Go Big

Go Big

There wasn’t much planning, nor should there have been. We knew the pieces were already in place: a pair of teenagers with licenses so new you could smell the ink, a candy blue pickup truck loaded with a V8 making more horsepower than the two of us could fathom, and some old railroad tracks somewhere way down a quiet farm road far from the center of town. Summer was coming to a close; you could taste it as you rolled down the window to lap up the last of the sweet, humid air. The leaves hadn’t started to fall just yet, but as the days grew shorter we knew it wouldn’t be long.

On this particular evening, I was riding shotgun, playing the role of navigator as my friend took the wheel. It was his machine and I was merely along for the ride. Weeks earlier he had talked about installing a supercharger, but as far as I knew he hadn’t bolted it on at this point. He wanted to put the truck through its paces, you know, see what it could really do. Why not? It’s not like we had anything else going on.

After the sun had sunken below the horizon, we cruised towards that lonely stretch of road surrounded by fields on all sides. With the windows lowered, the engine sounded healthy as it echoed out into the darkness. We came to a stop about a half-mile from the train tracks—right near the historic one room schoolhouse—and looked around. No cars, no people. Nothing. Just the moon and the stars and the fields and us.

And then he stood on the gas and we launched hard off the line, throwing me back in my seat as the tires hooked up. My hand clamped the door with vise-grip-like strength as I watched the needle climb out of the corner of my eye. Picket fences, farmhouses, mailboxes—everything was swallowed by the thick darkness as we ripped down the road, gaining speed. Traffic laws be damned, we were walloping through the void without any real intention or real way of stopping this wild contraption of steel, glass and rubber moving at such a hell bent clip.

I tried to play it cool by not spying on the speedometer, but I finally caved and strained my neck at the last second to see that we were sailing somewhere north of 90 miles per hour by the time we hit the tra—BHOWMMMMMMBT went the suspension. RRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHH went the engine. WOOOOOOOOAHHHHH went kids in the cab, wondering what the hell they were actually doing. PAHDUMMP—after our brief trip to the stratosphere we were back on the terra firma. We eventually coasted to a stop.

When we regained our ability to speak, we both had the same question. Did all four wheels leave the ground? For record keeping purposes—and bragging rights—we agreed that the answer was a definitive yes. Oh, and the truck lived to see another day. Case closed.

***

Youth and fast cars can make for a pretty dangerous, but often entertaining, combination. This was years ago, and yes, it was by no means a good idea. But hey, you live and learn, I guess. And so I’ll ask you this, have you ever intentionally (or unintentionally) taken flight in your hot rod or custom? And, perhaps more importantly, did all four wheels ever leave the ground?

—Joey Ukrop

The opening image has been floating (pun intended) around the Internet for some time now, and it most recently appeared on the @Chopped Instagram. What comes up must come down…

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