Would you believe I had a vision of the perfect car sale? It happened this past winter when Jeff Burk and I decided to leave Los Angeles and rumble down the open road of legendary Route 66.
Amidst the tumbleweeds, truck stops, and wide-open spaces, we pull into a large junkyard. There, lying on the oil-soaked dirt surrounded by assorted time-tortured bric-a-brac, we discover a lightly rusted pair of dentless, near fully interiored '37 Chevy coupes.
An old guy wearing a dirty John Deer hat that looks like a crushed beer can crowning his head, gives us the once over and then in his best attempt at financial intimidation clears his throat. "Now, most of this stuff here is junk, boys," he says. "But, those two are pretty nice cars, don't you think? So, I'll be blunt but fair. I want $100 apiece for 'em." We pay him on the spot, put them on the trailer, shake hands, and wish him good luck.
It was just a vision, but something like that had to happen on the near 2,000-mile trip. We were passing through an environment populated by people who, when done with something, leave it where it dies and allow nature to take over.
Burk and I planned on keeping notes on our trip down what is billed, "America's Main Street." We initially were going to look for old abandoned dragstrips in the great outback of California, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri, but decided at journey's launch to look for cars. Chevys in particular.
The results of our venture were a little better than television anchor Geraldo Rivera opening Al Capone's vault. Only a little better! While Rivera wound up with another black mark on his reputation, we did get some tugs on our line.
We didn't see any old cars until we got outside of Daggett, California. On the eastern edge of the Nebo Marine base, we saw a hollow, rusted skinned '30s Chrysler paired with a fouled out Dodge Neon econo box. Things didn't get any better for the next 500 miles. There was one battered hulk that looked like it had been a chew toy for a Tyrannosaurus in Topok, Arizona, and a couple of dead slugs outside of Oatman, AZ.
This sad state of affairs was a bit of a shock because 28 years ago, while making the tour to Oklahoma for Don Garlits' first PRA National Challenge, I saw plenty of junk cars. But, by the year 2000, I guess they just sort of dried up and blew away.
It wasn't until we got to the bergs of Moriarty and Wagon Wheel, New Mexico, did we see actual junkyards. Only an acre or so in size, the desert sun had burned all the cars beyond recognition. We did make out a few rusted pre-'60s Chevys from the highway, but nothing really worth stopping for.
It wasn't until Texas did we see actual Chevrolets in the rough. In the town of McLean, The Pulse Bros. Junkyard (was that ever an apt name) housed a few early '50s and '60s Bow-Ties highlighted by a decent '30s Chevy stakebed truck.
A few miles down Interstate 40/Route 66, we came to Shamrock, Texas, and Bobbi Sue's Bargain Store. In a vacant lot next to her brick mini-fortress, we spied a pair of stripped '30s Chevy coupes with "For Sale" painted on the rusted body panels. With this being the best car sighting of the trip, we became optimistic and decided to refrain from using the notebook for rolling papers.
During our jaunt through the Texas panhandle and eastern Oklahoma, we stopped off in Amarillo to visit Jeff's mom Polly. We then journeyed over to Amarillo Dragway, the old home of the NHRA World Finals. At the track we spotted the pictured late-model Camaro, a car someone owned and drove and now had left for dead.