It was early spring in 1983. Random patches of dirty ice and snow still littered the ground. The weather was a bit prickly but threatening to submit to the incoming sunshine. A 13 year old Howie Grace stood there, on the Northwest corner of 11th and Main in Keokuk Iowa. Jaw agape, unblinking, immobile. Staring, just staring at what had to be the most perfect piece of muscle that Detroit had ever produced. It was Henry Ford's favorite shade of black. 429 Cubic inches of horses stuffed under the massive hood of a 1969 Thunderbird. A leather interior with all the fixins that were available to the space age driver were protected on either side by Suicide doors... IT HAD SUICIDE DOORS! Retractable headlights rounded out the incredibly stylish front end... I was awestruck. This moment, this vehicle sitting on that used car lot that I cut through every day on my walk to school, which had materialized, overnight, with the mind bending price of $500.00... That vehicle started my boyhood love affair with the American Automobile. The look on my face that morning, late for School, standing there staring at that machine, had to be one of complete wonder and admiration.
That moment started what for me, probably amounts to a typical teen boys fascination with cars. It waxed and waned over the years. The cooler cars on my list of "must drives" or 'must haves" were perpetually out of my financial reach. This was exacerbated, I am sure by personal problems in my own life, including struggles with substance abuse. By the time I was in my late 40's I had been struggling with a battle with alcohol for nearly a decade. I had given up all ideas of things like sporty cars in favor of Canadian Whiskey and imported wine. But after nearly a decade of fighting, I surrendered. I went looking for help, and I found it. With a lot of help and support, I got myself clean and sober.
Almost two years into my sobriety, my best friend: Kevin, noted to me that I probably needed something more productive to do with all my free time now, that didn't involve World of Warcraft. By this point in my life, I had finally managed to start putting a little money aside . My appreciation for cars had come to encompass imported vehicles as well, specifically the Japanese variety, more specifically roadsters. Kevin knew, I had been harboring a desire to purchase another Miata almost since the moment I had sold my first one almost a decade earlier. I had given it up in favor of focusing more energy on my drinking activities. Kevin suggested to me that "I really should find a way to reward myself for getting my shit straight". And the hunt for the new project commenced.
I found it, several months later. I had looked at probably 30 or 40 different cars. Nothing was "right". I had criteria. It HAD to be 1990-1993. No power steering. No anti lock brakes. No power windows. Hell, if it didn't have retractable headlights, it wasn't a "real roadster". I wanted a go-cart, wrapped in tin foil and I found it in Bradenton. I pulled up to the house with Melissa in the passenger seat. As I pulled up outside the house, I looked at her and said "this is it" She said "you haven't even looked at it yet. I pointed to the 24 year old owner of the car. He was standing in the driveway, soaked from the water of the wash, lovingly, carefully wiping the hood down with a cloth diaper. I said "If that's the way he's taking care of this car, I don't need to see it. I already know everything I need to about it" I paid his asking price of $3900 for a 30 year old car with 165 thousand miles on it, and drove it back to the house, where the transmission promptly locked up.
Fast Forward a couple of years. My fingerprints and my signature are all over this car. It got a name: "General Tojo" (because Dukes of Hazzard) and it got as much love and attention as Melissa would tolerate. My fingers have touched nearly every surface of this car. It has been completely disassembled and reassembled numerous times in the driveway. Every light works. Every latch works. Every part of the car works pretty much as it did the day it left the factory. In some cases, better than the factory. There is an engine management system on a laptop that lives behind the passenger seat. That computer allows for on the fly adjustments of the entire engine even while the car is being driven. Performance parts and a beefy upgrades to the suspension put this little Hair Dressers car at a slick blistering 98 Horsepower that will eat you alive in the bendies. (And no, if YOU call the General a hair dressers car, I will beat the shit out of you with my purse)
Hours and Days have been spent researching and integrating just the right modifications, repairs and in some cases upgrades, that will make the car unique, while keeping it as close to stock as I can. I have spent countless hours staring into the lost distance at junkyards across the country looking for an exact bolt or part, and in most cases, I left empty handed. But sometimes I find gems. Don't ask me about Miatas or The General unless you are prepared to sit down with two cups of coffee and lose a couple of hours of your life you will never get back. I am not going to get into numbers, but I will say this: If I die tomorrow, please do NOT let Melissa sell The General for what I have "told her" I have invested in it---get it appraised first! Melissa now has her own Miata, and we belong to a local group of pretty cool Hairdressers who get together once a month and talk about coil overs and forced induction. Melissa is even learning the lingo.
You might ask, why? Why do it? Most of the time, I probably couldn't give you what might equate to a rational response to that question, beyond "It's more productive than drinking, albeit, probably more expensive". But yesterday, I got my answer. I am used to answering questions about the car. It looks good, it sounds good, and its an antique after all. But yesterday, I was driving home from doing some shopping, top down, wind blowing gracefully through my greying mop of hair. Mannish Boy by Muddy Waters was slowly oozing out of the Polk Audio waterproof marine speakers nestled in the doors. I slowed down to a 15 mph crawl as I passed through a school zone when I noticed it. About 50 feet in front of me, walking down the sidewalk, were two boys, about 13 years old, noses buried in their phones slowly walking toward me when one of them heard my muffler bellowing and looked up. I recognized it at once. The look that crossed his face. Eyes bugged out as his jaw dropped slightly. His gaze never deviated from the general as he started violently nudging his friend. The friend looked my direction and promptly forgot whatever text he was reading. they both stopped putting feet in front of each other and just stood there pivoting as I passed by them... eyes wide, jaws open, looking exactly like Howie Grace did on that cold spring morning back in 1983... where a seed was planted.
Editor's note: upon review, several members of my esteemed Miata club, Very graciously pointed out to me that I had neglected to include a picture of Melissa's car, the "fairer" of the cars in my immediate Miata family. So after some gnashing of teeth and some snapping of curling irons, I have edited this post to include a picture of the chosen vehicle. Enjoy!
