| Cars Ronnie Dee (c) Copyright 2025 by Ronnie Dee  |
 Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. |
Like most guys my age, I loved cars, especially fast ones. I grew up in an era of hot cars in the 1950's and 60's. American Graffiti is one of my favorite movies. I didn't own a hot car in those days, I couldn't afford one, not until 1970, but I got to drive a few. I loved them, but they didn't always love me back. I had a few wrecks and broke my humerus, my nose, got knocked unconscious, had a slow moving car run over my foot (that really hurt, but my friends thought it was a riot) and fell out of a moving car. That one was actually kind of funny.
It seems that Bud and I were going to visit a couple of girls and we went in his 1950 Ford, 2-door. Nineteen forty nine and fifty Fords were ubiquitous in the late 50's and early 60's, at least in Louisville. Most of them were black 2-doors. This particular one was OK except for the passenger side door, which could malfunction from time to time.
We were having a nice visit at the house when we all decided to have some drinks, but they didn't have any mixers. Bud and I volunteered to get some down at the drugstore, so we drove to a nearby Walgreens and got two big bottles of Ginger Ale and headed back. We were tooling along a busy street and Bud whipped a quick left turn to beat the oncoming traffic and wouldn't you know it, the door suddenly slid wide open.
I was calmly seated in the passenger seat with two bottles of Ginger Ale in my lap one second, and the next thing I knew I was still in a sitting position, but in mid air. I was looking at onrushing headlights aimed right for me, and the car completing its turn without me.
At this point, everything seemed to happen in very slow motion, but I was powerless to do anything about it. I was in the air and then plopped down, still seated with my Ginger Ales, in the middle of the street, now staring at the even closer traffic, when centrifugal force flipped me over on my stomach and I skidded down the asphalt in the general direction of the curbing. I came to a stop in the gutter just out of harm's way as a few cars screeched to a stop, while others zoomed on by. A few people were screaming and Bud, along with a couple of other folks came racing to my aid, but I was fine. I didn't even get too badly scraped.
What
caused the panic was, the Ginger Ale bottles had finally burst and
poured out into the street underneath me as I lay there. In the poor
lighting, they all thought that it was blood pouring into the gutter,
but I didn't even cut myself. It had all happened so fast, I wasn't
even concerned about it.
"Hey, I'm fine. Let's go get some more Ginger Ale."
Now
Bud was one of those guys who seemed to swap cars every couple of
weeks. One time he had a '54 Corvette that needed some bodywork and
he messed with that for a while, then he had an oldsmobile for some
time and then he got to drive his mother's brand new 1957 Rose Dust
Chevrolet Bel Air with a 283 V8. What a cool short that was.
This was a time for hot cars and rock and roll music. NASCAR was running Chevies, Fords, Olds, Mercury Cougars, Pontiacs, and even AMC. Everybody had their favorites. My favorite driver was Mark Donahue who raced and won a NASCAR race in an AMC Matador and a Trans AM event in an AMC Javelin, of all things. He was unfortunately killed in a practice session in 1975 as was my favorite F1 driver and Indy 500 winner, Jim Clark in 1968. It was a bad decade for race car drivers.
For
a very short time, Bud even had a 409 Chevy. I think I only rode in
it one time. He got rid of that one quickly. There was some murmuring
about it being possibly stolen, I don't know. Another one I
enjoyed driving was a friend's 1959 Chevy 348 with 3 deuces
and
four on the floor. It was a white hardtop with a red interior, a
really sharp automobile.
But
oddly enough, the most memorable vehicle Bud acquired was a yellow
Willys-Overland Jeepster convertible, year unknown. An odd looking
conveyance with a little twist that made it a real ball to drive. It
seated a Chevrolet V8 engine with four-on-the-floor. He was told it
was a Corvette, but at that time everyone with a conversion said they
had a Corvette engine. I don't recall the displacement, but it was a
powerful Chevy and it sounded and performed like the real thing. The
engine just rumbled, you know, like that unmistakable sound of
an idling Harley; it gives you goosebumps.
I knew quite a few guys who had conversions that didn't work out at all. A neighbor friend had a Plymouth coupe and a work mate had a James Dean Mercury that they tried to convert and had nothing but trouble. Another friend had a primered '50 Ford and it converted beautifully. He even drove it to Florida one time. We always had a good time cruising around in the Willys, blasting the radio and raising some eyebrows.
I recall one night, in crossing the Sherman-Minton Bridge, we came upon two guys drag racing across the bridge and we smoked both of them before they knew what had happened.
One sunny Sunday, we were just cruising around Louisville with a couple of girls and a young child when we blew a tire. It was right by the Speed Museum on 3rd Street. It was a high traffic area with nowhere to park, so we just pulled to the curb. There was a drugstore on the next corner, so Bud and one of the girls walked down to call AAA. While they were there, they bought hot dogs, cokes and chips and brought them back. While we were sitting under a tree waiting for the AAA, we had a little picnic.
Most of the passing motorists disapproved of our tranquil little situation and let us know about it. We just smiled and ignored them. A couple of months later I was sad to see the Willys go, but we had our fun. Everything in its time I guess.