Hell on (those poor) Wheels
in a 1980 Malibu Classic… a true story.
“HOoOO..Ooo.ll.lll..y SHhh…sshh..IT!” Danny exclaimed over the noise and the violent shuddering of the car as we careened across the spillway in the middle of the night. “Ook..kk..ay!! OOOOkk,..aaaayy!”
I wasn’t doing it on purpose. My teeth were clenched and my knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I tried to keep us from flying all over the road. The car was accelerating by itself. I was trying to avoid slamming the breaks on while roaring down a two lane road bordered on both side by the Ross Barnett Reservoir.
“Your car is working?” Danny asked, unnecessarily, as I pulled up in front of his house in the very car he was asking about.
“Yep, new engine.” My little sister had borrowed my car (technically my father’s car, but mine for all intents and purposes) and ignored my warning that it was leaking oil. She killed it halfway back from Hattiesburg, MS and left it on the side of the road. My father and a guy who owed him money had gotten the car back to Pearl, MS and parked it at the equipment shop they both worked at.
We lucked out on a deal for a small 8-cylinder 1957 Chevy engine that just barely fit. We added some racing headers (because they were readily at hand, not because I was in any way trying to soup this car up) which gave the car two exhaust pipes, one on either side. Of course I put chrome tips on them. It was ghetto-fabulous.
Since I barely had the money for all of that, I had to let it ride with the terrible paint job and an am-fm radio just to have something stuck in the hole in the dash console. The former car stereo had been stolen as the car sat on the side of the road.
It still had some issues, though. The 4 barrel carburetor seemed to stay stuck open, which was just wonderful for gas mileage, and something was funky with the linkage so that the gas pedal did nothing for about 60% of the press and then VROOM!
“How fast does it go?” Danny asked, getting in the passenger’s side and closing the door. Danny didn’t drive. He hadn’t even bugged his parents for a car, or, for that matter, a driver’s license, yet.
“I don’t know, I’ve been taking it easy. I don’t know if you have to break it in or what,” and I really didn’t. I’ve always been kind of car stupid.
“We should see for fast it goes.”
“I don’t want to get a ticket, dude.”
“Take the spillway, then. My dad goes that way because there’s no where for cop cars to park and wait for speeders.” It was also late enough at night so there wouldn’t be much traffic at all.
“Aight,” I said, giving the idea a quick 2-second-teenager-style think-over.
We got to the start of the spillway and prepared ourselves. I looked over at Danny and he looked over at me. A wordless male exchange took place in a mutual nod. I turned the radio on, hoping for I Can’t Drive 55 or something else equally appropriate. Xanadu by Olivia Newton John and E.L.O. was playing. I looked back over at Danny and he looked over at me. He shrugged, I shrugged. I cranked the volume up.
…love that we came to know, they call it Xanadu…
I shifted out of park and pressed the gas pedal past the funky linkage into the GO range.
Xanadu… Xanaduuuuu, now we are here…
The car lurched into action with a roar. Danny had a gleeful look on his face as the force of the acceleration and the vibration of the car opened the adrenal glands.
The speedometer went up and up, the car continue to growl and roar, but now it also began to shudder.
Xanadu your neon lights will shine…
The speedometer only read around 70 mph (that’s about 130 kph for you metric barbarians), but the car was loud as hell and shaking like it had a Saturn V rocket attached to it. I took my foot completely off the accelerator, but it continued to roar like I had it floored.
Danny was yelling and possibly wetting himself, trying to get me to stop or at least slow down. I looked at him, helplessly, and raised my right foot completely above the seat to show him. The car was doing it by itself. Danny’s eyes got wide as dinner plates and his hand reached over to the parking break.
When you’re in Xanaduuuuuuuuuuuuuu…
“Are.. yo,..oo..uu .. fu.. uu.. uu.. cking.. nuts?” I yelled as I slapped the shit out of his hand, the shuddering car shaking me like a paintmixer. I started desperately stomping the hell out of the accelerator until it finally came unstuck and we started to slow. “Gas pedal was stuck, got it loose now,” I said, exhaling in relief.
“I want to go home.” Danny’s face was white as a sheet.
“Yeah,” I agreed, a bit shaken myself.
“How fast were we going?”
“Only about 70.”
“What the hell? Why was everything so loud… and… like it was about fall apart?” I shrugged my shoulders and looked around, taking stock.
“Oh,” I said, my analysis of the occurrence coming to halt, “we were in second gear.”
