Why

Ever wonder why you go through all the hassle, I often do, and I'm certain the people in my life do.

I have a quest to go around corners. I truly enjoy the sensation of getting on the brakes at the last possible second, spotting your turn in, eyes to the exit and then stand on the go!

And when you get it just right it's an amazing feeling, unfortunately it's also an amazing feeling when you get it wrong, just not in the same way.

The downfall for me has always been the fact that I'm caught between two worlds. I have always loved the sound and feel of fifties American steel and the V8 engine. However these where never senonimis with going around corners at a high rate of speed. Although getting to the corner first was seldom ever in question.

So at a young age I found that the periodicals of my father featured in great detail these small rear engined German pieces of engineering. And something about there shape and simplicity captivated me.

Then came the day when I got to stand in the presence of one of these masters of determination. The sound they made was nothing like I had ever heard.

My first true experience was a club day at the only road course for miles and miles. As I heard them tear down the front straight of the former Seattle international raceway, I felt as though my ribs where being chewed on by a lion. My entire soul felt that thing fly by, and with that I was sold.

Thirty years later, I'm still sold, but like most, the buy in is not practical for my life. I accept that reality. So to mold my two favorite vehicles in the auto industry together, I'm gonna see what knowledge I can aquire to make my big metal sled slice through a canyon like one of those little German wonders.

And the adventure I'll have along the way....

Yesterday

Yesterday I was moving some stuff in the garage on my way to greater adult responsibility, I had to get under the bench, necessitating that I move my bmx bike. And that got me to remember all the time I've spent in the quest for that adrenaline rush.

I have mostly moved onto to cars, like most people my age. However there is that undeniable fondness for the first thing that ever allowed you the freedom to roam past the end of the cul-de-sac. That day when you got to the corner, took that one last look over your shoulder.

Then it was over, the comfort and security of the yard that had been your life was shattered,  you had made the turn into the big bad world. Nothing would be the same after that moment.

In some way we have all done it, made the turn, our parents know, they may even be able to tell you about it. I know for myself it was an unmistakable air about me, confident and assured of myself, shoulders back, head held high.

I had seen the world and it was mine for the taking, and the speed at which it came, the speed I wanted more of that sweet exilirating speed.

The quest grew rapidly as my days turned to years, the faster and closer to the edge I got, the more I wanted. Some one once that if your in control, your not going fast enough.  I unfortunately for my parents insurance policy tried to live up to that mantra.

Some decisions have been better advised then others, some are better left in the minds of the people that where there. And some are just good to share like a good beer.

It's nice to remind yourself of the things that helped create the personality that you have today. I know for myself if it wasn't for the fascinating world of bicycle motocross I wouldn't know half the people I know now some thirty odd years later, I wouldn't have the scares and memories that came from it. I wouldn't have the fascination.

All those things with there chrome plated and polished aluminum are the hot bed of coals that plant the seed to hot rodding heart and soul.

Think I'll ride to work next week.

The First time

Everyone remembers there first time. Your alone, it's dark, your weeping softly.  A situation that would stick with you for years to come.
 

This is not about that kind of first time, although it is an experience that will stick with me for years to come. The nerves had settle from backing the Pearl up a steep driveway. I don't think there was any type of code or regulations in the thirty's about what angle a driveway had to be made at. If it was mostly paved, the city was mostly happy.
 

Finally it was time to pull away from the curb for the first time. It wasn't dark and I wasn't alone, I won't say I wasn't weeping. I was about to drive off in a fifty five Chevrolet two door hard top and it was black with a four speed, a fabled Muncie four speed.
 

As it sat idling I couldn't keep my hands and feet from shaking, it was some sort of combination of fear and the ground vibrating. I had mostly had four cylinders prior to this, some pigly inline six and a big Cadillac v8, but those where clouded in acres of steel and glass.
This thing had a v8, a real v8. One that made all the right sounds and some strange wirring sound coming from the front. Nothing was leaking or smoking, short of the distinct smell coming from the clutch after it's punishment.

The time was now, I had gathered all my strength and was prepared to see my future, or my past fly by in rapid succession. As we pulled down the narrow car lined street the owner fumbled with the lap belt. See, I was sharing my first time as he had never driven it either. He had inherited it, sorta came with the house kinda family thing.
 

I sat at the intersection with the left blinker on waiting for the right time to pull out into traffic. Not that there was any traffic but I wanted to be absolutely certain just in case.I began to depress the long pedal on the right just as I released the clutch pedal. Steering into my internal scream I realized that we where both sitting on the passenger side staring into oncoming traffic.

 

We decided that it seems to run just fine.....

The Past

Before I get to my first experience with this vehicle I'd like to look at the past.

The past is often forgotten it seems. We tend to spend so much time focused on the future very little on the present and lesser more on the past. More of people's time seems to me to be on how and what the future will hold for them, "that garden is gonna look great when it blooms this spring!"

People spend so much time focused on how great things are gonna be tomorrow, that they seem to not notice how beautiful it is today. I'm not gonna say I'm not guilty myself,  I surely am. 

It's only when something reminds you of the ones you have loved and lost do you take the time to sit back and reflect on how your life has been effected by having that person or car or whatever it may be there for that time. 

I've recently had cause for reflection for several reasons myself. As the Pearl Inches closer to turning the big six zero I've thought about the history it has seen. I don't know where it was sold, how long they had it originally or even how many miles it has.

I do however know who owned it last and that at some point during the early eighties it was hugger orange and completely disassembled in that Seattle backyard. I never met the man that last had the heart to take the heart out of her, I have however spent time with his family and I continue to ensure that the car makes the annual car show in the neighborhood it spent so much time in.

Even with all the dust collected from conversations and stories you hear,  they just come short of saying the same things as the scratches and dings that litter the paint. The ladder bars where a first clue but after some cleaning and digging under the seat the vintage time sheets from Bremerton raceway circa nineteen eighty-seven told a much greater story. With a healthy cam and a quarter mile pass just over one hundred miles per hour it's clear what the agenda was.

I keep those cards on the heater box to remind me that I am only the current car taker of this vehicle and it will out live me like it's outlived many before me.

The Day

It was a  sunny, a day like any other day, that's how these things are supposed to start right? Actually it was a sunny day, however that day would prove not to be like any other day.

To begin again, I guess that would sorta make this the second beginning? I had only a few months earlier loaded up my life's belongings and moved across the state, love is pretty powerful like that. With a new environment and surroundings came new stories of cars wasting away in garages.

I'll admit I was slow to respond as I didn't have much to offer if the story turned out to be true. After some time I felt I was in the position to investigate these wispers.

I had been told repeatedly that the fable I was being told was nothing of the sort. That although I had been to this house on numerous occasions having not seen anything to indicate that what lies beneath my feet.

The teller of the story was unquestionably dependable, also the resident was without question in nature. Two people I still find as important parts of my life to this day.

However I just couldn't bring myself to believe that my "white wale" quietly lurks beneath me. I finally brought myself to build the courage to find out for certain if this story would have a happy ending or continue to be the one that got away.

So in the middle of the afternoon I stood in a dark garage in the basement of a Seattle home in one of it's more vintage neighborhoods. As the car cover was pulled back and the dust lingered in the air I stood wobbling on weakened knees trying to catch my breath.

Lying at rest in beautifully checkered black lacquer sat "the Black Pearl" as it's come to be known. A real steel fifty five Chevrolet two door had top, with a messaged three fifty and a four speed.

After several years of sitting it took some coaxing and a little smoking of the clutch to get it out on the street. Once the hands stopped shaking and the clutch cooled down, it was time for our maiden voyage.

The Beginning

In the beginning of this adventure is the most likely place to start this conversation.
It really began as any good bench racing fable starts out, "I know of this little old lady down the block that parked her '32 Vicky when her husband didn't come back from the war and the car hasn't been out of the garage since!" It even sounds like a fable when you read it.

Growing  up at my father's knee listening to specifications of the years highest-rated cars and recounts of the exploits of the god's of speed. These stories where just stories, something to capture to child's imagination, bedtime stories. However as adultecance gave way to the nightmare of teenagerizm,  those stories grew from a fable to a wisper of truth. Somebody knows somebody that has actually had the experience, or so I was told.

The first fable I remember was actually of a '32 Ford, then I saw it, it was real. The possibilities that those stories could actually be true where almost more than this mans teenage boyish mind could handle. In the flesh, real 70 or more year old steel, I could touch, smell it, taste it, that would have been going to far. It was my first, and I won't soon forget it, an original flathead in it's original packaging. It's long moved onto to new homes, new ride height and other boys dreams, but it's still in that garage for me.

As my own maturity arrived and I began and failed at my first restorations and modifications of the automotive industry. ny knowledge has always been best garnered the most difficult ways possible, it's far easier for some to buy a custom opposed to building it. No eighteen year old  has the mental capacity to think far enough ahaed. That experience was a black 1958 VW bug that I crammed into my parents garage with visions of a full custom restoration project dancing in my head like sugarplums on Christmas eve. It's one thing to disassemble a bug down to every nut and bolt, it's all together something else to put it back together again.

For years I had heard stories of an acre field next to a farmhouse that was packed with cars and trucks, not a one newer than 1942. I  believed it in the since that I'm sure it was there, forty years ago. However this was the new millennium, a new century, they are running out of dinosaurs to dig up, surely that field had been pillaged ages before I was even bore. One sunny Saturday afternoon I saw it just out of the corner of my eye,  buzzing down a rural back road on my way out camping. The craziest thing about it is the fact that it really was right where everyone had said it was all along. Sometimes when someone tells you about something, it might just be worth your time to go take a look. Find a good place along the way for a greasy burger and a few pints, that way you win either way.

My experience is to be continued....

The Pearl

This is the Pearl thought, it's a blog or a babble and possibly a little bit of an enjoyable thing to read.

Your author lacks everything required for someone to be a writer that people will read. I as the aforementioned author lack all training, most social awareness and certainly any sort of public decorum.  However what I lack, I'll try and make up for in passion. And that's really what this is all about, passion. 

I have a passion for cars, craftsmanship and creativity, really anything that requires great skill to build, operate and maintain. 

So I would like to invite anyone that comes along this corner of the world to take a moment and enjoy these trials and tribulations as they are encountered along my journey to achieve some form of craft with my 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air. Along the way I hope to meet and interview with other craftsman and get the opportunity to share their stories also and the passion that drives them into there own obsession.