TORQUE

(Sent as an e-mail in March, 2003.)

I was always troubled by my attraction to fast cars as somehow a confession of sexual inadequacy.  I read that somewhere in some self-help or wimmin's magazine written by some Birkenstock-wearing weenie who drove an automatic Ford Escort or some such, probably while munching sunflower seeds and watching "Oprah" regularly. 

Having materially participated in the design and (re-)engineering and rebuilding of my '66 Pontiac GTO (since 1986, when I took it off the road), I may be able to point to that in lieu of my general disregard for my own physical prowess.  I am not in very good shape these days, being too fat and lazy, but my car is FAST!  With a much more potent 5-speed in place of the original 4-speed, I can now have a "granny" first gear and a stupendous high-speed "Positraction" final drive of 2.93:1, which calcs out to about 150 mph top end (not that I have the balls to find out).  I used to be able to do all that, but I have lost both my hair and my nerve over the years. 

The engine has been replaced/rebuilt several times, it now being a 400c.i. (orig. 389 c.i.) with the original 3-deuce intake, slightly “fatter” (than stock) cam and roller rockers, cast-iron semi-headers and low-restriction exhaust system.  It runs nicely around town on 93-oct. unleaded, but it will leap like a scalded dog when stomped.  I have wrung out 3d gear, but I have no nerve to see the limit in 4th or 5th. 

It will do almost 60 in first! 

When the clutch is dumped and the accelerator is stomped, the front end of the car arches up and twists simultaneously against the torque of the engine, the clutch disk slamming against the flywheel.  The noise is unbelievably loud, with all three carbs sucking deep, their reptilian hissing mixed with the honking wail of the engine.  The noise obliterates one's thinking.  One is literally slammed into the back of the seat, unable to lean forward at all, barely able to peer over the front edge of the hood.  The compressed vitreous humor squeezes the available retinal field of view to a pinpoint, probably centered on the optic nerve end. With proper feathering, the tires will slip very little, they having been converted from the original bias-type tall, skinny "bicycle" tires to a low-profile, fat radial that is mounted on a repro Rally Type I wheel that is an inch larger in diameter (15") and inch wider (7") than the stock originals.  With a re-engineered suspension that uses offset upper control-arm shafts that pull the top of the wheel in toward the engine to get proper camber for the Firebird spindles now installed, the car corners very flat and sits about 3" lower than stock, using 1-1/2" sway bars front and rear.  All of this is backed up with massive disc brakes up front and the stock drums still in back.  GTO's didn't have disc brakes until 1967. 

All of this ensures that my car will do what the original GTO's would not: corner and stop.  The originals were great for straight-line acceleration, but way too many would try to straighten out curves and climb trees.  That is why there are fewer of them left, and a lot of counterfeits built from LeManses and Tempests abound.  The upholstery in the passenger seat is puckered, however, from the abject fear of the passengers.  It is a frightening car to ride in, despite the 5-point racing harnesses I added.  The console holds a pint of gin, "church-key" and bottle of Tabasco very nicely.  My college roommate inspired that rather proper use of the console!

  Nevertheless, the car lives up to its original acronym: GTO--gas, tires and oil--because it burns all three!    So!  Go ahead and color me "inadequate."  I do have an automatic in my truck, however.  No need to shift gears when there's no one to impress with burnouts!

Global warming?  I'm doing my best to contribute!