For those who don’t know, Forest Lane, in what was then north Dallas, was the longest public dragstrip in the country according to Hot Rod Magazine in the late 60s and early 70s. At the time, north Dallas was between Northwest Highway and the new 635 highway. The stop lights were (and are) in quarter mile increments, perfect for short races. There is no one particular site online, but when you search you can find out quite a bit about it.
On Friday and Saturday nights in high school, we would hang out in the parking lot of the Park Forest Theater. Smiley, the local truant officer, would give us rides around the parking lot. I was one of the people hanging out in the Park Forest parking lot and then going home. Other folks with fast cars raced up and down Forest Lane (gas was 35 cents a gallon and we hadn’t heard of global warming yet). I drove one of the family cars. Granted, it was a ’65 Mustang, but it was stock and not all that fast off the line. I wasn’t the racing type anyway.
So I told you that to tell you this:
It was a number of years later, in the later 70s or early 80s, that I had an apartment with a friend from high school in a complex at Nix and Beltline that is now a Goodwill Store with grass between it and Whataburger.
I needed a vehicle and somehow this used black El Camino (somewhat like the picture above) popped up. My roommate at the time, Dave, who was into cars and had a job at an auto parts store, encouraged me to buy it. I probably bought it from a friend or customer of Dave’s. But he insisted it was a good deal.
The muffler ended just behind the front seat, so it was loud enough that everyone knew the truck was on the road. The radio was deemed irrelevant. If the truck died, I had to grab the largest, longest screw driver I’ve ever owned, hop out, raise the hood and connect the terminals with the screw driver to start the truck. I had a key, but it didn’t always work. There were times when it happened at a light, causing honks, stares, and unsolicited comments. But Dave said it was a good deal. Which it probably was if you were into cars and trucks, but I’m a guitar playing singer-songwriter (I still play a song we wrote together in my shows). I was only interested in getting from one place to another.
It felt good for a while having a hotrod truck. Being noticed by literally everyone was kind of fun, but got old fairly quickly. There were not a lot of situations where I wanted someone to know I was coming before I got there. But they knew every time, whoever it was. Having to hop out and start the truck with the screwdriver in rain, cold, and wind could easily be a pain in the ass. It was also a four on the floor which made driving work. You have to constantly be moving your hands and feet.
There was one night Dave and I were out in the El Camino. At some point we ended up on Forest Lane. I was just cruising until a jerk in a stock Camaro was acting stupid and pissed me off (Dave told me it was a stock Camaro). I just knew the driver was pissing me off.
I was in the far right of the three lanes. The car in front of me seemed to be going less than, or right at, the speed limit. The idiot in the Camaro was in the middle lane. He would lag a bit, then speed up when he saw I was about to change lanes until the front of the Camaro was parallel to the back of the car in front of me. That’s how he was pissing me off – keeping me locked in place.
Then the car in front of me sped up quickly enough that it threw the idiot in the Camaro off-guard. Feeling the power of the El Camino naturally for the first time, I made my move. I took a deep breath, stomped on the accelerator while shifting into third gear – the truck liked to cruise in second gear. Coming perilously close to the rear of the car in front of me, I whipped on over into the second lane in front of the asshole, much to his dismay, and sped ahead of him. He didn’t bother me after that.
It was the one time I finally felt in control of the power of the the truck. The way Dave reacted you would think I had won the Indy 500. He thought he had molded me into the driver he wanted me to be. He was wrong. Come to think about it, it’s the last memory I actually have of seeing Dave or driving the truck. But I have to admit – for a few seconds it was heart racing fun.
Keep writing the songs that are in your heart.
Peace be with you.
Chasing After Wind 