Supercharged Sleeper (Packs a Punch!)

Sleepers are silent on the prowl and quick on the bite. Roll up to the stop sign, stoplight, main drag or county road. Lower the window. Eye the other car. See his silhouette in the mail slot—the driver. Notice his girl. Got something? He thinks you’re easy. He thinks you’re nothing. He thinks he’ll blow by you like those sedans and station wagons filled with mothers and fathers and kids and normal folks—ordinary cars with ordinary people just trying to get from one place to the other without stirring up trouble or causing harm. Their pipes don’t rap like his. They have fenders and tall roofs (so they can wear hats all sorts?). They have full hoods and quiet engines and have passed safety tests that award stars that the manufacturers display proudly and will tell you about whenever they have the chance. These people aren’t excided to go fast. Driving isn’t a contest; it’s not a race (it never is for them). They don’t yearn for the stirring buried deep inside that can only be released as a smile or a yell as the telephone poles start to whip by on either side. Faster! Faster! Yellow dashed lines marking the law’s sanctioned boundaries turn solid. Those passing by don’t know how it feels when your heart skips as the tires start to break free and the engine starts to howl in it’s guttural voice—a primordial roar that harks back to when it was first assembled in a factory in a sprawling industrial city on the Great Lakes. The driver takes one last look at your car. He sneers at the bulbous fenders and portly four-door design. No hood for him, pontoons and wide whites for you. His motor whirrs and spits into the late summer night. You know what you have—and you know you have him as good as beat. The light turns green and he’s up in smoke. Once you hit third, he’s nowhere to be seen. And that’s for the best.

In 1960, the sleepers must have not gotten much more radical than Dick DeVecchi’s Oakland, California-based 1941 Chevy. For the hot rodding and customizing types, the Chev’s exterior was about as bland as a sugar-free dessert menu. It did, however, maintain every piece of stock brightwork and a grey on grey paintjob.

The real heat came underneath the lengthy hood where Dick opted for a 292 c.i. GMC six. To add some additional power, Dick swapped in a Herbert cam, magneto and a 4-71 supercharger complete with Algon injection. The fuel tank was placed on the floor on the passenger side. No cutting was required in the car’s transformation.

More than 50 years after this car was finished, I can still hear street racers going at it in Oakland deep into the night. Some cars (and the guys who drive them) undoubtedly look the part, but all too often it’s the sleepers that can actually back up the claims—much like Dick and his 1941 Chevy.

—Joey Ukrop

Photos by: Eric Rickman, HRM, 1960