" PURGATORY AUTO SALVAGE "

On the outskirts of a major city, on a back road that has slipped off of every map printed today, that is where you can find it. Mostly obscured, because it rests off of the dirt road and in a small ravine, the old wrecking yard awaits. The gates to the entrance are rusty and thick and were built to keep people out and it’s contents inside. Opened long before the sprawling metropolis grew westward, the yard has been the resting-place for many a lost auto. It wasn’t always like this though. Back when parts were easily interchanged and a man could buy a set of used tires for about $20, the yard actually thrived. This was when it was Wilbur’s yard

Wilbur G. Walstory was a tinkerer of sorts. His father was an engineer and his grandfather had been a black smith, running the liverey in the middle of town, long before it would become a city. Wilbur grew to love cars at an early age. And since he was good at with his hands, it was only natural that he open a small garage on the outskirts of the town. Occasionally he would buy a car for parts, or would be given a car or truck that was taking space or was just not needed anymore. With these cars and trucks, he parked them on his share of the family homestead. The police station paid him a small fee, of which he rented space to the county for impounds storage. Soon the few cars grew to a good-sized number. One of the last things his grandfather ever did was build the gate and overhead sign for the yard. The gate was thick and quite heavy. An amazing feat for a single man, is what everyone who saw it marveled. Above the well-built gate was an arch and in it were the letters which spelled-

WILBUR G WALSTORY

A U T O S A L V A G E

Wilbur ran the yard and his garage on the outskirts of the town. Being a bit of hoarder, something he learned during the lean years of the depression, Wilbur always was bringing another abandoned vehicle to the yard. Usually he towed it off for free or in exchange for a favor. Business was always good and he would take people to the yard if they needed a part or had to pick up an errand vehicle. As Wilbur grew older, his trips to the yard became less frequent and his regular customers went elsewhere. Wilbur eventually forgot about the yard and the city lost track of its tows out there as well. Wilbur passed on and the city grew west. The once well kept yard became overrun with growth and disappeared from the town’s memory all together. The gates remained strong and true. The arch became the victim of rust and neglect. Some of the once proud letters began to fall off. It now read-

PUR G A TORY

A U T O S A L V A G E

Time stood still within the confines of the yard.

Just on the inside of the gates was a very large Mack Bulldog hauler. It was an AC model dating from 1916. According to local lore, the old truck had originally been used in Britain during WWI and had taken part in a rescue, which saved the owner’s life. Michael Archangel a sergeant, was scheduled to leave Britain and go back to America, where his bride to be awaited along with his families’ prospering business. He and his battalion of soldiers were attempting to forge a hill in torrential downpore. As the rain fell so to did the soldier’s spirits. The ground around them had become a sticky quagmire of earth and rain. The Model T transporter that they were riding in slipped then overturned. Some of the soldier’s screams were silenced as the massive Ford cut their lives short. Michael was thrown clear, but suffered a serious head wound from being thrown out of the T’s windscreen. He sat up and surveyed the nightmare around him. His boys were huddling against one another, dead or moaning in the hellish rain. Then like a beaken in the night, a set of cab lights split the darkness. Another platoon had been following when the accident had occurred and the captain had forgone orders "To return to base at all costs", to save this battalion of soldiers. His bravery and independent thinking earned him and the Bulldog a secure future at Archangel Building Supply. Michael assured the Captain that he would have a steady job in the States when he got home. He then sought out this the truck from the many scarred Bulldogs and had it shipped to the United States, where it was refurbished. He had the Bulldog painted a brilliant white with yellow accents upon it. The huge wheels were painted bright red with white pinstriping. Upon the doors were the words-

ARCHANGEL BUILDING SUPPLY

You can trust us!!

BR-5642

But, time waits for nothing and the grand old beast became worn and was retired to the salvage yard. In fact, it was the first vehicle that was towed to Wilbur’s yard. Over the years, the truck became known simply as Michael, or Mike for short. The guardian of the yard. Mike sat on his grand old solid rubber tires and watched the yard. He watched as it grew. Some cars were worth saving others just belonged to the elements and rust. Slowly returning to the earth from which they had came. Sometimes, there was a second chance…….

In the twilight of the day, as the sun’s rays reach for their final glory and the stars begin to blink from the dark blue velvet sky, there is activity in Purgatory Auto Salvage. The evening breeze picks up and gently caresses the gate leading into the yard. From the depths of the yard, an engine coughs, then tries to fire. Finally, It does and rolls across the yard to be judged. Once out of the darkness the brave one can be seen. It is a ’40 Ford DeLuxe coupe.

At one time the faded relic was a beautiful cornflower blue, with red wheels and wide white wall tires. She had the deluxe trim package with stock V-8 caps and stainless trim rings. Under her hood lay a smart and trustworthy flathead engine, that the kind doctor had dressed up with a polished radiator, chrome acorn nuts and chrome radiator hose pieces. The three speed manual transmission was attached to a closed driveline with a Columbia 2-speed rear end taking up the back. The good doctor was economy minded yet still felt the extra gears could help in the case of an emergency. Inside, the interior was the factory grew mohair and stock wheel. The doctor’s bag and other needed medical supplies rested behind the seat. As the ’40 rolled up to Mike, his headlights began to glow steadily brighter and upon his windshield, the ‘40’s fateful day played for all to see in the yard. It was cold. Some say February at it’s worst. The doctor received a frantic call to attend to the Peterson farm. Seems that Jebediah had came down with a fierce cough and had continued to work, even though the family was against it. Hard times for a dairy farmer. Ol’ Jeb’s main cows were drier than he could recall and it was all for the lack of water and god food for them. The hard frozen ground had caused the cows food supply to dwindle and now the Peterson farm was in danger. Jeb knew this. He had survived the depression and had fought to see his land and family survive. To survive, he knew he had to work hard and now, he had over done it. His body was wringing with sweat and he had begun to hallucinate. His wife, Della, was certain that death was near and had called the doctor. The Peterson farm was a good drive from the city on any given day, but on this cold February day, the trip was a lifetime away from the city. The good doctor dressed in multiple layers, dawned his rugged boots and wore his hunting gloves. He threw a scarf around his neck and then pulled on his hunter’s cap and secured the earflaps. He paused at his door and breathed the last warm breath of his life, then stepped out into the cold.

The wind shrieked and tried to tear the door out of his hands. The frigid air stung his cheeks and the ground seemed to crackle with every step he took as he made his way to the ’40. Once inside the car, he turned the key. With great reluctance the Ford’s engine spun then caught and roared to life. Slowly the oil made its way through the crankcase and began to circulate within the engine. She knew that the doctor had something very important to do if he was going to go somewhere in this weather. The doctor let the engine warm up a bit, then turned on the heat. In the Ford’s of the 40’s it was not unusual if the car was equipped with a gasoline fueled heater. This was the case with the doctor’s ’40. What it consisted of was a separate line that ran off of the back of the carburetor and to the heater, which was just beneath the dash. They worked really well and could literally cook a person’s feet if they were not careful. The wind shrieked and rocked the Ford once again. The doctor had traveled less than 10 miles and decided that the heater needed to be up a bit more. The heater spread its warmth through the interior of the ’40. The doctor thought of his patient and what might be wrong with him. Comfortable and secure, he rode on. On the outside the cold dipped to about 20 below zero, with a windchill factor of at least 40 below zero. He looked outside and took note of his surroundings. His eyes were growing heavier and heavier and his arms felt like they were made of lead. A curve in the road loomed ahead of him and he misjudged. The ’40 slid off of the road and into a ditch. As fast as the sliding had begun, the car abruptly stopped and he bounced his forehead off of the hard steering wheel. The shift lever had bounced out of gear and the car continued to run. The heater continued to spew its warmth and along with it, steady flows of carbon monoxide gas from a faulty exhaust line. As the Ford ran on the side of the deserted road, the doctor’s life slowly slipped away……

Michael’s windscreen went black and the ’40 knew that it was not its turn. The Ford coupe backed up and rolled slowly to it’s place in the yard. As it rolled, the right side running board rattled loose and hit the ground.

A loud airhorn blast was heard and a ’69 Dodge cabover with a trailer full of smashed cars rolled up in front of Michael. The truck was rattling and smoked as it pulled to a stop in front of the old Mack Bulldog. On the trailer were six cars. As the truck’s engine was shut off, its history began to play across Michael’s windscreen. It was spring in 1969. Though America was feeling the heat of Vietnam and police clashes and riots across the country, it was Heaven for car lover’s nation wide. The musclecar war was nearing its climax. Ford, GM and Chrysler were waging a battle in which the real winners were the buyers. Initially, the idea of a small car with a big engine was spawned out of the California high deserts with the hot rodders and their Gow Jobs. What more could a person ask for? Ample comfort and enough torque and horsepower to move mountains. That was the idea when Chrysler stuffed their elephant hemi head engine into a midsize car. The first cars to receive the big engine were the plain jane 2-door sedans from Plymouth and Dodge. Not an ounce of sound insulation, no power steering, even a radio was deleted to save weight. Performance was the quest with these cars. Chrysler did what it had planned nd began to make records nation wide with its Hemi head V-8. The 426 was king and met all challengers head on. In the fall of ’68 Ford unleashed it’s Torino and was a near challenger to the almighty Chrysler. In the winter of ’69 the Talladega was launched by Ford with much success. Chrysler was scrambling to keep there crown and that was when the Daytona Charger was born. On this particular car carrier there were four Daytona Charger’s of which two were Hemi equipped, one featured a 440 Magnum while the other was a 383 four barrell car. The Charger’s had been driven off of the line and outside to the holding area and parked.

The cars sat and waited to be shipped west to the growing city’s premiere Dodge dealership. Scheduled delivery date for this quartet of cars had been delayed for quite awhile and when the dealership began to scream for their cars, something drastic had to be done. Don Williams, a veteran driver for Chrysler had just arrived back to the factory after a long trip through the Bible belt. Eyes like a road map, the shipping supervisor cornered Don and told him of his woes in trying to get the Charger’s west. Don looked at the rising sun and did a quick calibration as to the last day he had actually had a descent nights rest. The miles and sunrises and sunsets blurred into a long stretch. He shrugged, looked at the Super and popped a couple of bitter white pills. "Can I steal a cup of coffee from ya?" Don grimaced at the taste in his mouth, "I gotta long road ahead of me." The super smiled and yelled at the men to load up the Charger’s onto Don’s truck. Things would work out he thought.

Don swaggered over to his Dodge truck and smiled. "No troubles, Boss…" He cranked over the rigs engine and headed off. His nerves were on fire and his steely grey eyes watched the road as it unwound in front of him. The miles rolled by and Don chased the grey ribbon to his appointed destination. Then, outside of Topeka, he ran out of his supply of his "jumpstarts". "That’s alright, Mr. Williams…we’ve done this a lot of times without our whitey friends…." He muttered to the inside of the truck.

It was just around midafternoon when he rolled into the western state of his destination. He had a four hour trip left. The miles unfurled and he began to see double and had to hit himself in the face twice to snap awake. It was fifteen minutes from his destination that his mind finally crashed. His eyes literally snapped shut and he slumped over the wheel. The big Dodge veered off of the highway at 70 miles per hour. The soft shoulder gave way beneath the car carriers weight and over it went. The truck and trailer slid for about 100 yards before stopping. The factory’s precious cargo, were either ripped from their mounts or were thrown against the heavy trailer’s insides. All in all, Don walked away with a few injuries and a lawsuit against the Union for negligence, the cars were then totalled and towed to Wilbur’s yard by the state as evidence. The case never saw any court time and the undelivered cars became a memory.

Michael’s windscreen went blank and the night was silent as he thought of his decision. Then, one of the Charger’s horns began to wail. It was not their time. The big Dodge backed up and the other three cars joined in on the wailing………….

The night grew still and the moon even slid behind a cloud. From out of the darkest corner of the yard another lost soul rattled to life and its engine fired though a set of open headers. The headlights locked on the big Mac bulldog as it crept out of the shadows. A burned out ’55 Chevrolet Bel Air that was red and black. Its small block engine ran at a hellish idle as it steadily rolled forward. Michael’s windscreen became a blaze of white and the Bel Air stopped fast on its Cheater slicks. All in the yard watched the ‘55’s story unwind.

Rumored to be the last 1955 Bel Air hardtop to roll off of the assembly line was a black and red one. The red was painted on the rear quarters and roof. Said to be the only one, ever like it. The car was as stripped down as a Bel Air could get. But, it featured a 265 power pack set up with a three speed. The interior was all black with a few red accents. Delivered to Salem, Massachusetts, the car arrived close to the first of October. The Bel Air was then carted off to the detail shop. Within three hours of its arrival, a detail clerk killed himself within the car’s interior. It was reported that during his lunch hour, that he had been given notice that his wife of ten years had left with a salesman from the dealership. His love had been so great, that he could not go on. So on his afternoon break, he drove the five miles to his house, got his pistol, then shot himself in the ’55. The car was cleaned up and the nasty details about his death were well hid by the dealership. But rumors fly fast and the car sat on the lot, waiting for a buyer. The ‘58’s were to arrive and the dealership was still stuck with the Bel Air. On a whim, one of the lot boys left the keys in it, hoping for something. It was like that for about three days, before disappearing into the night. A local rum-runner named Jake, decided to claim the prize. The first step was for a large holding tank for liquor to be mounted in the space where the backseat and trunk were. He then attached an extra set of front shocks and staggered the rear for better traction. The factory hubcaps and wide whitewall Firestones were replaced with 6-lug truck wheels with racing tires. A hot Duntov cam, reworked heads by Smokey Unik and a dual quad setup that had been lifted from a ‘Vette finished off the under hood mods for the ’55. Jake then did a swap that all of the other runners deemed unnecessary, he replaced the factory Chevrolet taillights with a set of those from a ’55 Pontiac station wagon. A bit flashy was what the others said, but Jake liked the look a lot better. On his maiden voyage with the reworked Chev, Jake stunned his supplier by being faster than a local in a hot ’58 Impala with a 348 tri-power motor. Jake knew what he had and began making side money by betting with the other drivers. The ’55 and Jake were unstoppable. With his driving tricks and the quick 265, he was the target of every Federal agent and the envy of the other drivers. It is surprising in how Jake and the ’55 were separated. On a Friday in the local County Seat, Jake was playing cards and gambling. He had just been dealt a hand that put him over the top in winnings for the night. He stood and grinned at all of those around him as he gathered up his winnings. It was this that caused Shorty Laukins to snap. Shorty had lived in the shadow of Jake his whole life. Always second to Jake’s lead. On this cold October night as Jake scooped up a good portion of Shorty’s hard earned money from a week at the pig farm, he snapped. Before Jake knew what had hit him, Shorty had lashed out and had stabbed Jake in the eye with a fountain pen. Before Jake could react, Shorty had then thrusted forward with the pen toward Jake’s up turned nose. The pen disappeared up Jake’s nose and punctured into his brain. He let out a cry of pain and fell forward. Shorty was shot dead on the spot. No need for the local law enforcement to show up. If they had, then all of those present would certainly have gone to jail as well. The old Chevrolet sat, again, for quite some time. Until about 1964 when a young drag racer decided to buy the ’55. His intentions were to take the car out to California and make his fortune in racing. The car seemed almost to fight the new owner from the start. It did not want to be towed from the overgrown lot then the rear wheels locked up as it was being towed. But the Kid was determined. This was going to be his glory. His ticket to fame. He would win at all costs. The rear fender wells were cut out to except the M&H racing slicks. Next, the Kid ripped out the grille center section and left it open. The Kid removed the from suspension and installed a tube axle that raised the front of the car a good 24" then added a set of 12 spoke Kelsey-Hayes wheels to the front. The 265 was gone through and he found that the insides of the ol’ block were in excellent shape. He bored the block out to an odd 331 and left the cam the same. As for induction, he installed a Hilborn injection setup and hoped for the best. The pistons were forged units that were good for 12:1 compression. The exterior was left as was. The factory black and red were in impeccable shape for a car that had spent most of its time out doors. So, he left it. On the lower right side of the decklid, he had a local sign painter apply a little notation for all to wonder about. It read "BAD BLOOD". The name fit the car perfectly. He had worked late at the downtown Mobil station, pilfered a pack of smokes and $50 dollars from the register. A good nights work he thought. On the way home he picked up his Hedman headers from an acquaintance that worked at a speed shop down the street from his apartment. At around midnight, he fired the ’55 up. It roared to life on the second turn of the key. Crackling and barking through the headers the Kid stepped back to enjoy the controlled thunder of his mighty small block. The whole car shook as it idled. The Kid was delighted as to what he had created. A Phoenix from the ashes he thought. That was when he smelled the gas. Alarmed he stuck his head into the driver side and reached for the key. It would not shut off. The smell of raw fuel was very strong now. He ran to the rear of the car and saw that fuel was leaking from the gas line that ran along the frame rails. He reached up and his arm and chest were immediately doused with high octane from the Mobil station. "Alright you sonufabitch!!" he screamed. Blind with rage, he dashed to his tool box and rustled around for a pair of wire cutters. With the tool in his right hand he winged the driver’s side door open and then dove beneath the dash and started to cut wires. He had just clipped through a set of what he thought would stop the car’s engine when he saw the sparks rain down upon his chest. "…..no.." he whispered…..

The ’55 Bel Air went up in a ball of flames and took with it the Kid’s life.

All in the yard focused on the burned hulk in front of them. Michael stared at the Chevrolet and his decision had been made. With a last ditch effort, the ’55 lunged at the big Mac, it was not going to go easily. Michael stared at the rapidly approaching burned out relic. As it grew nearer, it seemed to grow stronger. The Chevrolet’s headlights grew to an incredible brilliance, framing Michael in their light.

That was when the rust on the ’55 began to eat at the car at an alarming rate. The smallblock rose to a feverish pitch, splitting the night with its hellish scream. The car’s body then slammed down around the frame, causing the car to stop abruptly. The wheels continued to dig and began to burrow into the hard packed ground. The rust ate greedily at the vintage tin. The fender eyebrows caved in and the headlights fell out of their mounting. If one were to be watching, they would have sworn that the ’55 was melting. The rear "C" pillars gave way and the roof collapsed onto the seats of the Bel Air’s interior. A fan of sparks shot skyward as the hood collapsed and met the fan blades. The bumpers hit the dirt and disappeared into a silvery coarse dust. Bit by bit, the Chevy sank and was obliterated by the rust. Finally the wheels were stopped as the driveshaft and third-member were reduced to a red powder. The engine gave a sudden lurch and several rods burst out of the block. Steam and smoke swirled up into the night, then it to was a victim of the rust’s feverish appetite. Then, the night was still. All looked at where the cursed ’55 Bel Air had been. Michael seemed to sigh. He had not given any second chances this night and dawn was not far off. That was when the elders in the yard separated and from behind them, there sat an ’29 Model AV-8 roadster. The roadster was prodded forward and for the last time that night, Michael’s windscreen lit up with yet another tale…

Assembled in 1945, "Clyde" was an above average AV-8 roadster. Then again, the young lad who owned it, a fellow named Paul, was very detail oriented. The old Ford, originally his Dad’s was handed down to him so he could have a way to get to school. The four banger soon gave out, so Paul had to use one out of a dairy truck that his father had been meaning to part out. Paul had the know how to put the AV-8 together in a short time. And what a beauty it was. The body was the original black nitrocellulose lacquer and orange pinstriping were originally applied at the factory in ’29. It had a full hood and grille off of a ’32 Ford, the headlights were taken off of a White diesel truck. He mounted a set of ’41 Chevrolet taillights just beneath the decklid, the grille center he painted a same shade of orange as the pinstriping and for wheels he used a set of 16" Kelsey-Hayes with V-8 center caps, painted apple green. At fist glance, the colors were a strange mix, but they grew on you. He ran straight pipes out of the back that he fabricated from old Ford axle housings. The rear consisted of a Columbia 2-speed that he had found on a farmer’s wagon. For a gearbox, A Lincoln 3-speed that was salvaged from Doc Harrington’s V-12 Zephyr. The dash and steering wheel were also stripped out of the Zephyr to dress up the interior of the roadster. The windshield was from a wrecked Packard V-16 roadster that he had found in the hills near his home. It was a near perfect fit.

Now, near Paul’s house was out in the sticks and near by was a railroad line. Paul’s love of cars was equal to his passion for trains, so as far back as anyone could remember, he had kept track of when the steam engines would go by his home. Paul had a daily routine, while working on his dad’s farm. In the morning a little after six, he would drink his coffee on the back porch and watch as the early freight train chugged by. Then, in the afternoon at about one, another would chug by in the other direction. He usually would be eating a peanut butter and apple butter sandwich that his ma had prepared for him. The power and strength of the big train always fascinated Paul. The engineers began to look for Paul, and would wave as they went by. In the mid-forties, a steam engine debuted on the track that was unlike any machine he had ever seen. It was a massive thing, with more driving wheels than he had ever seen on a locomotive. It appeared on the horizon as a possible brush fire. The clouds of smoke were that intense. Unlike anything he had ever seen. Of course, all of the field hands working that spring day in ’43 stopped to see what it was that had caught the young kid’s fancy. With fascination, all watched as the clouds of boiling smoke rolled toward them. Beneath it all, they were astounded to see the source. It was the biggest locomotive that they had ever seen. The beast was the Union Pacific Challenger #3985. The big locomotive roared by pulling its long line of freight cars with ease. It made an impression on Paul. Every week or so he would watch as the mighty Challenger would steam on by. Usually pulling about 70+ cars, he was astounded at the power of the great locomotive. One day, on a whim he decided to make a run on the Challenger. In front of Paul’s house was a two-lane paved road that ran parallel for a good three miles before swinging east and crossing over the tracks. Now, Paul thought it would be a great challenge for him to race his roadster against the Challenger to the crossing. The three-mile jaunt would be too easy. He knew that the ‘Clyde" would most certainly gain the needed speed in that distance and make the crossing. A real challenge would be a half-mile attempt at the crossing. In mid-March, Paul turned 19. It was a bright day and he had planned on taking the day off from his work on the farm and enjoying the surrounding countryside and the open roads. At least this is what he had told his dad and ma. For his mind was set. This was the day in which he would make his run. He stood on the back porch and drank his coffee. It was seven and the a.m. freight train was approaching from the south. He waved at the driver as he always had and watched as the train sped by. He mentally calculated the speed he would need and how he would attain the needed speed. Coffee done, the freight train now in the distance, Paul walked out to his roadster. He opened the doors to the lean-to that was out next to the big barn and uncovered Clyde. He smiled at the old Ford, like a jockey at his steed. He leapt over the closed door into the driver’s seat. The paint on the door top on the had actually grown worn due to this daily ritual. The willing flathead fired up and growled from within the confines of the old building. Paul let out a whoop and planted his right foot down hard. The roadster leapt out of the darkness and into light. With a little bit of a fishtail, he roared out of the yard. On the hill, his father paused and watched. He had to smile. Most fathers around the area were clutching papers and flags in remembrance of their own sons. The day was one for the books thought Paul. He sped throughout the countryside and enjoyed the early Wyoming spring. Some flowers were starting to color the prairie and everywhere the leaves were beginning to unfold. A light breeze stirred up the fresh scent of new barley in the fields. He drove effortlessly with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the roadster’s windshield top. He man handled Clyde around some curves in the road, "dirt track style", before heading into town to pick up the mail. It was a quarter ‘til eleven when he pulled up to the general store. He bounded out of the roadster and up the steps. He opened the door and Mr. O’Haley greeted him. Paul nodded quickly and went to the window for his family’s mail. He was handed a letter from his Aunt Jen, a Sears Catalog and lastly, a letter addressed to him from the U.S. Government. His heart sank. He rushed out of the store and into his car. Blinded with tears and rage he mashed the throttle and raced home. The mail was all over the floor boards except the yellow Government document which he held in a firm fist, which he used to mash the gears with. He arrived at the farm and slid nearly in a circle when he roared onto the property. He heard a shrill whistle and turned to see the Challenger approaching at breakneck speed. He howled with anguish and pain. His ma through open the screen door and bounded down the steps. His father, who was atop a thresher, stopped the machine dead and came to see what had his Pauly so distraught. Shaking and crying he climbed out of the roadster and shook his fists at the train, God, the world.

Paul would never return from the bloody battle of D-Day. He was a hero to those who were part of the landing. Paul had thrown himself in the line of fire to protect his sergeant. He was killed instantly. The family in Wyoming was given a certificate and a Government issue American flag. His father made a monument and the flag waved in memory of a fallen son……

 A rooster crowed and the yard looked from Michael to the roadster known as Clyde. Michael paused. The roadster had been true to its owner. Never had endangered it’s operator or anyone around it. The sky overhead was gaining color, dawn would soon be here. Michael decided. The roadster’s time had come.

The gates to Purgatory Auto Salvage swung open. A bright light from the east burned from between the gates. Michael spoke to Clyde. Another chance is worth second to that of life itself, enjoy. Clyde’s engine fired up and he rolled forward. As Clyde gained ground, he began to change. The roadster’s tires reinflated and the rusty 16" wheels were now the brilliant apple green that they once were. The fogged glass in the windshield was clear and brilliant again. The faded, crazed paint and chipped pinstriping were fresh once again. Pitted chrome and torn upholstery were now unscathed and the coughing, smoking flathead, was now bellowing proudly in the yard. With a slip of the clutch, Clyde’s rear wheels fanned the salvage yard with dirt. With the flathead firing strongly he raced through the gates and into the light…….

The sun rose and filled the fields with the radiance of early dawn on the plains. Within the gates of Purgatory Auto Salvage, a breeze wafted through and scattered the dust, that was once a ’55 Bel Air, at the ground at Michael’s tires. A scatter of birds swooped from overhead and landed in the yard. They chirped then stopped abruptly at a sound then were airborne once again. The gates to the wrecking yard swung open and a rusty GMC tow truck rolled through. Behind it was a ’59 Edsel Ranger four door sedan. The rear end of the brown colored Edsel was in sad shape. The rear bumper stuck out of the trunk and the taillights were smashed beyond recognition. Inside the seats had been unbolted and were lying upon the driveshaft hump. An Oregon license plate hung askew off of the front bumper. The car had lost its hubcaps years ago and now was resting on four different tires. Over all the old Edsel was in good condition. As the car was towed in, the rear wheels kept locking up as if to prevent it from entering the yard. The big Jimmy swung around then set the ’59 next to a white ’60 Ford panel truck. As fast as the tow truck had entered it was gone. The Edsel settled on its springs and like every other car in the yard, waited.

EPILOGUE

" The Challenger Run "

Sebastian’s clear green eyes scanned the horizon. He was a tall and lean young man of 17. New to this environment of plains and farms, he seemed more than eager to explore his new surroundings. His father was happy with the big barn and his mom was eagerly hustling items into the beautiful old farmhouse. Sebastian walked down to the turnaround and decided to explore the old lean-to that was beside the big grey barn. Cautiously, he opened the door. A few wasps flew out and a mouse ran past his feet. He let out a yelp of surprise and backed away. When everything had settled down, he entered into the building and stood gape mouthed at what he saw. On the wall was an original Vargas pin-up girl calendar from 1943. The month showing was March with a date circled in red pencil. Hanging on the surrounding walls were pictures of old race cars and midget sprint cars. Various tools were scattered about and a stack of Firestone tires were in the far corner. Something big was in the center of the garage. It was covered up with a dozen canvas drop cloths. Sebastian’s pulse quickened. He cracked open the doors to the lean-to and the bright yellow sunlight poured into the dusty old room. One by one, he pulled the drop cloths off and revealed a genuine A-V8 hot rod. His breathing was rapid. He screamed for his dad. This had to be shared! His father came running around the side of the barn in time to see Sebastian rolling the roadster out into the middle of the yard. The paint was gleaming in the light of day. The V-8 caps reflected the sunlight cheerfully. Sebastian stood beside the roadster with a grin and said, "Can I keep it?"

The rest of the day was spent searching out the old lean-to. There were more surprises to be found. An original SCTA medallion and a stack of racing programs were discovered. An extra set of Federal-Mogel heads and a rickety old storage cabinet revealed eight Stromberg carburetors. His father, who already had a good collection of hot rod parts was impressed with his son’s new finds. It’s not everyday a 17 year old kid discovers an A V-8 hot rod. The father and son team worked into the wee hours of the night tinkering with the old roadster. Everything was pretty much sound. Even the brakes were in good shape with solid lines and no leaks anywhere. The biggest surprise was the fuel. It was still in good shape and even smelled good. At 1 A.M., the pair fired the old roadster up and went for a drive. Sebastian’s father leapt in and sat shot gun.

"You are envious aren’t you?" He chided his dad. His father smiled and nodded. "It is yours son. Just take care and respect this find." The pair drove for awhile and explored the country roads by moonlight. The old flathead was more than a surprise to both of them. It pulled and would howl unlike any engine they had ever heard. Sebastian and his dad decided to put it away for the night. Coming off of a side road the roadster barked its tires and began to eat up pavement. When from out of the dark, the pair were startled by a sudden blast from a steam locomotive’s whistle. Beside them churning into the night was a big engine with the number 3985 on the cab. The engineer again pulled on the whistle and motioned at the pair in the roadster. Sebastian’s dad looked to his right and saw the farmhouse race by. "Hey son, you missed the-." But he saw that Sebastian had another plan. The old Ford’s engine was a rapid firing staccato. The road ahead was a blur as the old roadster chased its headlights. Beside them, again the locomotive screamed a warning. Sebastian’s dad glanced again at the locomotive and remembered that the Challenger was making a run through Wyoming before heading to Denver. Sebastian’s eyes were watering freely as his speed increased. The road ahead had a slow turn to the left which went across the rail road tracks. It was rapidly approaching. So to was the Challenger. With his pulse racing Sebastian let out a whoop. His dad screamed as well. The night was alive. The speeding train, the roar of the old Ford hot rod with its occupants letting out with their own war cries. Then, they were there. The roadster flashed across the tracks and into the night. The Challenger locomotive missed the old Ford. The engineer smiled. He had been a lad sitting on his dad’s lap in the summer of ’43 riding in this very engine. The roadster looked familiar. His guess was it was. Destiny always has her way.

Original idea by Mark "Spooky" Karol-Chik

September 20, 2000

Copyright 10/2000 by Mark "Spooky" Karol-Chik