Much to his surprise, I did indeed return. He asked me my thoughts. I just shrugged my shoulders then asked him if I could examine this car and some others, again. I looked at a half-dozen or so then walked back to the SS 409. After I looked underneath it from the front and the rear, I remember like it was yesterday telling him that all I had was $1,900 cash and the '55 Olds. He reiterated again that no one wanted the 409 and was I sure I did? As he contemplated my continued offer, I mentioned that the Olds was worth a lot more than the cash difference of $200. After all, it was only eight years old. In an instant, he said, "Cash?" I nodded affirmative. With a straight face, he then said, "sold." He quickly inspected my Oldsmobile, then I drove to my bank, got the $1,900 and returned. He accepted the Olds as the cost difference, including sales tax and license fees. It was indeed winter and I learned that performance cars aren't very good sellers. I figured my ship had come in. The peanut gallery (mom and dad) also approved.
Over the next few days, I bought a 3.36 open third member at a junkyard for $15 and installed it at my friend's Sunoco gas station. Highway mileage jumped to 15 from a dismal 10. A Hurst shifter from Honest Charley's catalog would come later. The next week I was back in Parsons College in Fairfield, Iowa. I waited on tables at the Lions Club a few nights a week for $3 an hour, did engine super-tune-ups, miscellaneous freelance farm work and worked at an auction on Friday night, all to earn money for gas and insurance. I parked the car in an elderly lady's unused garage for $5 a month and drove a beater car and a friend's Maico 250cc motorcycle to get around school and town.
The Impala SS ran in the 13.70s at 102 mph with the factory 4.56:1 gear ratio, lake pipes and 7-inch slicks. Surprisingly, my best friend's new 1964, 3x2, 389 GTO with 4.33:1 gears, headers and slicks ran 13.90 at 99 mph. Towards the end of the summer-with fenderwell headers, super-tuning, one head gasket instead of two, a Z11 cam and ram-air-my car ran in the 12.80s and 12.90s at 108-109 mph. It was a fun ride and never broke a thing. In the fall, I decided to leave the '62 in my parent's garage and take the train back to southeast Iowa and college. Cheap beater cars were all over the place. Farmers were always dragging derelicts in "off the farm."
Late '64: Two Street Races
As a practice, I never street raced. Period. But in November '64, I was challenged by one of the Windy City's finest. I was home for Thanksgiving and got my '62 out to go see some friends 40 miles away. I'm driving south. A patrolman is headed north. The '62s front end was jacked up and the Doug's fenderwell headers with side exit glasspack exhaust were rumbling good. I noticed him eyeballing me. I then saw him do a U-turn as I turned right onto a four lane, one-way west street that eventually merged onto the freeway.
Within four stoplights, the patrolman was on my right side beckoning me to roll down my passenger window. I obliged.
He asked, "That an '09?"
I nodded affirmatively.
He replied, "Ya wanna run it?"
I answered, "Against what?"
He said, "I've got a 327 '56 Chevy that'll blow your doors off."
I just smiled back at him. We met at midnight on a closed off industrial street on the northwest side. Geez, a patrolman asked me to show him how much quicker my car was than his. My '62 had 9.00-14 Atlas Bucrons and an E&R rubber disc clutch that put 1 1/2 car lengths on his white '56 in first, second and third gear. That was that.