Jangleguy and Dr. Lockjaw Get Old

The Good Doctor (AKA Jamie Ford) and myself (secret code name: Jangleguy) aren’t getting any younger. Nobody told us, so we were the last to know. But this weekend at the drags, we finally caught on. Although our friendship was born of a shared reverence for grassroots drag racing (see Doc’s ‘Tetanus II’ in the Ballad of Dr. Lockjaw post, and my ‘Son of Godzilla’ in various posts), our racers have been parked for the last two years, due to time and budget realities. So we’ve been keeping sane by amusing ourselves with our daily drivers.

Technically, Doc’s driver is strictly a summer car. And in one of life’s most cruel but poetic ironies, the master metal smith now finds himself piloting a fiberglass car. Doc’s dream car had long been a Deuce coupe and he began collecting pieces for the build about 15 years ago. It finally hit the road last fall with an affordable plastic 3-window wrapper over a period drivetrain and chassis. Mine is a dedicated daily beater, neither cool nor fast. That story is told in the Bi-Polar Bear post.

Curmudgeons that we are, we chose to boycott this weekend’s Medford Cruise on general principal (as usual), but decided to take our drivers to the Medford Cruise Stoplight Drags, just to see what they’d do. This was the first time either of us had run non-race type cars at the track and what a revelation it was! We both really enjoyed breezing through tech and lounging in the staging lanes (neither of us so much as checked tire pressure). We arrived early to score shady spots in the staging lanes and rolled our windows down to watch our buddies try to fend off heat stroke while strapped into cramped aluminum cockpits in pressure-cooker conditions. They were already exhausted from nerve wracking tows of various distances, then stressing over last minute tweaks before class qualifying began.

First up: Doctor Lockjaw’s Coupe. Doc drove 30 miles into town to race. It was hot (92 degrees), but he cranked the windshield out and caught some breeze. At the track, he uncapped his homebrewed headers and deemed the car fit for battle. The obvious focal point is the Cragar 4-71 setup on the 383 inch Chevy. It’s backed by a Muncie 4-speed and 9” Ford rear (I believe the gears are 3.55s). He vowed to make a tentative first pass, but couldn’t help himself. That’s when he discovered the shift linkage wasn’t adjusted precisely enough for bang shifting. Instead of crawling under the car in the gravel pits and adjusting the linkage, he chose to live with it. The Hurst slicks were no match for the slime carried onto the track by the street tires on the Cruise participant’s cars, so prodigious wheel spin must be factored into Doc’s best run (out of two), a 12.99 at 108 MPH. That’s a conservative-guesstimate 12.30, with traction.

The Medford Cruise Drags are limited to pre-’73 cars, so I waited until the next night to run my late model car at the Run Whatcha Brung Drags, which are open to anyone. More irony: Mister Jangleguy (known for my sub-90 inch wheelbase hot rods) is now down to one vehicle, bigger than all my previous rides put together: A colossal ’80 Malibu station wagon. My 91 degree commute was cooler and shorter than Doc’s (five miles), but like him, I rolled in, got in line and ran. I didn’t even bother to uncap the headers, as I was after baseline numbers before making some future changes to the car. I’m building a nice 9” rear, and will soon be swapping in a slippery converter, changing to a slightly more aggressive cam and cylinder heads – all changes that should wake the car up, while keeping around-town reliability and drivability intact (see the Bi-Polar Bear post for current snoozy specs). Frankly, I was worried. Every part on this car is beyond tired and I was really sweating the whiny TH-350 trans and spindly 7 ½” 10-bolt rear, as this is currently my only car and any breakage would be devastating to my moth-eaten wallet and holy shoes. Of course, once I staged, I instantly forgot all of that – it was party time. I made three back-to-back runs to get a baseline average from, hitting best numbers of 15.43 and 88.39, both on my first pass. By the time I staged for the second run, the track was slimed. The third pass was a waste of time. The average numbers were 15.57 (ET) and 87.85 (MPH). I’m confident that my planned changes will improve those numbers dramatically, without affecting in-town daily driver status a bit. And hey, if I have to drive this turd around every day, I might as well enjoy the ride, right? So I’m going ahead with the updates.

  I handed my camera off to famed drag photog Dennis Vollmer, who snapped these entries for my scrapbook. Thanks Dennis!

Yeah, we’re aging. But that doesn’t mean we’re maturing. We still watched the fast cars with the same envy as when we were twelve. I miss mine dearly and hope to be back in the mix someday soon. Until then, I’m having fun going slow for peanuts. The Doctor recommends it, too.

Your reward for enduring us doddering old fools is a sampling of street cars from the Medford Cruise Stoplight Drags at Champion Raceway. Is your car in this bunch? If so, thanks for bringing it out and making our day!

Look again. This Mopar coupe began as a 4-door sedan.

    This guy was having a blast torturing his crossram smallblock Model A all day.

Every time he banged a gear, he'd turn the wheel a bit without realizing it. The odds finally caught up with him.

  Luckily, the guy was fine and the damage is fixable. The Father's Day Curse: Every year I've attended this event, a street car has crashed. Weird. We hope to see this one back soon...

 After lurking in the staging lanes all day, this beautiful S-W-C tribute car finally got as far as the water box, where he had a great view of the Model A crash. He slinked away immediately afterward and never made a pass. His loss and ours. Shame.

AMERICAN THRILL RIDE REVISITED

It was last September when fellow local yokel Chris Darland gave us a sneak preview of his American Thrill Ride film (see American Thrill Ride - Sept. 2011). Imagine the cast of Clerks playing the leading roles in a satire of Two Lane Blacktop and you get the picture. Now imagine the cast of Clerks are all old friends of yours and you can understand the rush of attending the World Premier of American Thrill Ride last night. There isn't an actor in the bunch. These parts are played by mechanics, fabricators and laborers - all of whom can be found trolling the streets of our town at any given hour in grossly overpowered machinery. I've known most of these characters for years and even worked on some of the starring cars. Hell, my own car even makes a short (10.32 seconds) appearance (above, during opening credits). The September story ended with a prediction that the project would be finished in a couple of years. Chris got it done in eight months. During that time, work continued at the usual panicky pace at Chris' Hot Rodz shop. Chris really likes coffee.

Our fair city has witnessed a semi-renaissance of vintage movie theater popularity as of late, with two multi-million dollar restorations seemingly competing for Biggest Deal status. Beautiful venues, both. We also boast a valley full of faceless multiplexes. But Chris deemed them all unworthy of hosting the Premier. He held out for a location appropriate to the subject matter and production values of the film. After months of herculean negotiations, the perfect viewing locale was finally secured at Angelo's Pizza, across from the bland new Autozone store, along Strip Mall Row. Seating was limited (you never know when a softball or soccer team will hijack the joint), so early arrival was encouraged. The variety of cars in the parking lot represents the vast diversity of gearhead interests in the area. Every walk of life was represented and every niche of the hot rod microcosm, as well. The film project was a true community effort, and the Premier was attended by everyone from unemployed wrecking yard dismantlers to doctors, lawyers and Indian Chiefs.

     This Mopar beater started the overflow parking in an adjacent field, as nearby apartment residents strolled in to enjoy the free car show.

                          Chris Darland says a quick prayer, seconds before introducing the film...

After a couple hours of bench racing and pizza scarfing, tension had swelled to the boiling point. When the lights dimmed and this image hit the screen, backed by a screeching psychobilly soundtrack, the throng erupted into a deafening cheer and it was on. 90 minutes later, we staggered out to the parking lot with aching jaws and ribs. Mission accomplished! Way to go, Chris...

                                       Dinner and a movie with a hundred buddies... priceless.


SGE Movie Review: AMERICAN THRILL RIDE by Chris Darland **** (4 Digital Stars AKA Asterisks)

Elvis running the NASCAR circuit? Chuck Conners bangshifting a roadster? Frankie Avalon shoeing a Fueler? This kind of bizarre miscasting amused the general public in ridiculous exploitation flicks from High School Confidential to The Fast and Furious, as bona fide gearheads exited theaters and limped back to their garages, shaking their heads in baffled disgust. Now, the film genuine hot rodders have been waiting for since the invention of celluloid, has finally arrived. Getting it right turned out to be as simple and easy as following these basic guidelines:

1. DO: Remember that reality begins at least a thousand miles away from Hollywood.
2. DON'T: Try to force your misinformed idea of a culture you're ignorant of up anyone's ass.
3. DO: Have a chassis fabricator write, direct and produce the film.
4. DON'T: Cast hotrodders as background extras in a lame attempt at credibility (the most insulting form of exploitation).
5. DO: Cast hotrodders as hotrodders (they can also portray cops, hit men and bartenders with insightful accuracy).
6. DON'T: Present gearhead culture in a dry documentary form that alienates anyone not born into it.
7. DO: Feel free to parody every so-called "car movie" ever made. Real rodders' angst needs a healthy release.

This reviewer was tempted to celebrate America's first real hot rod film with a fifth asterisk, but refrained due to credibility consideration. There are flaws. The plot is unnecessarily convoluted. The hero drives several different cars, which confused and distracted some viewers. Bits of dialogue are nearly unintelligible. These issues are chickenshit, compared to the atrocities committed by the makers of the films mentioned above. But hey, a propensity for nitpicking is what sets us reviewers apart from you commoners. We know you hate us for making obscene money by attending free premiers of films that you must fork over hard earned green for at the box office, but being hated is a small price to pay for the perks. Besides, if we weren't so pompous, you might be tempted not to read our reviews and obey our orders (which are handed down to us by our corporate sugar daddies). But I digress...

There's nothing more satisfying than seeing people do what they love. Whether that's building and driving hot rods, or getting in some laughs at the expense of those who've blatantly exploited them, the gratification is equal. But the best laugh of all is when we laugh at ourselves. Do it from the heart and do it often. Trust me on this. American Thrill Ride will be available soon on DVD. See www.divebombersgarage.com for details.

BIG WILLIE ROBINSON

There are a lot of people out there much more qualified than me to write this. I never met Willie in person. I never raced on the street or the track with him or his organization. Never stepped foot on his storied Brotherhood Raceway on Terminal Island at Long Beach, California.

There are several mentions of Willie and how his actions and words influenced me, on this blog. The influence was profound, to say the least, especially considering he was a total stranger. About a year ago, I decided to do something about it. It took some help, but I eventually tracked Willie down to a van in a parking lot, somewhere in the L.A. basin. My intention was to see about the possibility of an interview and thank him for having made a positive impact on my life. After a few minutes on the phone, he began to sense that I wanted nothing more than the truth from him and he began to open up to me. Over the proceeding months, we came to trust and even confide in each other, sharing hopes and fears, frustrations and celebrations, memories and future plans. Willie often called me from the waiting room in the Westwood VA hospital, where they were chasing down a stubborn infection in his foot, tweaking a pacemaker they'd installed, and generally trying to keep him tuned up. When I called him, Willie was usually in the van (he called it his "trailer"), in a Universal Studios parking lot, where boredom seemed to be draining him dry. It's been almost a month now since we last spoke. Willie died almost exactly 12 hours ago. But boredom didn't kill Big Willie Robinson.

As he explained it to me, Willie did a stint in Vietnam for the Special Forces, taking AK-47 fire on at least three occasions. Although he received his orders directly from the CIA, treatment for his wounds was provided at pedestrian VA hospitals (44 years worth of it). After returning stateside, Willie threw himself into street racing and came to see it as one of the few affordable goal oriented activities for disaffected L.A. youth, and a healthier alternative to gang life. The L.A.P.D. approached Willie during the LA riots for help and he managed to persuade a lot of people to look at the bigger picture and work for the common good. One thing they all had in common was an appreciation for a badass ride. At that point, the Brotherhood of Street Racers went high profile and Willie's connections with City Hall eventually resulted in the on again/off again drag strip at Terminal Island. While the gates at Brotherhood Raceway were open, street racing activity dropped dramatically. When the track was closed, locals became nostalgic for the more peaceful days of the riots.

We didn't get into how Willie met his wife, Tomiko. But I know that after they met and married, it was rare to find a photo of one without the other in the frame. I wrote Tomiko's obituary not too long ago. On the phone with Willie, I asked him about life without her. After a long pause, he answered in a semi-whisper,  "Tomiko was my life partner, my security, my everything. We were like Siamese twins. You know, in 2002, we worked together, providing security for U.S. Army intelligence. We did all that racing together. And after 38 years together, she died in my arms. It ain't easy."

Friends tell me Willie's physical decline began immediately after Tomiko's death and only picked up momentum from there. Willie told it differently. He said he was working with street gangs in New Orleans, and while helping one of them move a rollaway toolbox in a garage, it fell on his foot, splitting it wide open. Moments later, he received a call from the producers of the Fast and Furious films, asking him to come to L.A. and sign contracts for three new installments of the series, based on his life. Willie ignored his friend's pleas to get treatment for the foot and flew to L.A.

In Los Angeles, the studio supplied Willie with the van to live in (he'd lost his home after Tomiko's death) and he began consulting on the scripts. Friends drove him to the V.A. for treatment of his foot, but Gangreen had set in. The foot was soon amputated, followed by one leg, then the other, as the infection refused to respond to treatment. We discussed my wish to write his biography, but Universal now owned the rights to it and had two staff writers ahead of me on the waiting list. They told me I could write it if the other writers opted out for any reason. As of today, it's still out of my hands. That will work out however it's meant to.

Did Willie Robinson die of an infection, a broken heart, or some kind of negligence? A combination of the three? More will be revealed. Personally, I don't think it was any of those things. Willie told me, "In 1979, I was working with gang members in Chicago. Things were really bad and I didn't know if I was going to make it. Then God says to me, 'You still got work to do.' I told God I'd do my best, for making me Big Willie." From here, it looks like he just gave everything he had to life, until there wasn't anything left.


                             Snapshots of Big Willie from the Brotherhood of Street Racers website...

                                                             Big Willie and Tomiko

                        Big Willie (holding the Death Proof DVD) in the van that would be his last home.

                                               Willie's ride, in his driveway in Inglewood.

                                    Still preaching Peace Through Racing, just a few months ago.


And a few to illustrate the bare knuckle spirit that's been missing from America for way too long. These are Willie's children (over a million members, worldwide). They haven't forgotten and never will...

Every time we talked, Willie made it a point to tell me I was no less a veteran than him, just because I didn't see any combat. He encouraged my writing, drove me to work harder on my relationship with my girlfriend, and to make time for smelling the roses. And I'm just some stranger who called him on the phone.