Well, I drove that Hemi Charger – uncorked - from my home in the small town of West Brookfield some 20 miles over to Drag-O-Way 67 (as we called our drag racing spot on Route 67) in Palmer. Being that the Charger was in semi-finished form, there was no heater, no carpeting, no interior panels and no headliner. I was freezing despite suiting up in full longjohn attire. But I didn’t care and the modest warmth radiating from the transmission tunnel and floor were comforting byproducts of the hemispherical combustion chambers in action.
If I feathered the throttle, it wasn’t really all that loud as I passed through the town centers of Warren and West Warren. Oh hell, I’m sure any cop who heard the thing would have wasted no time pulling me over and going nuts. But luck was on my side and these small towns only had one or two police cruisers each so chance meetings were rare. But when I was between populated areas, I mashed the throttle and the roar of the uncorked Hemi at WOT made me imagine I was in a Boeing B-17, flying a midnight raid over enemy territory. The strange mix of ice cold air and angry machinery hurtling through the darkness was intoxicating in a way that’s hard to describe with words.
When I finally rolled into the rest area gathering spot down on Route 67, I popped the console shifter into neutral and gave the throttle a momentary jab to the floor. The Hemi’s roar announced my arrival as dozens of congregated street rats spun around for a look. The word was out and all the big guns were there, ready to play. “Trim Ring” Andrew was there (so named for his car’s penchant for launching trim rings into the woods during power shifts), his ’67 Firebird convertible packing a Brownfield aluminum-head 406 small block Chevy, Doug Nash 5-speed and Moroso Brute Strength posi with 4.56 gears. Killer Kowalski’s ’72 Duster was there with its mild-idling 360. But was the bottle filled up and ready to transform it into a low 12-second stormer at the push of a button? You bet. Rolls Royce Tracey’s ’68 Chevelle was there, a vintage Rolls Royce restoration worker, he kept the hood closed tight. The hushed word was he swapped out the 383 small block stroker and stuffed in a rectangle port rat motor just for this final fling. There was also Mr. Mustang in his shiny new black ’88 LX hatchback. A Ford dealership mechanic, he was one of the few late model racers but the Hoosier slicks and nitrous kit made that 5.0 a serious contender on any street, inch-thick payment book or not.
A number of other cars were on hand and a steady stream of hangers-on streamed into the packed dead ended rest area. Lots of chicks too; that was always the best part. It was all going great and we were setting up who was ‘gonna run who when all of a sudden the distinctive stacked rectangular headlights and amber running lights of a Ford Crown Victoria appeared on the horizon headed our way. No doubt you remember them from the Eighties. Was it the Palmer cops or just a wood grained family wagon headed home after a late night at the movies or mall? The odds were 50-50 either way.
When the car came closer the rotten truth was revealed when its spotlight flipped on and cut a path through the darkness. Before we could stage one lousy race, the cops were on the scene! In an instant, feet were flying, starter motors cranked and, like Rommel’s Afrika Corps, the entire assemblage of 20 to 30 cars mobilized for a hasty retreat. It was every man for himself as racers and spectators in grocery-getters hustled and jockeyed for a spot in the single line of cars exiting the cul-de-sac of the paved rest area.
As for me, I jumped in the Hemi, hit the key and did my best to modulate throttle openings to make the least noise possible. I rolled right past the cop car and didn’t dare look over to see if he was looking back…but I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. I didn’t need to see him stare to know I wasn’t going unnoticed. I’m good that way.
Taking no chances, I headed out onto Route 67 going east, back toward home. It was only after I had made it onto the main road that I dared look back over my shoulder. Yep, the copper was headed out and coming my way. While I was among a fleet of about seven or eight cars, I made it my business to get up ahead of the pack as quickly as possible without making it look too obvious. The M&H slicks were down at about 9-psi so the Charger’s tail was wagging plenty as I rounded the many bends on my way to freedom.
With the copper still dotting my rearview mirror, I sped up to the lead position – this was a 4-lane highway so my maneuver wasn’t blatantly illegal – and made a plan to bail off the main road and jump onto a narrow back road that was coming up in a mile. Looking over my shoulder, I didn’t see any blue lights, but the telltale rectangular headlamps were on high beam and getting larger. No doubt the copper was selecting his prey and I was in no mood to have a discussion about how the Charger’s entire exhaust system went missing, why I was running slicks on the street or why the car had no windshield wipers. I saw the side road and hastily made a hard 90-degree left hand turn onto it.
Knowing that my brake lights would signal my plan, I killed the headlights, down shifted the Torqueflite and negotiated the sharp left-hander without touching the brake pedal. Had he seen my break from the pack? I didn’t know…or want to. As soon as the Charger was pointed straight, I turned on the headlamps, mashed the throttle and hauled ass up the steep hill. The cold M&H’s spun a bit as the Hemi barked through first, second then into drive. The reverberation of the uncorked headers made the headliner bows rattle against the cold roof skin. I thought to myself “I’m running from the cops, I may be nuts, but I’m no criminal.” But the fact was there were no blue lights and I wasn’t even so sure the cop car was on my tail. Still, I didn’t dare look back until about a mile later.
Finally I took a peek behind me and felt a rush of relief when the backdrop was pitch black with no sign of Crown Victoria headlamps in sight. But just to be sure, I snapped the console shifter into neutral, switched off the ignition and rolled to a quiet stop in a vacant driveway. I did this just in case the copper was indeed on my tail, but taking a while for his 351M-powered cruiser to catch up. Maybe he’d whiz on by and not notice me. As it turned out, I was in the clear. So, after sitting silently for a few minutes, I cranked the Hemi to life and reversed direction. No doubt, more than a few sleepy heads bounced on their pillows as the uncorked Hemi rattled the night air. I oozed my way back home and parked the Charger behind my barn. The next day it went up on blocks for the winter hibernation period.
Stories like this are not uncommon. Maybe you have one of your own. No, I don’t condone any of what I did some twenty years ago. Sometimes I wonder how I made it out alive. By the way, if you’re a law-enforcement professional and you’re reading this, know that it is all a fabricated piece of fiction, an excerpt from a novel I’m writing. Sure, that’s the ticket, no pun intended! Happy New Year!
