The 308 Roadster

I have no idea who Jason Brackeen is. Maybe I’ve met him, maybe not. Social settings aren’t exactly my strong suit, but I don’t remember ever talking to the guy. I do, however, feel like I know him because I know his car. A 1929 Ford Roadster on deuce rails that knocked the wind out of me at the 2025 Lonestar Round Up.

I had shown up early, shot for an hour or so, and was headed back to my car to dump a camera and lighten my load. Somewhere in that window, Jason pulled in and parked just a few feet from my coupe. I turned a corner, laid eyes on that roadster, and it stopped me cold. My plans dissolved right there. That car pulled me into its orbit, and I’m not sure I’ve escaped since.

This is the perfect hot rod. Hot Rods don’t get ANY better than this. You can flush your 401k, hire the best talent on the planet, spend all your hours fixated on honing your skills, or a decade chasing detail… and I’m still not sure you’d end up with a hot rod better than this one.

But why? What makes this thing burrow into my brain?

Hell if I know. That’s the thing about real emotional responses—you can’t always explain ‘em. But I’ll try.

It has a lot to do with texture and character for sure. Jason’s roadster has a patina that comes across as honesty. And because it’s honest, it gives the car a very easy disposition. Like it belongs in the sun, not behind velvet ropes. That’s my kind of car.

But it’s more than the age earned finishes. It’s the sum of the parts—the easy choices that add up to something extraordinary. A flathead that looks nearly stock, except some greasy kid in 1951 had to run dual carbs. The choice in air cleaners, almost like an afterthought, but somehow still right. Look closer and you’ll see the tidy wiring, the neat fuel block—little clues that this “kid” gave a damn. Ambition in subtle doses.

Same goes for the interior. Nothing loud. Nothing too far out of place. Just a worn-in dash with a couple of extra bits, a later Ford wheel, and a whole lot of restraint. It feels lived in. It looks comfortable.

Even the details fall into place with uncanny balance—’47 Chevy taillights, a deuce grille shell, bias rubber on steelies, and a number on the quarter that might make some uppity hot rodders twitch. A good friend of mine has a rule: don’t run a number unless the car’s seen race duty. And maybe this one has, maybe it hasn’t. I don’t give a shit. A 16-year-old in 1951 wouldn’t have hesitated. He knew what was cool. And frankly, I trust his instincts more than I trust some jaded middle-aged guy guarding a mortgage in modern America.

Bottom line—I love this car. More than I’ve loved any car in a long time. And I’ve tried, really tried, to figure out why. But maybe it’s not about why. Maybe it’s just enough to feel it.

If any of you know Jason, tell him thanks. I gave him The Jalopy Journal award at the Round Up, but had to leave before I could shake his hand. That’s the only regret I took home that day.

Editor’s Note: I shot the Round Up almost entirely on black and white film this year, but I did have a digital camera buried in my bag. Ended up snapping exactly one frame of the 308 roadster with it—and figured I ought to include it here for good measure.

Kinda wish I’d taken a few more…