The Coffee Grinder Re-Write

I haven’t slept for shit in over a week. Ever since Miller tangled with that drunk driver, my mind’s been spinning out of control, grinding through every worst-case scenario like a goddamn film reel stuck on a loop. What if… what if… what if… it’s enough to drive a man to madness.

So, at 3 a.m., while the rest of the world is drowning in whatever twisted dreams keep them sane, I’m sitting in my living room with a dead mind, desperate for a break. And there it is—February 1959, Rods Illustrated—just sitting on the coffee table like it’s mocking me. The hell with it. An idea starts buzzing in my head like a broken circuit. What if I took a feature out of this dusty old relic and rewrote it—dragged the damn thing kicking and screaming into the present, made it mine. Forget history. Forget the sanitized memories and rose-colored nostalgia. Let’s put this beast in the here and now.

Yeah, I know. Crazy, right? But stick with me. I’m already too far gone to turn back. Let’s ride this train off the rails. Here goes…

***

Adam “Moose” Coffee’s hot rod didn’t just come together—it brewed for three long, damn near agonizing years, but the end result is a snarling, gleaming, mechanical beast that leaves the Nanticoke, Pennsylvania boys drooling in its wake. You take one look at this Model A and you know that every inch of it was shaped by hard sweat, busted knuckles, and a stubborn refusal to quit. It’s more than just a car—it’s Moose’s personal manifesto.

He snagged the frame for fifty bucks—pocket change by today’s standards—and went to work, Frankensteining parts from a ’39 Ford front and a ’40 Ford rear suspension, while Henry Ford himself might nod in approval from the grave. The rear axle? Ford again, naturally. Up front, he slapped on Monroe double-action shocks, and in the back, single-action ’39 Ford shocks hold court. The whole setup is strung together with Lincoln brakes, because, in Moose’s world, you better stop as good as you go.

The body? Oh, it’s a masterpiece of restrained violence. Channeled eight inches over the rails, it hugs the ground like it’s afraid of heights. The windshield took a three-inch chop, and suddenly, the car looks like it’s crouching, ready to pounce. A clean, ‘32 Ford grille and headlights? Yeah, those add just the right touch of class—this isn’t some gaudy showboat. And then Moose got real creative, welding and leading the doors for a smooth, unbroken profile. No handles, no hinges—just a pure, slick flank. How does he get in, you ask? The man leaps over the doors like a damn athlete, straight into his chariot. The rear fenders? Bobbed and leaded too, naturally. Top it off with Pontiac taillights and a fresh coat of royal blue lacquer from a ’56 Dodge, and you’ve got yourself a machine that gleams in the sun like the forbidden fruit of a greaser’s paradise.

But the real witchcraft is under the hood. A ’56 Chevy 265 cubic inch V8, polished and chromed to hell and back. Triple dual Offenhauser intake manifold, hand-built chromed headers—this thing looks like it was assembled in a custom chrome cathedral. Power courses through a ’39 Merc transmission and a torque-tube driveshaft, with a Magspark ignition lighting the fuse. The motor cranks out a devilish 240 horses at the flywheel, and when Moose hits the gas, it’s all-out warfare on the asphalt.

The wheels? Merc 15-inchers, with 8.00 x 15 rubber gripping the rear and 7.70s up front to keep the nose down. It’s as ready to cruise as it is to rip.

Now, while the hot rodders might worship at Moose’s altar, the real action for him is on the dragstrip. He’s already racked up five show awards—four firsts and a second, not to mention laying down rubber at Pennsylvania’s finest meets, twice taking class eliminations like a man possessed.

Moose may be just 21, but this car? It’s the stuff legends are built on.