exhaust. The sun shone off the mirror-like paint and etched the image of it in my mind. I had no idea what R/T stood for, or even what company had made the beast, but I knew right then I had to have one. Over the next four years I found out it was a Dodge Challenger, and the taillights and distinctive stripe made it a 1971. The R/T stood for Road and Track, the performance model of this particular line, and it was one of the last of Chrysler Corporation’s muscle cars. I could go on and on about my car, and I will later, but I’m not really writing this to describe every detail. I’m putting my thoughts down about why a car can become more than that to some people, and how it’s a bond much like friendship.
My friends all own cars and like them; they just don’t have a desire to spend countless hours detailing, waxing, vacuuming, and polishing one. They certainly don’t have the obsession to take things apart, like the engine or interior, and put them back together every couple of years. And I’m pretty sure none of them ever wrote a poem about their car. They don’t mind in mine, even though the loud exhaust makes conversation nearly impossible. Some have even come with me to car shows, though really more to hang out with me than enjoy the cars. But there is always a blank look on their face when I start talking about camshaft profiles, gear ratios, and compression. Despite influencing each other for almost twenty years, none of them ever developed a passion for cars like I have over the years. But all in all, my friends support my addiction.
And it really has been an addiction since I found out exactly what kind of car I had seen from my seat on the school bus that day. I kept my eye open for one but soon realized how rare these cars are. After two years of searching I found one in Old Fort North Carolina and went to investigate. It was Arrest Me red, with a new interior, an engine compartment you could eat lunch off of, and a motor that purred like a very large kitten. It wasn’t a high performance model but that could be changed. Without even trying to bargain I paid the cash, which I really didn’t have at the time, and our story began. She told me her name was Melissa and she looked like a fine car. I was very wrong about everything but the name.
Within a year the paint was flaking, the carburetor had stopped bureting, the starter refused to start, the timing chain no longer timed, and the transmission wouldn’t transmit. I knew nothing about how to work on cars but learned fast. Repairing “minor problems,” as I think of them now, taught me a lot about machines in general and how to work on them. And in the process of looking for help I made many new friends who share my fascination with old cars, and one or two who also name theirs and have the kind of bond I have with Melissa. Aside from these “minor repairs”, Melissa proved to be a reliable mode of transportation for six years. And like any good friend she was there through all of my good and bad times. However, years of daily driving took a toll on her and I eventually had to do something about it.
Many people consider six years of owning a car a good run, and rush to trade up to something newer and shinier. These people will probably never understand what it means to have a car like Melissa. I said my friends support me, but many people in my life haven’t been as understanding. My parents don’t understand why I drive a car that only gets 9 miles per gallon. Granted, it is impractical when today’s cars get two to three times that, but it’s a fun nine miles. An ex-girlfriend never wanted to ride in “the loud car”, but conversation with her was pretty boring anyway. People with new cars can’t understand how I could put up with constantly having to work on one to keep it tuned; of course these people pay thirty grand for the luxury of having a warranty. Employers worry that it’s not reliable because of its age. I had a new car once; it spent more time in the shop than my old one. And of course there are the people who blame my car for all of the world’s pollution. These are same people who trade cars yearly to buy a newer more efficient and shinier model; I guess they assume their old car just evaporates into a puff of ozone friendly smoke. Sadly some people will never experience the joy of having a classic.
Two years ago I pulled out my wrenches and started taking things apart. A week later I had a shell of a car and a very crowded one bedroom apartment. Melissa sat outside with no trim or interior and a set of ratty tires. My kitchen however now had two extra bucket seats and a bench seat from the rear, in case I had extra company. A pile of chrome resided under my couch and you had to lean around the stack of new rims and tires to see the television. The bathtub became a parts-cleaner, and the kitchen table became a workbench for tedious jobs like repainting the details of the grill and taillights. Around the house, bottles of various paints, polishes, and cleaners rounded out my décor; it’s a wonder the EPA doesn’t have a warrant out for me. Meanwhile my car was getting a makeover in the next town. I liked her the way she was, but I had never gotten the image of the yellow and red R/T out of my mind. So when it came time to decide on paint I choose Viper Dandelion Yellow, the brightest I could find, and red stripes to go with it. The whole process took three times as long and cost twice as much as I had planned, but a year later I finally had my dream car.
So why go to so much trouble for something that’s just a car? I know the answer to that every time I step out of a store into a crowded parking lot. I never have to wonder which car is mine. I can always see Melissa standing out like a flower in a weed bed. In a sea of aerodynamic forest green sedans, she is a work of art, a relic from a time when cars were an expression of designers who cared more about lines and shapes than making a car conform to a standard mold set by the companies marketing department. She stands out as a reminder of a time when engineers believed in making cars that the average person could at least maintain on their own. An old car is something you can actually work on with your own hands instead of having to add bills from expensive, specialized mechanics to the cost of ownership. Though she looks much different with her new paint, and a bigger engine sits in the engine bay, a ride around the block or across the state still has the same effect on me that the first drive up Old Fort Mountain did almost nine years ago.
So, to the people who don’t understand why anyone would write a poem about their car, try to accept that owning a classic isn’t about efficiency or practicality. It’s about the feeling of revving up an engine and knowing how every piece inside works because you put each part there with your own two hands. It’s that the sound of a roaring exhaust isn’t noise to us, but music from that same motor telling us we did everything right. It’s the belief that tuning a carburetor or replacing a starter is not an annoying grimy chore, but a labor of love in return for faithful service. And that while there may be cleaner running cars on the road, we as restorers and hot rodders were some of the first to embrace the concept of recycling in the form of our cars. And lastly, that to us a car is not just a machine, but a work of art to be appreciated and preserved like any other.
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GSH4
Moparts Member
Posts: 195
From: Wasilla , Alaska
Registered: Jan 2002
posted 11-01-2002 01:33 PM
That car is awesome , I see why you write poems about her!!!
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69Satellite
Moparts Member
Posts: 1068
From: Los Angeles, CA
Registered: Apr 2001
posted 11-01-2002 01:33 PM
I felt (still feel) similarly about my 69 Sport Satellite. No matter what went wrong I could always count on a drive in that car to make me feel better. It's a 2dr no post Alpine white, red bucket interior with a/c so I'd roll all the windows down put some Derek and the Dominoes or Eagles on and roll on down the highway (btw I'm only 20). Unfortunately I'm looking for a new candidate as I got smacked from behind while I was stopped at 50mph by some SUV bozo trying to make a stoplight which pushed me into the car in front. "Butch" as he is affectionately called took the beating and is definitely totaled. He's still sitting in the driveway since we can't do anything with him yet. All was going well sitting under his bright blue California Car Cover until someone stole the cover a few days ago. It breaks my heart everytime I go out there and see the front and rear all mangeld up. All the defining lines, the face, everything are wrong. Bother my girlfriend almost as much as me since that has been my only car witness to several important events such as first date, first kiss, anniversaries, etc. Well, now that I've gotten that off my chest and bored everybody death I think it's time to do my daily car hunting routine.
Peace,
Chris
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Procuda 440
Moparts Member
Posts: 339
From: Henderson, NV
Registered: Apr 2002
posted 11-01-2002 01:41 PM
Very well said.....That is one sweet Challenger you have there!
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69DartGT360
Moparts Member
Posts: 3285
From: State College PA.
Registered: Apr 2000
posted 11-01-2002 01:42 PM
Congrats on writing THE single longest post I have ever seen on moparts......
BTW, Sweet pic of your challenger...
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stroked470
Moparts Member
Posts: 255
From: white house, tn US
Registered: Nov 2000
posted 11-01-2002 01:47 PM
I think someone needs a Girlfriend real bad.
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caraholic
New Member
Posts: 82
From: Georgetown, TX 78626
Registered: Jan 2002
posted 11-01-2002 01:50 PM
Awesome
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