Muscle Rides

image from motor-life.com 

Muscle Rides

“Faster, faster, faster, until the thrill of speed

overcomes the fear of death.”--Hunter S. Thompson.

It is a natural fact

          that I have the mechanical aptitude

                                  of a fruit gnat, and yet,

                                                god damn yet,

as a kid I still had the burning need

                                 to own muscle cars;

pulsate with that American power,

hum with those twin glass packs, 

feel the heat from the wide-assed manifolds,

to be able to rip up beauteous clouds

                                 of rubber smoke, listening

to the banshee screech

                                 of steel belted rear tires  

                                              being torn to pieces, burying

the cars behind me

in a heroic cloud of blue-black raw nearly-inexorable acceleration,

stalwartly serving

my youthful need for speed.

I once owned

a 1934 Plymouth three windowed coupe

with a tilt-out two-piece windshield

                     that my Dad & I dropped

                     a 1947 289 flat-head Six into,   split the manifold,

mounted on twin carbs, then painted it          ice-metallic blue,

                     that a guy at work fell in love with,

& immediately traded me straight across

            for his 1957 Ford Fairlane

            two-door hardtop, with

            a three-speed conversion on the floor,

            two-toned red & white

                      with thick golden stripes 

                      in the middle of the wide side chrome

& that cool flat hood

that popped up backwards, leaving

                      plenty of room to install a tri-power set-up,

                                                  three thirsty two-barrels

                                                  hooked together with progressive

                                                  linkage, a monster

that could burn rubber for a thousand yards

from a dead stop

as I wore out a brand new set

of Firestones, turned them into

baby-butt baldies in one month,

                            with enough power to jerk your head back;

that at some point just scared the shit out of me,

like owning a rogue stallion that only wanted

to gallop, so

                             I traded it to a friend for

                             a 1941 Chev coupe that he

had put a 327 into,

dressing it up with Corvette valve covers

& a wide shiny air cleaner on the

Rochester big-mouth four-barrel

                             that would suck all the air 

                             out of the county when you put your foot

to the floor, bolted up to a

GMC truck transmission that had car gears in it,

but leaving the stock axles.                I popped the clutch one rainy night

                                    while drag-racing,

                                    & blew the shit out of the transmission

                                    & snapped both axles, making me

                                    gush out of my master cylinders

leaving me with no brakes 

as I hit a hydrant to stop myself. 

Later on, before leaving for LA

to become a famous actor (smile),

                  I bought an Aztec Gold

                  1968 SS Impala convertible,

with a factory four-speed,

& a 396 under the hood, & I drove it so hard,

                  getting scratch in third gear,

                                      pegging the speedometer

                                      running north & south on I-5

                   flying by Jaguars & Cadillacs & Lincolns,

that ultimately I fried

the compression & oil rings,

& had to sell it cheap

to a Hispanic neighbor in Hollywood after

                   I ran out of duct tape to patch

                   all the knife slashes on my convertible top

                   inflicted by other Mexicans who disliked

where I chose to park, but

when those gas prices began to soar

& the gas lines grew longer,

& we were all scared enough

to be conditioned into accepting petroleum rape,

                            I traded in my jet-black Mustang fastback,

                            with the 351 Cleveland fuel-guzzling mill

for a fire engine red Nissan 

with a 5-speed transmission

& my first four-banger romance, & I got to tell you

                             that once you start buying Jap cars

                you get totally hooked on them, & soon

        there is this parade of Toyotas, Nissans, Mazdas, 

Suzukis & Isuzus sitting in your driveway,

                              and those sexy muscle cars of my youth 

                              sat in other garages, owned

by silly wonderful old men, who could not

let go of those thrills, looks, sounds

of American muscle.                         I just snap photos of those cars

                                      now, & (happily) pilot my Toyota hybrid Camary,

                            enjoying my 42 mpg sedan comfort,

                  & only once or twice a week

         do I see someone else’s muscle car, hear it

purr by while racking its pipes,

& that old stirring

kicks up hard. 

                              

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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