While the talk is usually consumed by bench racing and various mechanical exploits, grossly exaggerated top speed stories, and fondly remembered backseat assignations, Rey Garcia speaks only of the joy and happiness his Barracuda brings whenever people see it.
After picking our way through the warrens of Ft. Myers, FL, in his blood red ‘Cuda, I’d have to agree. The looks on faces, thumbs-up salutes, and juicy catcalls ruffling the languid Saturday afternoon air -- this is the stuff that drives Rey, not street racing, not sitting next to
his car in some sort of lawn-chair decay, not burning rubber or going sideways, either. He can do all those things with his Viper. Rey’s the human factor, the subjective personality, the keeper of a time gone past.
“I have actually had some people cry when I let them sit in my car for pictures. They all have a story of how they had one when they were in school back in the day.”
We’re at a photo site making sure the camera’s working when two guys in a pick-up truck roll by, do a double-take, and flip a U-ee. Its Rey’s brother-in-law and his buddy heading home after work. They are not the only ones who slow way down and look long at the Barracuda.
“I picked this car because I like fastbacks and I wanted something that I never saw enough of at shows, on the street, or anywhere else for that matter.”
We get in the ‘Cuda and backtrack to another shooting site. Rey cruises blacktop. He keeps the engine revs down low. The car feels kind of loose, kind of disjointed over the lumpy streets. Rey doesn’t punch it. I want him to. This is Rey’s childhood turf. He grew into manhood here. “Over there,” he says, nodding to a nondescript building, “I drank my first beer on that corner with a bunch of older cats. Got hammered, man. I’ll guess I won’t forget that day real soon.”
