I spend more time than I care to admit on the Grassroots Motorsports Forum, a wide-ranging community of characters – from engineers, to car-builders, to professional racers – united by their fanatical devotion to anything and everything car-related.
Recently, I read with great interest a topic called "Who Helped You" where members shared fond memories of afternoons spent learning the mysteries of wrenching – passed down by infinitely patient teachers.
For most, that teacher was their father. Since mine, a Cambridge-educated, war-decorated fighter pilot who once raced MGs in his native Britain, took his leave of us before my seventh birthday, that role fell to my older brother.
Looking back, it's easy to see that my brother and his muscle cars had a profound effect on me. It's only now, years later, that I realize how much they really symbolized – freedom, not only in sense of strength and purity of speed, but escape from the unhappiness inherent in the adolescence of a lumpen, uncool kid .
My brother, with his good looks, agile brain and charm was an icon, an idol to me. His return at the end of a summer employment term was usually heralded by the rumble of a big-block motor and leaky exhaust... generally in some need of repair. A brash Mach I Mustang in faded British Racing Green, conspicuously bold with black racing stripes and swoopy louvered fastback.
Equal parts bondo and bravado, a Camaro RS with blacked-out grille backfired and belched its way briefly into our lives; a battered, yet still cocky street fighter. But the car that won my heart was a bad-ass, black streak of big-block attitude – a 1972 GTO with 455 HO motor, Muncie gearbox and Hurst shifter.
All were painstakingly disassembled, parts were cleaned and scrubbed and if need be, replaced. Ralph Nader be damned – a wheezy, faded-blue Corvair provided many hours of tinkering bliss to an accompanying soundtrack of CCR and Suite Judy Blue Eyes.
To my adoring pre-adolescent eyes, trying to understand the mystery of how it all went together, trying to help and above all, not to be a pain in the ass and risk banishment, those cars represented everything that I wasn't and desperately wanted to be.
They were part of my brother's world, they were strength and speed, they were unapologetically unrefined and unsophisticated yet beautiful... and to a pudgy introverted kid, they were the epitome of cool.
Although primarily a symbol and a reason for bonding with my brother, a love of cars was born that endures to this day. The rudimentary skills I learned at his workbench have grown to encompass all the general maintenance needs of my small fleet.
Although I will never learn to fine-tune a carburetor with his finesse, I can change cap, rotor and spark plugs on a big V8 without messing up the firing order, swap out oxygen sensors (with all the appropriate multi-syllable foul language) and once built most of a hot Mopar 360 on an engine stand in the mudroom off my kitchen.
It's been decades since I turned a wrench with my brother. But last month, he and the infamous "Goat", that GTO of my wistful adolescent dreams, headed out to their summer home just a short trip north of me. A long-overdue restoration is in the plans –my ratchets and I will be there.
Recently, I read with great interest a topic called "Who Helped You" where members shared fond memories of afternoons spent learning the mysteries of wrenching – passed down by infinitely patient teachers.
For most, that teacher was their father. Since mine, a Cambridge-educated, war-decorated fighter pilot who once raced MGs in his native Britain, took his leave of us before my seventh birthday, that role fell to my older brother.
Looking back, it's easy to see that my brother and his muscle cars had a profound effect on me. It's only now, years later, that I realize how much they really symbolized – freedom, not only in sense of strength and purity of speed, but escape from the unhappiness inherent in the adolescence of a lumpen, uncool kid .
 |
| Phoro: David Newhardt/Ford |
My brother, with his good looks, agile brain and charm was an icon, an idol to me. His return at the end of a summer employment term was usually heralded by the rumble of a big-block motor and leaky exhaust... generally in some need of repair. A brash Mach I Mustang in faded British Racing Green, conspicuously bold with black racing stripes and swoopy louvered fastback.
Equal parts bondo and bravado, a Camaro RS with blacked-out grille backfired and belched its way briefly into our lives; a battered, yet still cocky street fighter. But the car that won my heart was a bad-ass, black streak of big-block attitude – a 1972 GTO with 455 HO motor, Muncie gearbox and Hurst shifter.
All were painstakingly disassembled, parts were cleaned and scrubbed and if need be, replaced. Ralph Nader be damned – a wheezy, faded-blue Corvair provided many hours of tinkering bliss to an accompanying soundtrack of CCR and Suite Judy Blue Eyes.
To my adoring pre-adolescent eyes, trying to understand the mystery of how it all went together, trying to help and above all, not to be a pain in the ass and risk banishment, those cars represented everything that I wasn't and desperately wanted to be.
They were part of my brother's world, they were strength and speed, they were unapologetically unrefined and unsophisticated yet beautiful... and to a pudgy introverted kid, they were the epitome of cool.
Although primarily a symbol and a reason for bonding with my brother, a love of cars was born that endures to this day. The rudimentary skills I learned at his workbench have grown to encompass all the general maintenance needs of my small fleet.
Although I will never learn to fine-tune a carburetor with his finesse, I can change cap, rotor and spark plugs on a big V8 without messing up the firing order, swap out oxygen sensors (with all the appropriate multi-syllable foul language) and once built most of a hot Mopar 360 on an engine stand in the mudroom off my kitchen.
It's been decades since I turned a wrench with my brother. But last month, he and the infamous "Goat", that GTO of my wistful adolescent dreams, headed out to their summer home just a short trip north of me. A long-overdue restoration is in the plans –my ratchets and I will be there.