At the start of summer of 1953, there were five thirteen-year-old boys
with nothing to do until Rogers’s dad put a battery into a 1935
Plymouth. All five of us were allowed to drive the car but only in the
woods across from Rogers’s house. The woods was made up of large
Scotch Bloom bushes, blackberry patches, and a few Evergreens.
The first time out we all hopped into the Plymouth with Roger
behind the wheel, he floored the gas pedal, popped the clutch, and the
Plymouth leaped forward about ten feet right into a large Scotch bloom
bush.
Ten million aphids lost their perch from the impact, the
Plymouth was covered with dazed little green bugs. Roger backed up,
then put it in low gear again, popped the clutch, and hit the Scotch
bloom bush again. Each of us took our turn at the wheel, and continued
impacting the bush, by the end of the day, most of the aphids were
attached to the Plymouth, our clothes and exposed body parts. The
Scotch bloom bush, no longer would hinder our progress, it lay beaten
under the frame of the Plymouth.
As each Scotch bloom bush fell to the wayside we gained another
four feet in the 'Tracks' length, by mid-summer the 'track in the
woods' was long enough; we were able to shift into second gear. Our
attempts at shifting into second gear was very awkward, there were
times we would shift before putting the clutch in and it sounded like
a finger nail across a blackboard but a 100 times louder. Slowly we
developed our skills in shifting into second gear, and then we went
one step further, speed shifting.
The ultimate speed shift made the Plymouth fish tail but this
was hard to do unless it was raining. But we discovered a little tick;
we would turn the wheel, just as we shifted and the Plymouth would
fish tail until it hit the next Scotch bloom bush. When we got back to
school in the fall we told everyone about our adventures in the
Plymouth and that’s when we started calling ourselves the Pro track
shifters.
One morning we walked out to the Plymouth parked on the track
and it was dead. We stood at the top of the hill watching the Plymouth
bounce then roll into a large blackberry patch and disappeared, we
knew our adventure with cars would continue.
After fact: I would come home after driving the Plymouth all day, and
throw my dirty clothes in the clothes hamper. My three sisters
complained to our mother, about the little dead bugs in their clothes,
all summer, I never said a word.
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