One Sunday, I drove the ’39 to the drag races at Great Meadows with Rich. There was a double row of cars on the way in, and the guys in the car along side of us were passing a bag of chips around. Rich conned them into passing the bag over to us, even though they didn’t know us. After we each took a handful, we gave the bag back to them. Rich is the only guy I ever met who could have gotten his hands on those chips without a fight. With a few words, he made friends with four strangers and made them feel like they had known him all their lives.
As we were pulling into the pits, the engine started to miss because the fuel pump push rod got too short. While we were asking around for a washer to shim the push rod, someone offered to tow us home with his pickup. We accepted, not batting an eye at the thought of being towed fifty miles on a nylon tow strap.
As soon as we cleared traffic on the way home, the guy picked up speed to 60 mph and stayed there with us four feet behind him. The roads were rural and traffic was light. I was almost used to the danger when his brake lights came on. I locked up my brakes to avoid rear ending him, then I saw why he used his. There was a six foot section of dirt road where some repairs had been made. He was already back on the gas and pulling me sideways. I let off the brake slowly and the car straightened out without pulling either his hitch or my bumper off. We got home without any more scares. He refused payment for gas and thrills, and left. I never saw him again, but he gave us the ride of our lives.
Instead of replacing the fuel pump and rod, I told my father that the engine would not run (technically true) and that I had to replace it (a whopper). Bob Best, a friend who lived in Watchung, had a couple of engines stored in his garage, a 331” Chrysler Hemi and a 264” Nailhead Buick from a ’55 Special. Since the Hemi was 8” wider across the valve covers, I decided to put the Buick in the coupe. I knew that Buick engines were bulletproof and plentiful. Most importantly, I also knew that they cost less than half of what a belly button motor or a Hemi cost. What I didn’t know was that the starter was high on the left side, right where the Ford steering box wants to be. Olds engines had the same problem, but the Olds starter is mounted in the flywheel cover and aftermarket covers were available to move it. The Buick starter mounted to the block.
Bob’s house was huge. It sat on a forty acre hillside lot with a lake and a field full of brush and small trees. His family employed an English butler who answered the phone “Are you there?” Rich answered “Yeah, I’m here. Are you there?”
Bob had a series of “field cars” which he would use to drive around a rutted trail through the field. As the cars got beat up from hitting trees, he would remove body parts and run the cars until they blew up. One of them was a ’50 Studebaker (a different one) with only the hood and front fender sheet metal left. It had a 4 by 8 sheet of plywood bolted to the bare frame, and a milk crate seat for the driver. The plywood got real slick with mud and there was nothing to hold on to. Bob would drive around the field with the rest of us trying to stay on board as the car bounced around the trail. Eventually one of the brakes locked up, so Bob cut the line with a pair of dikes.
One day the ‘Baker was parked at the top of the hill near the garage. Bob started it, got it rolling forward down the hill with the clutch in and the transmission in reverse. Halfway down the hill, he popped the clutch. Smoke boiled off the tires as the car continued down the hill, slowed and stopped with the tires still spinning backwards. It gradually started to inch back up the hill and gained momentum. About ten feet from the open garage door, Bob got a horrified look on his face as he stepped on the brake and the pedal went to the floor. There was a loud crash as the car hit the cement rear wall of the garage. Rich and I were literally rolling on the ground laughing, not knowing whether we had just witnessed the world’s funniest death. We were able to calm down when Bob staggered out of the garage laughing nearly as hard as we were. When we could stand up, we went into the garage to survey the damage. The top half of the steering wheel was bent 90° toward the back of the car, which started us laughing all over again.
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