A trip to the 2015 Detroit Autorama

People are stunned by the lights as they enter Cobo Hall. They’re there to see rods and customs, but not before being greeted by rows and rows of lights after buying tickets, checking coats and moving through heavy doors onto the show floor.

Compression and release. Small hallway leads to big room — Frank Lloyd Wright-style. They’re ready for the big room. Maybe people forgot what cars looked like during the winter in the Midwest. These machines were nothing like the salt-covered blobs sloshing through the streets of the Motor City. They gleamed in their own hues of candy reds and inky blues. Owners jockeyed around their streamlined figures making sure every piece had been cleaned. Twice. A group of men in matching shirts and clipboards pointed at wheels, engines, bolts and fabrics. Notebooks were filled with strange markings in a made up language.

As the people flooded in, the rattling ceiling sporadically broke their murmur. “What the hell is that?�? a man bursts. “Oh that? It’s just the people mover,�? another replies. He sips his beer and admires the dragster resting a few feet away. A “Christmas Tree�? starting system throws wild yellow, green and red lights onto the car’s paintjob, which mixes metalflake with lace and never ending lines. They say it’ll do more than 200 mph. Crowds gather, draw sketches and snap pictures. A provocative mannequin looks on.

Down the line from the dragster sits a pack of early Ford coupes. “Just a bunch of pissed off little Model ‘A’s,�? the builder tells me. Similar bodies, different mills. Black one’s got a Chrysler (fresh!), maroon runs an Olds, dark blue features a Ford and a Buick shakes the “Gentleman’s Coupe.�? Like carbs? They’ve got those too. And blowers to boot. Builder: “Open up the doors! Check out the insides.�? Dashboards littered with chrome and gauges so clean they look like looking glasses. One machine, which was said to have belonged to a king, had a golden dashboard. Imagine the look on ‘ol Henry’s face if he would have seen that number.

Keeping a schedule was difficult with all the rods and customs to look at. Soon after I left the king’s car, I came across a copper Ford in a booth by itself. “I’ve had it 56 years,�? a man says. His face beamed with pride. It was a 1940 model, powered by a small block Chevrolet. Three little air cleaners sat atop the motor. Not only did he display the car, he surrounded it with trophies and pictures from its younger years. It must have taken him all day to unpack everything from the trunk! After glancing at the front fenderwells, he directed me to a photo of the car from the early 1960s. The front end had been removed and a zany set of pipes swirled off the engine toward the ground. “See those collectors? I made them out of old ammunition boxes. You could take off the lids when you wanted to open up the exhaust.�? His ingenuity impressed me, as did his dedication to this single machine for the past half century. Looks like the higher-ups at the show thought the same thing, because the banner behind it read “Preservation Award�? in flowing script.

People bounced from car to car all afternoon. Some talked loudly while others quietly absorbed the shindig in a Zen state. Questions slipped from lips into the ether. “Is that the original paint?�? “Where are the Willys?�? “Did you see the Oldsmobile over there?�? Conversations flowed among husbands and wives, fathers, daughters, those who knew cars and those who didn’t. I stood there to take it all in.

And then I went downstairs.

Cobo’s underbelly is the bonus round. In years past you had to perform two secret handshakes and recite Edsel VIN numbers backward to gain access to the subterranean escalator. This time, the biggest challenge was dodging a Disney pop star and defending your personal space on the way down.

You can find just about anything in the basement of the show. There were mini bikes for the young at heart and bicycles for the even younger. If you wore out your shirt looking at all the cars upstairs, there were plenty of opportunities to pick up a new one. Modern motors not your thing? That’s okay because down below you could stare at obscure old mills until people figured you were some sort of Flathead yourself! Folks slid down the escalator with such speed that they nearly walked right into the priest’s car. He must have shown up the night before, because the spot was already marked “Clergy Parking.�? His ride was a Chev, dark purple in color, which was modified by famous customizer George Barris in the 1950s. Once he finished bringing the roof down and smoothing out the body, it looked more like a torpedo than a production automobile.

Speaking of modifications, the racecars were out in full force. Some machines were specially built to blast down asphalt quarter mile “strips�? while others battled dry lakebeds of salt and earth. In one corner of the show floor sat a 1932 Ford coupe with a chopped top and a Hemi motor. Still sporting its racing numbers, the poor little Model B had been left in a barn for more than 50 years. Unbelievable! Judging by the grins, (Oh! Would you look at that mill, man?) people were glad it had been awoken from its long slumber. I was too.

The pandemonium continued as I wandered up the escalator, across the show floor and bid the lines of lights adieu. People moved slowly from car to car, savoring every detail of any vehicle that their eyes latched on to. Were they taking mental notes or just following every curve and stitch for pleasure? Did they view the cars as modern art or glitzed up workhorses? It shouldn’t matter. I’d like to think they took the images and held on to them with all their might, because they had no way of telling how long it would be until they saw anything else as wild as the machines that filled the big room at Cobo Hall.

-Joey Ukrop