Feature
The SO-CAL Special 1932 Roadster
Mail-Order Old-School Cool
David pulls up first in his new Infiniti G35 Coupe. I was expecting him. He lives around the corner and has a black 1970 SS454 El Camino in his garage, so I knew there was little chance I could park the very loud and very red SO-CAL Special in my driveway and get to the front door before he made his way over.
"Wow," he says as his eyes dance over the fenderless steel-bodied car. "That is the ultimate American hot rod, a '32 Ford Roadster. Is it fast?"
The answer is yes, in fact, it's wicked fast, but before I can form the words Paul pulls up in an absurdly soiled Grand Cherokee. He's a monster gearhead who lives up the street and once owned a Boyd Coddington creation.
"Street rods rule," he says between heavy drags of a Marlboro Light. "What's it got in it, a small-block Chevy?"
It is a small block, but before I can answer, Alan and his wife Terry come strolling around the corner. They just bought a Porsche Cayenne and often swear their love for Edmunds.com.
"That thing is cool," Alan says crossing the street. "I thought you worked for Edmunds, not Hot Rod magazine. Is it new or old?"
It's new. Sort of. It was built in 1998 by the SO-CAL Speed Shop in Pomona, California, to demonstrate that company's ability to sell you all the parts to build your own. It even has 29,000 miles on its odometer, if you can believe it, so it's pretty well used. But before I can get all that out, Mike rumbles up in his Lemon Twist 1970 440 'Cuda. Mike lives across the street from David, down the block from Paul and two houses over from Alan and Terry.
"Now that's a hot rod," he yells over the bellow of his dual Flowmasters. "There's still nothing like a classic street rod. What does something like that cost?"
World-renowned hot rod builder and the owner of SO-CAL Pete Chapouris tells me a good rule of thumb is $40,000 to buy the parts and 1,000 man-hours to put them all together and that's without an engine, a transmission or paint. But before I can respond, Alan whips out a camera and starts taking pictures. Paul starts posing with the car like a spokesmodel and David climbs behind the wheel.
"Can we see the engine?" seems to come out of everyone's mouth at the same time, so I open one side of the hood and quickly start rattling off the specs. "It's a 383-cubic-inch small-block Chevy," I say to a collective sigh. "That means they installed a 400 crank in a 350 block. The cast-iron short block is from GM Performance parts, but the aluminum head and intake, as well as the fuel pump are Edelbrock, the carburetor is a 750 cfm Holley and the Hooker headers are ceramic coated."
Everyone looks impressed, and nobody interrupts, so I continue.
"They tell me it's got about 400 horsepower, and I believe it. Those skinny bias-ply tires look great, but they don't stand a chance. It'll light them up from here to Vegas." It really won't but that's the kind of hyperbole guys use when they're standing around in a pack looking at a cool car.
"Those finned aluminum valve covers are cool," chimes David. "They're from SO-CAL too, right?"
"It all is," I say. "With the exception of the engine, the modern 700R4 four-speed automatic transmission and the wheels and tires, this entire car can be bought piece by piece from the SO-CAL Speed Shop catalog. Even the frame and body, which are brand-new pieces, can be shipped to your front door. In fact, you can just go on www.so-calspeedshop.com and burn down your credit card 24 hours a day. They'll even build it for you if you wish."
"The SO-CAL Speed Shop has an interesting history," says Paul who's now lying on his back looking at the rear suspension. "It was started by Alex Xydias in 1946," he says from under the car. "He opened a little shop in Burbank and enjoyed some early success. He even got his V8-powered bellytank lakester on the January 1949 cover of Hot Rod magazine. But times were tough and he closed the shop in 1961."
"Does he still own it today?" asks Terry.
"Sort of," says Paul now back on his feet. "In 1995 a well-known hot rod builder named Pete Chapouris opened a shop in Pomona, California, called PC3g and one of its first jobs was the restoration of the original SO-CAL Speed Shop V8-powered bellytank lakester."
"The one that was on the cover of Hot Rod?" interrupts David.
"That very same one," says Paul. "And during the restoration, Pete and Alex became friends, and decided to change the name of Pete's shop from PC3g to SO-CAL Speed Shop. And now there are eight locations in seven states."
"Wow, how do you know all that?" David asks in complete amazement.
"What, you never heard of Google?" replies Paul.
"Enough history, what's it like to drive?" Terry asks me.
"It's loud and windy and fast and noisy and windy and cool and fun and everyone looks at you," I say clumsily. "There's no rearview mirror, so seeing behind you is just about impossible, but it rides better than I thought it would and it hums along on the highway remarkably well. At 80 mph the engine is only turning a little over 2,000 rpm, but it still uses gas pretty quickly, and only has a 12-gallon tank."
"It must ride and handle like a drunk school bus," says David in proper hyperbole.
"Pretty much," I answer. "It certainly feels like it's had a few beers, but that's to be expected. With its Chevrolet Vega-style recirculating ball steering, manual brakes, transverse leaf spring suspension and those archaic tires, it isn't going to ride and handle like a new 3 Series. It wanders a bit, the steering has some play in it, and the brakes take some planning and quite a bit of muscle, but you get used to it. After a day or so you learn to trust the car. You realize you can steer it down the road with just a couple of fingers. It's fun. The worst part is adjusting to its lack of modern amenities," I say. "There's no radio, heater, air conditioning, windows, cupholders, door locks or roof."
"Perfect," says David.
By now the sun is setting. I figure the car show is over and I can go in and eat my dinner. Ain't happening. More pictures are taken. Mike opens the trunk. Alan hands Paul the camera and replaces David in the driver seat. I can see the lust in his eyes as they dance over the engine turned dashboard insert, the old-school Mooneyes gauges and the classic Sprint Car-style four-spoke steering wheel.
"The leather bench seat is adjustable," I tell him, which surprises everyone. "Even the seatback rake can be changed, so get comfortable." Although Alan is well over 6 feet tall, he easily finds a sweet spot.
"There's plenty of room in here," he says as he throws his left elbow on the door and pretends to cruise. "Can we hear it run?"
I fire it up, which takes an odd sequence of turning a plastic key in a floor slot under the passenger side of the seat and pulling a chrome knob on the far right-hand side of the dashboard. The roar from the two large mouth exhaust pipes rattles my little slice of suburbia like a gunshot. I tell Alan, who's still behind the wheel, to rev it up. What the heck, I figure, it's only dinner time and I figure my neighbors can use a little small-block music with their pork chops.
Elderly women peek out from behind closed drapes. I hear a door slam and then the alarm on my wife's car, which is also parked in the driveway, goes off from the vibration. The old guy who lives next door can't be pleased, not to mention my very beautiful and very understanding wife.
Alan backs off the loud pedal and lets the engine settle down to what might be the most bitchin' idle of all time. The entire car shakes to the beat of a beautifully mechanical chuga, chuga, chuga. It sounds like a hot rod should.
I push in the knob and shut her down. The silence is deafening. My five friends look like Pam Anderson just delivered each of them an extra-large pepperoni pizza and a six-pack. Trish looks like she just kissed Brad Pitt. Everyone's content. We say our good-byes.
Inside the house, eating my now cold pork chops, I realize how lucky I am. We were out on that driveway for almost two hours, and nobody asked to drive it.
"Wow," he says as his eyes dance over the fenderless steel-bodied car. "That is the ultimate American hot rod, a '32 Ford Roadster. Is it fast?"
The answer is yes, in fact, it's wicked fast, but before I can form the words Paul pulls up in an absurdly soiled Grand Cherokee. He's a monster gearhead who lives up the street and once owned a Boyd Coddington creation.
"Street rods rule," he says between heavy drags of a Marlboro Light. "What's it got in it, a small-block Chevy?"
It is a small block, but before I can answer, Alan and his wife Terry come strolling around the corner. They just bought a Porsche Cayenne and often swear their love for Edmunds.com.
"That thing is cool," Alan says crossing the street. "I thought you worked for Edmunds, not Hot Rod magazine. Is it new or old?"
It's new. Sort of. It was built in 1998 by the SO-CAL Speed Shop in Pomona, California, to demonstrate that company's ability to sell you all the parts to build your own. It even has 29,000 miles on its odometer, if you can believe it, so it's pretty well used. But before I can get all that out, Mike rumbles up in his Lemon Twist 1970 440 'Cuda. Mike lives across the street from David, down the block from Paul and two houses over from Alan and Terry.
"Now that's a hot rod," he yells over the bellow of his dual Flowmasters. "There's still nothing like a classic street rod. What does something like that cost?"
World-renowned hot rod builder and the owner of SO-CAL Pete Chapouris tells me a good rule of thumb is $40,000 to buy the parts and 1,000 man-hours to put them all together and that's without an engine, a transmission or paint. But before I can respond, Alan whips out a camera and starts taking pictures. Paul starts posing with the car like a spokesmodel and David climbs behind the wheel.
"Can we see the engine?" seems to come out of everyone's mouth at the same time, so I open one side of the hood and quickly start rattling off the specs. "It's a 383-cubic-inch small-block Chevy," I say to a collective sigh. "That means they installed a 400 crank in a 350 block. The cast-iron short block is from GM Performance parts, but the aluminum head and intake, as well as the fuel pump are Edelbrock, the carburetor is a 750 cfm Holley and the Hooker headers are ceramic coated."
Everyone looks impressed, and nobody interrupts, so I continue.
"They tell me it's got about 400 horsepower, and I believe it. Those skinny bias-ply tires look great, but they don't stand a chance. It'll light them up from here to Vegas." It really won't but that's the kind of hyperbole guys use when they're standing around in a pack looking at a cool car.
"Those finned aluminum valve covers are cool," chimes David. "They're from SO-CAL too, right?"
"It all is," I say. "With the exception of the engine, the modern 700R4 four-speed automatic transmission and the wheels and tires, this entire car can be bought piece by piece from the SO-CAL Speed Shop catalog. Even the frame and body, which are brand-new pieces, can be shipped to your front door. In fact, you can just go on www.so-calspeedshop.com and burn down your credit card 24 hours a day. They'll even build it for you if you wish."
"The SO-CAL Speed Shop has an interesting history," says Paul who's now lying on his back looking at the rear suspension. "It was started by Alex Xydias in 1946," he says from under the car. "He opened a little shop in Burbank and enjoyed some early success. He even got his V8-powered bellytank lakester on the January 1949 cover of Hot Rod magazine. But times were tough and he closed the shop in 1961."
"Does he still own it today?" asks Terry.
"Sort of," says Paul now back on his feet. "In 1995 a well-known hot rod builder named Pete Chapouris opened a shop in Pomona, California, called PC3g and one of its first jobs was the restoration of the original SO-CAL Speed Shop V8-powered bellytank lakester."
"The one that was on the cover of Hot Rod?" interrupts David.
"That very same one," says Paul. "And during the restoration, Pete and Alex became friends, and decided to change the name of Pete's shop from PC3g to SO-CAL Speed Shop. And now there are eight locations in seven states."
"Wow, how do you know all that?" David asks in complete amazement.
"What, you never heard of Google?" replies Paul.
"Enough history, what's it like to drive?" Terry asks me.
"It's loud and windy and fast and noisy and windy and cool and fun and everyone looks at you," I say clumsily. "There's no rearview mirror, so seeing behind you is just about impossible, but it rides better than I thought it would and it hums along on the highway remarkably well. At 80 mph the engine is only turning a little over 2,000 rpm, but it still uses gas pretty quickly, and only has a 12-gallon tank."
"It must ride and handle like a drunk school bus," says David in proper hyperbole.
"Pretty much," I answer. "It certainly feels like it's had a few beers, but that's to be expected. With its Chevrolet Vega-style recirculating ball steering, manual brakes, transverse leaf spring suspension and those archaic tires, it isn't going to ride and handle like a new 3 Series. It wanders a bit, the steering has some play in it, and the brakes take some planning and quite a bit of muscle, but you get used to it. After a day or so you learn to trust the car. You realize you can steer it down the road with just a couple of fingers. It's fun. The worst part is adjusting to its lack of modern amenities," I say. "There's no radio, heater, air conditioning, windows, cupholders, door locks or roof."
"Perfect," says David.
By now the sun is setting. I figure the car show is over and I can go in and eat my dinner. Ain't happening. More pictures are taken. Mike opens the trunk. Alan hands Paul the camera and replaces David in the driver seat. I can see the lust in his eyes as they dance over the engine turned dashboard insert, the old-school Mooneyes gauges and the classic Sprint Car-style four-spoke steering wheel.
"The leather bench seat is adjustable," I tell him, which surprises everyone. "Even the seatback rake can be changed, so get comfortable." Although Alan is well over 6 feet tall, he easily finds a sweet spot.
"There's plenty of room in here," he says as he throws his left elbow on the door and pretends to cruise. "Can we hear it run?"
I fire it up, which takes an odd sequence of turning a plastic key in a floor slot under the passenger side of the seat and pulling a chrome knob on the far right-hand side of the dashboard. The roar from the two large mouth exhaust pipes rattles my little slice of suburbia like a gunshot. I tell Alan, who's still behind the wheel, to rev it up. What the heck, I figure, it's only dinner time and I figure my neighbors can use a little small-block music with their pork chops.
Elderly women peek out from behind closed drapes. I hear a door slam and then the alarm on my wife's car, which is also parked in the driveway, goes off from the vibration. The old guy who lives next door can't be pleased, not to mention my very beautiful and very understanding wife.
Alan backs off the loud pedal and lets the engine settle down to what might be the most bitchin' idle of all time. The entire car shakes to the beat of a beautifully mechanical chuga, chuga, chuga. It sounds like a hot rod should.
I push in the knob and shut her down. The silence is deafening. My five friends look like Pam Anderson just delivered each of them an extra-large pepperoni pizza and a six-pack. Trish looks like she just kissed Brad Pitt. Everyone's content. We say our good-byes.
Inside the house, eating my now cold pork chops, I realize how lucky I am. We were out on that driveway for almost two hours, and nobody asked to drive it.
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