by "TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
Published 06/09/2017 at 00:07
by "TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
Published 06/09/2017 at 00:07
No Tags
STARS: 2
"Bman76 (no it doesn't need a WS6 hood) M. Arch" (bman76)
06/09/2017 at 00:12, STARS: 1
Dodge S T R A T U S
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:13, STARS: 0
W S 6
"Chariotoflove" (chariotoflove)
06/09/2017 at 00:13, STARS: 0
Hahaha. Yep, you put your finger on it.
"Bman76 (no it doesn't need a WS6 hood) M. Arch" (bman76)
06/09/2017 at 00:19, STARS: 0
X T 7
"Dusty Ventures" (dustyventures)
06/09/2017 at 00:20, STARS: 1
It looks like a mid-90's Dodge concept
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:21, STARS: 0
But with cool wheels.
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:21, STARS: 0
no.
"Bman76 (no it doesn't need a WS6 hood) M. Arch" (bman76)
06/09/2017 at 00:22, STARS: 0
op
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:23, STARS: 0
poop
"Dusty Ventures" (dustyventures)
06/09/2017 at 00:25, STARS: 0
Like I said
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:26, STARS: 0
Yeah.
"Bman76 (no it doesn't need a WS6 hood) M. Arch" (bman76)
06/09/2017 at 00:27, STARS: 0
Oppo
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:27, STARS: 0
ya
"Bman76 (no it doesn't need a WS6 hood) M. Arch" (bman76)
06/09/2017 at 00:29, STARS: 0
Ja
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:33, STARS: 1
There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
"aberson Bresident of the FullyAssed Committe" (emaxxbl)
06/09/2017 at 00:35, STARS: 0
ford probe
"RallyWrench" (rndlitebmw)
06/09/2017 at 00:44, STARS: 0
If I’m not mistaken, this burned to the ground in its transporter.
"TheHondaBro" (wwaveform)
06/09/2017 at 00:54, STARS: 0
:(
"RallyWrench" (rndlitebmw)
06/09/2017 at 00:54, STARS: 2
“Write a novel you say? My hearing’s not so good since the war, but boy do I have a book for you, sonny. Well, it was back in the spring of 84, as I recall... I wasn’t but knee high to a grasshopper and there had just been a storm. And it was a doosy, I tell ya, Old man McClenahan’s barn had come down, and I caught wind on the playground that there was a somethin’ there amidst the dead cows and tractors and such. So sure enough I pedaled on down and through the rubble I seent a glint of deep brown paint. Well, I tell ya, boys will be boys and curiousity done got the best of me so I’ll be if I didn’t poke on in there despite there bein’ warnin’s all about the place and scarecrows and whatnot. It was about that time, as I weasled through the concertina wire and past the sleeping dogs and got closer you see, that I saw a headlight and a piece of trim, maybe a little script on the side. I couldn’t make it out, so I lifted a couple of boards off the thing and saw one badge, clear as day: “Cressida”. Went around the back, and sure ‘nuff, there it was again... “Cressida”. I’d never seen such a thing, such a majestic long roof. What a wagon she was. Well, as i was sayin’ there, curiousity and boys bein’ what they are I found the door unlocked! Wouldn’t you know it! So’s I cozy’d on into that lounge chair for a peek. I noticed one thing that looked a mite out of place amid all that brown and plastic, a piece of aluminum comin’ up right between the seats with a ball on top, had some numbers on it. Well, could it be? My old man, bless his heart, he told me of this, called it Manuel. I knew from those stories about Manuel that he always had 3 pedals and danced about ‘em, and so’s I looked down by meh feet and what do you think I saw? Man alive, I saw three pedals! Something else, those were, I didn’t know what to do seein’ as I only have but these two feet. It was about that time I notice a key in the ignition, had a chain on it, said “Cummins”. Now I might have been a boy but I seen this “Cummins” before, it was right there on the front of them farm trucks down the road, and this were no farm truck. So I gets back out of the “Cressida” there, and use my keen sense of lookin’ at stuff when I see another word, “Toyota”. Well, what in the name of Odin’s beard is this, I say? Lookin to me like this wagon’s a Toyoter Cressida, but that key there says “Cummins”, right there clear as day. Why is that? So, well, I said it before there, curiosity is one hell of a path to cat mortality, so I wheedled around under by the pedals there till I found a lever and pulled it. THPANG. Boy, dang, I tell you what I jumped about a country mile when that great big hood popped open. I thought my goose was cooked, ol’ Farmer McClenahan was comin for sure. Turns out it was just the farmer’s old Goose, Chet, who was livin under that hood there, but nobody came. So I make my way round the front there real stealth like, humming that song from that spy thing that boys do, and I lifted that hood. Took some effort, I tell you, that was some piece of steel there. Well, son, I’ll be a mountain oyster if that engine there didn’t say “Cummins” on it, clear as a bell. But it said somethin’ else too, that bein’ “Turbodiesel”. Well, damn a country breakfast all to the moon, hoss, I it’s a diesel! Now, never bein’ very good at math it took me a fair tick to put it together, but boy once them gears are a turnin’... Now I need to back up a spell... when I wasn’t but an anklebiter my grandpa set me on his knee there, overlooking them amber fields of wheat, maybe it was the pacific ocean, I can’t be sure, but he set me on his knee there and regaled me with a story. Said it had been passed down generations, fathers and sons, grandpas gone mad with obsession, seeking what he called THE ONE. And that’s how he said, all caps like that , THE ONE. Had a tear in his eye, he did, and he told me about this THE ONE. Was a long time ago, Malaise they called it, when these furrin jobbies would show up. Made a load of noise, like a Chevy small block with a rod knock but supposed to do that, you know, and they would run on farm gas and go real far. They had them Manuel sticks in the middle, and all them city slickers with beards and elbow pad tweed coats and such would buy ‘em to feel good about themselves, but this gave the good ol’ boys an idea. Why not take a big ol’ farm motor and put it in one of them cars then go drag racin’ them hippies? Well McClenahoo, he was no dummy, and he got one, he always called it Crester seein as his favorite uncle was named Chester, but he had this whomping monster truck Dodge that his favorite bull Dave done kicked right over one day, defecatin’ all over it and such, was a right mess. But the engine, it still ticked. Now this is where Mr. Cummins comes in. Well old farmer Mac took that Cummins and stuffed in that there brown Chester wagon he had, then took the gear part out of his brother’s old Mustang that was just sittin’ there after he’d lost it to Mac (that’s Clenahan for short) in a card game played over a woman, Betsy her name was, and boy she was a number. Both them boys wanted to marry her proper, but she was only after the Mustang, knew what she wanted. So’s Mac bet his brother a game of Uno he could win that Mustang. Sure ‘nuff he did, but I’ll be danged if his no good brother went right out and drove that Mustang down into Shonash Ravine and left it there. Dickhead that boy was. But Mac wasn’t going to let that car or Betsy go so easy so he drove that beat up bullshitted ol’ Dodge down and pulled it out. Poor thing was a wreck so there it sat next to the barn, just gathering varmints and such until Mac’s idea hit him like a bolt of Tennessee sunshine in the mornin’. Why, that Mustang there had a great big monster stick in it on account of its big engine there, and well Mac he wanted that ol’ stick in his wagon diesel. That Mac, once he sets his mind he’s like one of those fish people tell you about, can skeleton a cow right quick. Ceptin’ this was car stuff. So he takes that big old stick box, takes that big old Cummins thing from the shitty Dodge, and sticks them right in there to the brown Creston. Fired right up, damn thing did donuts round the old elm side the house there, right scared the pants off neighbor Jim. Clouds of smoke, fire and brimstone, it was. Well ol’ Mac know what he needed to do: racin. So he went down the town square round midnight to pick off some hippies. First round he accidentally took down big John Fapperson’s Camaro, fastest car in the Tri-State area, no bunk. All the hippies, bein’ pacifists, run right off as they knew they had no chance with their beetlecars and oilbenzers and such. Well ol’ Mac there, he shut ‘er down at 6th & Main after running about a 3 second quarter there, eyes big as Ma’s apple pie, effluence runnin’ out his pants everywhar, ol ‘Cresty put a scare in him right quick, and John Fapp just set in his Camero, bitchin’ as it was, mumbling something about walking in front of Mustangs and car coffees. Never the same after that, shame, he played a hell of a shuffleboard. Well Betsy, beautiful, smart & pure though she was, couldn’t hold a candle to what old Mac McClenahan created that night. He became obsessed, running the Cressida all about the states, whompin’ people left and right for years till one day he damn near wrecked her off the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in a race with his own mind. Well that night he limped her home and parked her in the barn. Married Betsy the next day, come to his senses and all. But he wasn’t the same, he was a shell of a man. Bought a Reliant and went into accounting, haunted in his dreams by the thought of her spooling up and eating him. That’s the legend of THE ONE there, case you lost me. I get ahead sometimes. So that car it sat, all those years, farmer accountant Mac told everybody he’d wrecked the car into the Rio Grande that night, never to be seen again. But people wondered, seein as Mac never would let anyone in that barn. One time little Channing Tatum ran in there tryin’ to hide from his sister and said he bumped into somethin’ hard in the dark, said it was covered though. Well back to my grampappy’s knee there, he says the local boys all heard of this beast car, looked like nothing but went like hell, a legend on the streets. Fapping’s Camero still sits there, rusting away, everyone afraid to touch it thinkin’ it’s cursed. That’s the kind of power old Mac’s machine showed. Hushed circles around the fire, these boys took to calling it THE ONE and the legend grew. Word was Don Garlits made it into a secret Swamp Rat down in Florida. It killed Kennedy too, so damn fast no one saw it pull up there like a ghost. It led the charge in Desert Storm, brown paint blending in, throwing up rooster tails of Iraqi sand with a sshhhhROOOOOOOWWWW and a CCHHHHHHHPOOOOOOOOOOSSSHHHHHHWAAAAAAAAAA, sound of freedom right there, even scared our own boys. Why I even heard THE ONE dang made Baghdad in 9 minutes, all the other time was just waiting for our boys to show up cuz tanks are slow. That’s probably made up, of course, but that’s the legend of THE ONE. Boys been hypothersizin on it ever since, but no one knew what exactly she was seein as Mac never told no one what Chester’s made of. Some say it was a station wagon like any other back then, brown and comfy like. Some say that thing got a hemi, others a farm engine like. And this Manuel’s name keeps coming up, but nobody ever met the feller cept for when Champ Bellerman thought his grandma’s gardener was him but he wasn’t, knew a lot about lawnmowers though, smart feller, and he told us people always got confused about car sticks and his name, calling them Manuel and such, but they meant Manual, spelled totally different, not even a guy, just a stickbox, but it’s a big deal in some parts, bigger than guns, bigger than cigarettes. So’s back to the barn, come that storm of ‘84 and myself wanderin’ about, I seen this badge, and the brown paint, and that gilded stick in the middle, and that big ol’ engine, and peeked under the back just to be sure and saw a big old pumpkin tube thing back there and I knew, it hit me like a damn shovel to the face in a backwoods Kentucky bourbon bearfight, I’d found her and knew what she was, knew what made me become a gearhead: A brown, manual, turbodiesel, rear wheel drive wagon.
"diplodicus" (diplodicus)
06/09/2017 at 08:25, STARS: 1
Can’t remember the name of the book but some concept car book I read said this concept is what the Dodge Intrepid was based off of.
"Nauraushaun" (nauraushaun12)
06/11/2017 at 01:50, STARS: 0
Why did you tell me this
"Nauraushaun" (nauraushaun12)
06/11/2017 at 01:50, STARS: 0
Can’t believe how long it took for 4 door supercars to be a thing
"RallyWrench" (rndlitebmw)
06/11/2017 at 01:54, STARS: 0
Because my brain remembers pointless things about obscure cars.
"Nauraushaun" (nauraushaun12)
06/11/2017 at 22:06, STARS: 0
Sad things about obscure cars* :(