DAvid Wilson Atwood

Automobiles and Me

There hasn’t been a time, from the age of three days on, that the automobile has not been a part of my life. I came home in a 1940 Ford Coupe, and I remember that car. It was black with the big rounded fenders that I used to slide down, and had a grill that looked like the baleen of a whale.  Nothing has affected my life like the automobile. They were my second passion between baseball and girls.

When I was a little boy, my Dad and I would play a game as we drove around town. I would try to guess the make and model of cars. In those days, they didn’t all look alike. Later, I built plastic models. I was good at it, customizing them as I dreamed I someday would. I did.

Because cars were a passion, I learned about them. Cars are the reason my reading skills ever developed beyond “Dick and Jane”. I couldn’t find enough to read about them, and what I did find, I submitted to memory. With this knowledge and the skill developed from model building, came the desire to customize my own car. It was an uphill battle.

Dad wouldn’t let me do anything to my car, even though I had bought it, that would diminish its resale value. Whatever went on had to be able to be removed without leaving a trace. That left me hubcaps, and wax, and not much else. I turned my knowledge and budding skills to things that couldn’t be seen such as the engine, exhaust, and drive train.

I don’t know if Dad ever caught on, but I know he wondered. When we agreed to sell the car, the new owner commented, “I’ve never driven a six cylinder with that much power. Man, that thing wants to jump right out from under you. And that clutch is sure hard to push.” 

Dad probably thought the guy was negotiating, but I knew better. With all the modifications I had made to the suspension, engine, clutch, and differential, that car would jump off the ground. It was one of my favorite tricks to do down University Drive in Fort Worth.

My buddies and I would sit at a red light, rev the engine, and pop the clutch. If I timed it right, the tires would bite so hard that the car would hop, bounce, and leave the ground with the engine screaming before it landed, leaving smoke from the burning tires in the face of whoever had the misfortune of being behind us and terrifying the family in the station wagon next to us. It was great fun, but expensive. I doubt I ever got a thousand miles out of a set of tires.

After the Marine Corps., and college, I discovered I was making more money fixing cars than I ever would with a degree in biology, so I did what I had always wanted to do. I became a mechanic.

Since then, I’ve repaired them, raced them, sold them, designed them, taught about them, and had a wonderful life because of them. It still goes on. My heart races when some kid blows by me in a souped up hot rod and I get the smell of burning rubber and oil in my nostrils. The Admiral will say, “Fool kids,” and I’ll smile…fool kids indeed.