C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
A distant cloud of dark smoke caught Benny Collins' attention as he, Brenda and Milt were nearing Stockton on a Saturday afternoon in late August. The trio had recently returned from their vacation on horseback exploring the more remote reaches of the Milto ranch and were now off to see a movie at the town cinema. They were also hoping to renew acquaintance with their friends, whom they had not seen for awhile. Milt's parents had left home early on this day for a trip to the city so Ben and Brenda had asked the rancher's daughter to accompany them; Milt had been feeling quite blue since her good friend, Tom O'Brien, had returned to the East.
“Somethin's going on up ahead,” Ben said as he coaxed a few more RPM's out of the little six cylinder engine of his 52 Chevy pickup.
Two vehicles were parked side by side facing opposite directions at an approach to the paved highway where it curved by Stockton's north and east quadrants. Several people were standing along the roadside; one holding a white homemade flag.
“Oh!” Brenda cried. “It must be a drag race!”
“Yeah!” Ben said, pushing the truck a little harder, “and they're waiting for us to clear the track!”
The '52 sped past the bystanders who waved exuberantly as they recognized Ben's pickup. A crude 'FINISH' with broad underline had been printed in large green letters across the road. One quarter of a mile further along, the same paint had been used to inscribe 'START'. Here, a considerably larger crowd of people and vehicles occupied the ditches and shoulders on either side of the highway; an impressive collection of brilliantly coloured late model muscle cars held the foreground. Ben slowed and steered the truck down onto the grass- bottomed boulevard between the road and the embankment of the Canadian Pacific Railway tracks. After manipulating the old Chevrolet around to park facing the action, he and the girls hopped out where they were greeted by more friends.
The source of the smoke Ben had seen was a bright yellow Pontiac GTO whose driver had been 'hot braking' the vehicle to warm up the tires and likely fuelling his own testosterone as well. A second car rolled up to the START line beside the GTO. For a better view, Ben and the girls climbed into the back of the '52. They were soon joined by twins, Shaun and Dennis Miller, the latter carrying a partially consumed box of beer. The pair immediately took command of the conversation, supplying a steady stream of commentary about auto racing. Though not polished veterans of the sound booth, they seemed to have plenty of facts regarding the assortment of muscle cars and their respective drivers from the surrounding area.
Shaun, using a beer bottle as a microphone, announced, “Here we have the Pontiac GTO; for the ladies, that's the yellow car. It has a hot little 396 CID,” aside he said to Brenda and Milt, “that's cubic inch displacement,” then resumed his commentary, “that turns on right smartly. It is owned and driven by Dale Frieburg from up the line somewhere.”
Speaking into his own long neck 'mike,' Dennis interrupted. “These boys,” he waved an arm indicating the string of fast cars parked beyond the improvised start line, “from the bridge crew have too much money. The local dealers can't fill orders for cars quick enough to outfit them all.”
Shaun said, “And the Road Runner that has just pulled up to the line…”
“Also owned by a bridge construction worker, but he's a local, so that's okay.”
“…That's the blue car, has a 383 engine with plenty of horses, all of them ready to run, under the hood of that baby. Stockton's native son Martin Anderson drives that unit.”
Dennis added, “If that Plymouth had the 426 Hemi, we could all go home without watching the race…. But it will be a classic match today and I'm giving even beer on the GTO.”
“Well, the GTO is the more comfortable vehicle, I'll admit. Martin's Road Runner doesn't even have carpet on the floor. She's a bare bones, no frills machine, but that drive train is nothing to sneeze at. I'll bet….one brown buffalo, on the Plymouth.”
“A brown buffalo?” Milt asked.
Dennis held his beer bottle so the 'Calgary' label with its distinctive buffalo head could be seen.
“Oh, a brown buffalo.”
“Want one?” Shaun offered.
Brenda said, “She's too young and so are you two!”
“Can Benny have one, Mrs. Collins?” Dennis asked.
“Watch it, Dennis,” Shaun said. “They aren't married yet.”
Benny accepted the offered bottle, saying, “They're waving the flag at the far end so the highway must be clear.”
“And here we go, ladies and gentlemen,” Shaun announced as the flagman on the start line waved in turn, “They're off!”
“That's horse racing, Shaun,” Dennis broke in over the screaming tires and revving engines.
“She's a close one…” Shaun shouted, “the GTO has the jump off the line… he's holding on… but watch now, that little blue Road Runner is opening up….
Then Dennis yelled as the blue streak edged past the yellow, “Beep-Beep! The Road Runner took him out. I'll have that buffalo, thank you very much.”
“Speaking of Beep-Beep, Dodge paid fifty thousand bucks for the right to stick that little bird decal on the side of those Plymouths.”
“Anyone at that end running a stop watch?” Ben asked.
“I hope so,” Shaun said, “I'll bet that was close to the fourteen second mark.”
“Here comes Steven Herschell with that orange Cyclone of his,” Dennis spoke into his microphone as one of the muscle cars cued along the shoulder emerged. “Another one of the boys from up the line, making his future on the bridge crew.”
“That's a nice little piece of work, too, if you like Fords, and can tolerate the colour. Those hood pins on that unit aren't for show either because that 390 can really turn in some fast quarter-mile runs.”
“Not in the same league as what we've just witnessed,” Dennis argued. “I wonder who will challenge him?”
The answer arrived in the form of a 'Bolero Red', '67 Chevelle SS and the match up would have been close ?the twin's odds favouring the Chevy? but a missed second to third shift gave the Cyclone a long lonely lead across the green finish line. The racers burned off more rubber as they performed smoking, screeching 180 degree turns, and headed back to the crowd around the Start line.
“Now we have the GTO challenging the Chevelle,” Dennis pointed out. “I'll go a Buffalo on the Chevelle if Honker doesn't blow the shift again.”
Shaun said, “Honker wouldn't miss two shifts in the same weekend so I'll side with the SS in this go-round, too.”
The Miller boys were accurate in their assessment of Honker and his car for, when they crossed the line, the red Chevelle had its bumper and half a front fender ahead of the yellow GTO.
The Cyclone lost by more than a length to the Road Runner and the Millers' supply of microphones were dwindling when a late arrival came sifting down the highway from the north west.
“Hey! That's that Richardson kid from up the line… his dad owns the Chev dealership up in Landsdale.”
“Look at that car!” Shaun interrupted his brother. “That kid has too much money and he doesn't even work on the bridge crew! That's the new Camaro RS, folks….brand new for '68!”
“Kind of a puke green, though,” Dennis added, his tone matching the colour.
“The hottest machine this country will ever see, I'll bet! General Motors brag that it is 'a small vicious animal that eats Mustangs'!”
“Only one Ford here today and that 390 took second behind the Road Runner. Now it looks like Martin is going to match the Plymouth against the Camaro.”
Benny growled, “I hope the Road Runner cleans that Camaro. I don't like that Richardson kid. Never did.”
Brenda put her hand on Benny's bare forearm. “I think he knows what you think, Ben, ever since you rearranged his nose.”
“Well, he's still looking down it most of the time,” Dennis Miller said.
To everyone's dismay, the hot little Camaro convincingly handled the Road Runner, winning by almost a full length.
“Atta go, ass-wipe, you're on a roll!” Shaun hooted at the Camero as Richardson spun a doughnut on the pavement.
“Had him right out of the chute,” Benny grumbled.
“A fine piece of driving, though. You gotta admit the porky little bugger can shift a four speed,” Shaun said.
“Yeah,” Dennis sighed, “but now watch the snobby little bastard ?pardon my language, ladies? the snobby little brat come crowing around here.”
This prediction also proved accurate. When the competitors returned to the start line, Aaron Richardson gloatingly climbed out of the cockpit of his shiny new Camaro. The car instantly drew a crowd of enthusiastic bystanders wanting to check out the famous 'Mustang eater'. The pudgy driver commenced strutting about, taunting the other racers. “Anybody want to take some money off me? How about pink slips, gentleman? Any takers? I don't run this unit for free.”
His circuit led him past Benny's derelict pickup and the youth, showing flabby evidence of a soft life, sneered, “Want to race, Collins? You should be able to shift that three-on-the-tree pretty good by now, you've been driving that old wreck forever. Or maybe you ladies would like to hop in my Camaro and go for a ride with me?”
“Watch your mouth, pus guts,” Benny warned and Milt burst out laughing at the fitting appellation.
Aaron Richardson's ample face blushed scarlet, the first half of a second chin starting to wag but, before he could manage a retort, the crowd was alerted that regular highway traffic was approaching north-bound . “Clear the road!” echoed along the line.
A navy coloured Lincoln Continental slowed as it passed the crowd. Milt recognized the family sedan, her mother at the wheel, but no sign of her father in the car with her. If any of the others recognized Mrs. Milto through the tinted glass, no mention was made. Milt felt certain her mother had seen her. “I wonder where Dad is?” she thought to herself.
The Camaro driver had resumed his bantam strut, although he strategically distanced himself from the hostile group in back of Ben's truck. Ben stubbornly refused to leave the impromptu race track before Aaron Richardson though the girls were urging him to take them into town.
A small red Massey Harris tractor ,with '44' stencilled in yellow on the side, came jouncing down the highway from the north. A farmer wearing grey striped bib overalls and a straw hat sat upon the iron seat. The tractor pulled a heavily loaded hay rack with two energetically waving freckle-faced children perched atop the bales. The amusing combination drew the drag-racing crowd's attention as the outfit rattled past.
No one noticed another vehicle approaching from the southerly direction until it was almost upon them.
The intrepid vehicle could be felt more than heard as it slowly rolled to a deliberate stop at the green Start line. The engine had a deep throaty rumble and, even as it sat idling, the unmistakable sound of unleashed power reverberated under the hood. The windows were darkly shaded and the lone occupant, though discernible, could not be identified. The driver did not seem disposed to roll down a window or step out. He stayed behind the wheel, occasionally lightly revving the rumbling motor. The car was obviously a very recent purchase; its factory fresh paint gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Two broad white stripes began at the top of the polished chrome grille, running parallel down the hood, then along the roof and over the back to terminate at the rear bumper. Complemented by a generous display of chrome, the body of the car shone raven black.
“Ho-o-o-ly Sheee-it!” Dennis Miller bawled. “It's the King of the Road! Look at that! See the KR initials? That's Carroll Shelby's New '68 ½ Cobra Jet Mustang! They are so new the paint ain't even dry!”
Shaun echoed the expletive, “Holy shit! That guy has too much money.” Then he yelled, “Hey, Richardson, have a look at that machine!.”
But Aaron Richardson wasn't listening, his followers were stuffing him into the Camaro.
“This will be the race of all time,” Dennis predicted, forgetting to use his bottle mike. “Right here on the outskirts of Stockton! I wouldn't have believed there would be one of those KR's in Canada, never mind way out here in the sticks.”
Brenda pulled urgently on Ben's arm in attempt to break his mesmeric concentration. “Benny, whose car is it? Who is Carol Shelby?”
Ben could not draw his gaze from the beautiful Mustang, but spoke a slow response, “Carroll Shelby is the guy that built the Cobra a few years ago… but I haven't a clue who is driving this one: if it's the car Dennis and Shaun say it is… and the name is right there, GT500KR,” he pointed, “it is somethin' real special.”
Milt tingled from head to toe in her excitement but managed to say nothing.
The Richardson youth pulled the Camaro up to the line beside the mystery Mustang and aggressively revved his engine. Both drivers awaited the 'all clear' signal from the far end indicating that the racers would have the highway to themselves.
“Wow! Would you look at that match up!” Shaun said, his voice oozing envy. “Chevy planned to produce a King of the Road but Shelby and Ford beat them to it. I wonder if the Cobra Jet will wax Richardson's Camaro today?”
“Well, it has that big 428 and Carroll Shelby designed the car, so it will move,” Dennis said.
“Ford is saying it only has 335 horsepower though,” Shaun argued.
“Only 335 horsepower,” Ben repeated..
“Everybody knows that story,” Dennis said. “They had to bill the engine as less powerful because of insane insurance premiums for big horsepower in the States. I'll officially bet the rest of these brown buffalo that the 'small vicious little animal that eats Mustangs' will choke on that horse.”
At that moment, the start flag dropped and the racers vanished as twin plumes of smoke from the squawking, squealing rubber tires combined into one dense cloud. The thunder of the powerful engines hammered against Milt's chest, augmenting the pounding in her breast; screaming tires and roaring RPM's assaulted her ear drums; thick acrid smoke assailed her nostrils, burning eyes riveted unblinkingly to the speeding drag racers.
A race now run.
“Holy Shit!” the twins pealed in unison as the flagman waved exuberantly at the finish line.
“I told you that Camaro would choke on the Mustang!” Dennis yelled.
“Blew his bloody doors right off!” Shaun said
“He isn't stopping!” Brenda pointed to the distant Cobra Jet, now a rapidly diminishing dot as it continued rocketing down the highway. The vanquished Camaro slowed to turn around.
Milt was so excited she nearly fell out of Ben's truck box. “Waxed 'em clean, right, Ben?” she said, grasping his rolled up sleeve to steady herself.
“Yes, Milt. Cleaned, waxed and polished. He blew by that Chevy so fast I expected Pus Guts to get out to see why his car wasn't moving.”
Dennis was grinning from ear to ear as he pried the cap from one Calgary using a second one as an opener. He offered the beer to Ben who declined. “Well, that settles that,” Dennis said. “We know who makes the only 'King of the Road' now.”
Brenda remained staring at the empty highway where the Mustang had vanished. “I wonder who it was and why didn't he stop?”
Ben's glance met Milt's for a second and something passed between them. “Maybe we'll never know,” he said.
Benny, Brenda and Milt didn't stay to rib Aaron Richardson over his defeat but climbed into the cab of the pickup, said goodbye to their colourful commentators and drove the short distance into town.
Ben treated the girls to a burger, fries and a coke at Kuan, 'The Chinaman's', Silver Café.
A small queue was forming in front of the theatre as Ben angle parked his pickup on the gravel street half a block from the entrance.
“I hate line ups,” he complained and Milt laughed out loud.
“Ben, there's only about six people there ahead of us….”
“Well, it's still a line up.”
The Graduate, stencilled in large red lettering above the double doors, announced the presentation. Brenda said.“It's supposed to be really good.”
“I've heard it's risky.”
“Risqué?” Milt offered.
“Yeah,” Ben grinned. “Maybe they won't let a little kid like you in.”
“I'll say you are my dad, old timer.”
Ben wouldn't allow the ladies to pay for the tickets though Milt protested that he had supplied the ride and supper. She insisted on buying popcorn and refreshments.
It was a good show.
On the way home, the miles flew by as, a cappella, the trio sang Mrs. Robinson.
Ben and Brenda dropped Milt off in front of the big ranch house where a light burned on the veranda. “Eleven o'clock on the dot,” Ben announced, after checking his pocket watch. “Your folks won't be after my hide for keeping their daughter up too late, I hope?”
“Maybe Leonard and Myrna will be sore at you for keeping Brenda out, though?”
Brenda laughed. “Mom and Dad treat us like we're already married off.”
Milt stood on the bottom step of the veranda, watching her friends depart. Then, instead of going into the house, she trotted across the yard to the large work shop where a tell-tale bar of light shone through the crack at the base of the closed overhead door. She slipped quietly through the smaller walk-in door and found her father seated immobile behind the wheel of a raven black Shelby Mustang. The driver's door hung open revealing a spotless interior with leather bucket seats and gauge crowded dash panel. A new car smell emanated from within.
Hearing Milt's soft tread on the cement floor ,Robert Milto looked up; a youthful light shone in his grey eyes, “I've always wanted one of these,” he said.
…There were plenty of fast vehicles in the sixties and early seventies. They became known as muscle cars and around Stockton these hot machines kept the pavement warm on the quarter mile stretch of highway we marked off as our local drag strip. My brothers and I couldn't afford a fast vehicle but we had keen interest in them all the same; if the word “Race” was heard, we'd be there to watch. I remember one afternoon when a stranger showed up with a Cobra-Jet Shelby Mustang that pretty much settled all bets as to who was the real 'King Of The Road'….
Submitted by Dennis Miller
<<<Chapter 14 Chapter 16>&tg;>