My Plymouth
Once upon a time, I had a little black car.
I had bought it sort of because I had to. It seems that I had accidentally totaled my previous little black car when it got rammed amidship by a drunk driver, which took place a few days after being rammed from behind by an unlicenced driver who fled the scene. I walked into my insurance agent's office on Monday morning to report not one, but two accidents that had occurred since the close of business on Friday afternoon. Since the middle of it was pushed in about a foot, the appraiser told me to go buy another car, so off I went to go car shopping, one of my favorite things to do at the time.
In a little car lot on Lakeview Ave in Dracut, MA, I spotted a car that looked pretty cool, so I stopped and checked it out. It was a Plymouth Tourismo. The Tourismo was a performance version of the TC3, which was the three-door version of the Horizon econobox. It came with a 2.2 engine and four on the floor. It was the kind of a car you'd call a "pocket rocket".
I was into street racing then. Not many folks were, it was that inbetween time in American car design. The emissions control laws had really choked off American performance and all the kids of street racing age could afford were crappy little economy cars like Ford Escorts. This is before the aftermarket manufacturers started making stuff for more modern cars that the subculture of "tuners" enjoys today. There were'nt any good car songs like in the 50's and 60's, there weren't any good car movies either. It was a sad time for American cars, and therefore american youth.
I was always a throwback to earlier times. I grew up listening to oldies and watching classic car flicks on our old black & white TV. Here are a few classics: Vanishing Point, Grand Theft Auto, Gone in 60 Seconds (not the Nicolas Cage version), and Two Lane Blacktop. Let's not forget American Graffitti!
With the help of a friend who worked in a garage, we turned that $2500 Plymouth into a stupidly fast little machine. Every time I'd break something in it, we'd put a higher performance part in to replace it. The little Plymouth was a huge part of my life. I won't go into the stories because I'll be here typing all night. It was faster than an IROC Camaro, and by the time we were done with it, it could outhandle a Corvette. It was my life, my very existance was wrapped up in that car and what limits I could push with it. I was working a couple of jobs then, and I could hardly wait until Friday and Saturday nights to go out racing, cruising, and just being behind the wheel of my Plymouth.
My Grandfather was killed in a fire in 1987, he lived next door to us in a basement apartment. I had been unable to get my Grandfather out of the burning building, was it because I was afraid? No, it was because the apartment was engulfed in flames, impenatrable without firefighters equipment. It had been so hot in there that the pots and pans melted. The next morning, as we came home from the hospital in my Plymouth, I realized that my clothes were scorched and burned from trying to get in, and we pulled a jagged piece of glass out of my leg from where I kicked in the window to try and get in from a different angle. I had done all that was humanly possible to get him out of there, but it's pretty hard to accept that kind of defeat when you are 19. I had some serious driving to do to prove myself to myself.
It got to be kind of an addiction. I had to go faster, win every time, do things to prove that I dared to do them. Crazy things, like taking a lap of a big rotary clockwise because my buddy Harry Casey said that I didn't have the balls to do it, like going by a speed trap at 135 MPH late one night because I knew the cop wouldn't dare get into a pursuit on those roads that fast and I had to prove that I was more daring than him.
My Mom was the benficiary of my Grandfather's $10,000 accidental death insurance policy. She gave $1000 each to my brother and myself. In a moment of sanity, and knowing that I had really exceeded the engineered capabilities of the Plymouth, I used the $1k as a downpayment to trade in the Plymouth on a brand new Jeep, like I had always wanted (as a little boy I used to love Rat Patrol, I always wanted a Jeep, a Tommy Gun and a Browning MG to mount on a pedestal in the back just like in the show, now that I'm a big boy, I have all three LOL!).
The Plymouth never left me, there isn't a week that goes by that I don't dream about it. It's like it haunts me because I abandoned it at the Jeep dealer. Maybe it haunts me because I ran away from it, trading it in before I died in it. I've decided to find one, to make things right again. Not neccesarily to hop up like my old one, but just to sit in, to touch, to feel the shape of the steering wheel and the shift knob. I've got a picture of one from a magazine ad hanging up down here in my office. Just looking at the ad (ignoring the goofy 1980's people in it and the fact that it is red instead of black) I can feel every crease of the sheet metal fender, the curve of the spoiler, the smell of interior, the sound of the cherry bomb exhaust.
The strange part is that there don't seem to be any in existance. I've been searching the web for one for some time now. There is one for sale for $500 in San Antonio, TX which is 2000 miles away. It's slightly newer than mine was, mine was a 1981 and the one for sale is a 1985. There were little design changes, all styling stuff, but the body shell, drivetrain and interior should all be the same. I've been daydreaming about hopping a Southwest Airlines flight to Texas and driving home with it.
If anyone has a line on a 1981 Plymouth TC3 Tourismo, let know know! I have unfinished business with it.
I had bought it sort of because I had to. It seems that I had accidentally totaled my previous little black car when it got rammed amidship by a drunk driver, which took place a few days after being rammed from behind by an unlicenced driver who fled the scene. I walked into my insurance agent's office on Monday morning to report not one, but two accidents that had occurred since the close of business on Friday afternoon. Since the middle of it was pushed in about a foot, the appraiser told me to go buy another car, so off I went to go car shopping, one of my favorite things to do at the time.
In a little car lot on Lakeview Ave in Dracut, MA, I spotted a car that looked pretty cool, so I stopped and checked it out. It was a Plymouth Tourismo. The Tourismo was a performance version of the TC3, which was the three-door version of the Horizon econobox. It came with a 2.2 engine and four on the floor. It was the kind of a car you'd call a "pocket rocket".
I was into street racing then. Not many folks were, it was that inbetween time in American car design. The emissions control laws had really choked off American performance and all the kids of street racing age could afford were crappy little economy cars like Ford Escorts. This is before the aftermarket manufacturers started making stuff for more modern cars that the subculture of "tuners" enjoys today. There were'nt any good car songs like in the 50's and 60's, there weren't any good car movies either. It was a sad time for American cars, and therefore american youth.
I was always a throwback to earlier times. I grew up listening to oldies and watching classic car flicks on our old black & white TV. Here are a few classics: Vanishing Point, Grand Theft Auto, Gone in 60 Seconds (not the Nicolas Cage version), and Two Lane Blacktop. Let's not forget American Graffitti!
With the help of a friend who worked in a garage, we turned that $2500 Plymouth into a stupidly fast little machine. Every time I'd break something in it, we'd put a higher performance part in to replace it. The little Plymouth was a huge part of my life. I won't go into the stories because I'll be here typing all night. It was faster than an IROC Camaro, and by the time we were done with it, it could outhandle a Corvette. It was my life, my very existance was wrapped up in that car and what limits I could push with it. I was working a couple of jobs then, and I could hardly wait until Friday and Saturday nights to go out racing, cruising, and just being behind the wheel of my Plymouth.
My Grandfather was killed in a fire in 1987, he lived next door to us in a basement apartment. I had been unable to get my Grandfather out of the burning building, was it because I was afraid? No, it was because the apartment was engulfed in flames, impenatrable without firefighters equipment. It had been so hot in there that the pots and pans melted. The next morning, as we came home from the hospital in my Plymouth, I realized that my clothes were scorched and burned from trying to get in, and we pulled a jagged piece of glass out of my leg from where I kicked in the window to try and get in from a different angle. I had done all that was humanly possible to get him out of there, but it's pretty hard to accept that kind of defeat when you are 19. I had some serious driving to do to prove myself to myself.
It got to be kind of an addiction. I had to go faster, win every time, do things to prove that I dared to do them. Crazy things, like taking a lap of a big rotary clockwise because my buddy Harry Casey said that I didn't have the balls to do it, like going by a speed trap at 135 MPH late one night because I knew the cop wouldn't dare get into a pursuit on those roads that fast and I had to prove that I was more daring than him.
My Mom was the benficiary of my Grandfather's $10,000 accidental death insurance policy. She gave $1000 each to my brother and myself. In a moment of sanity, and knowing that I had really exceeded the engineered capabilities of the Plymouth, I used the $1k as a downpayment to trade in the Plymouth on a brand new Jeep, like I had always wanted (as a little boy I used to love Rat Patrol, I always wanted a Jeep, a Tommy Gun and a Browning MG to mount on a pedestal in the back just like in the show, now that I'm a big boy, I have all three LOL!).
The Plymouth never left me, there isn't a week that goes by that I don't dream about it. It's like it haunts me because I abandoned it at the Jeep dealer. Maybe it haunts me because I ran away from it, trading it in before I died in it. I've decided to find one, to make things right again. Not neccesarily to hop up like my old one, but just to sit in, to touch, to feel the shape of the steering wheel and the shift knob. I've got a picture of one from a magazine ad hanging up down here in my office. Just looking at the ad (ignoring the goofy 1980's people in it and the fact that it is red instead of black) I can feel every crease of the sheet metal fender, the curve of the spoiler, the smell of interior, the sound of the cherry bomb exhaust.
The strange part is that there don't seem to be any in existance. I've been searching the web for one for some time now. There is one for sale for $500 in San Antonio, TX which is 2000 miles away. It's slightly newer than mine was, mine was a 1981 and the one for sale is a 1985. There were little design changes, all styling stuff, but the body shell, drivetrain and interior should all be the same. I've been daydreaming about hopping a Southwest Airlines flight to Texas and driving home with it.
If anyone has a line on a 1981 Plymouth TC3 Tourismo, let know know! I have unfinished business with it.
posted by MVTCoPete | 6:43 PM
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