Those moments that inspired us to pursue our dreams occur when we least expect it. Here’s a collection of moments that have inspired our reader’s to pursue their “Hot Rod Dreams” of owning, driving, racing, and working on these remarkable vehicles. Thank you to everyone who submitted an inspiration
It was 1950 on our farm in southern Indiana. Our neighbor farmhand showed up one day in his 1931 Ford Coupe. I remember standing on the running board and peeking straight through the side window, this will give you an idea how tall I was at the time, from that day on I was hooked. It was a great sight that I will never forget. – Vernon Long
I grew up around the guys, including my father, Gary Magner, who started the Minnesota Street Rod Association. I spent my childhood in the back seat of a 1934 Ford Tudor sedan. Now I have my own 1946 Ford coupe and am very involved with the MSRA. This summer the show celebrates its 40-year anniversary. It has grown to over 11,000 cars making it one of the largest street rod shows the world. My father came across this photo that was taken at the 1974 Back to the 50's when it was still being held in a mall parking lot. That is my dad’s black ‘57 Chevy in front that he’d had since he was 18 and sold that year to build his 1934 Ford. The photo was featured in Street Scene Magazine in 1974. This shows tarted with 250 cars and look at where it is now! My dad also helped organize the very first NSRA Nationals in Peoria, IL. He taught me everything I know about hot rods and working on them. - Bryan Magner
Photo by Jerry Johnson
I was so taken back when I read what my son wrote for your contest about growing up in the back seat of my ‘34 Ford Tudor. Honestly, it brought tears to my eyes. I had no idea I had such an impact after 36 years of being a dad as best I could and how he now completes the circle by being an avid street rodder himself and volunteering for our Back to the 50's show each year with me. - Gary Magner
One of my neighbors came home in a pretty ‘55 Chevy. My heart broke, how many years had I rubber-necked the cars I saw at the local cruise nights. I complimented him and said, "I can't remember a time when I didn't dream of owning a hot rod.” He just quietly said, "When you’re ready, you'll get one." I was speechless, that simple remark said what had needed to be said for a long time. Not this year, not that one, I have children, what if the sky falls? I was ready, at that moment in time, I was ready. Nothing was in the way anymore. I was collecting the years like lint. In June of 2007 I went to Back to Fifties, and drove home in this. -Phil Denofrio
Photo: 1939 Chevy Two Door Sedan, loaded.
In my case I can narrow what inspired me to indulge in a lifetime interest in specialty vehicles to two incidents from my early teens. The first occurred around 1961/62, in Calgary Alberta, Canada when my dad took us to the A&W on MacLeod Trail one evening. We were sitting in our 1956 Pontiac Laurentian two door post, eating hot-dogs and sipping away on our root-beers when a gorgeous black 1932 Ford five window coupe drove onto the lot. Two things that stick out in my mind about that car - the joy on the driver and his female passenger’s face, and most of all the open rumble seat, with blazing white rolls and pleats illuminated by lights in each corner. We just stared – spellbound. It’s something that has remained imprinted on my mind for over 50 years.
The second incident, and the one which sealed a lifetime interest in 1949-54 Chevys, arrived unexpectedly, as I waited for a transit bus. While in high school I had a job washing dishes at an old folks home miles away from where I lived in Glamorgan. To get to the job each day I had to hop a bus from the school into the downtown core then transfer deep into south Calgary, where I transferred again to another bus just to get me within walking distance of my work. It was on a return trip home one night I found myself standing on a street corner in downtown Calgary waiting for the 26th Ave transfer bus. That's when one of the most amazing sites and sounds I had experienced appeared from out of nowhere. I was looking north, when I heard the sound of immense power coming up 4th Street behind me. I turned, and 20 feet away, staring me in the eye, was a metal-flake gold 1952 Chevy two door hardtop. I was momentarily stunned, and just as quickly as it appeared it was all over. The guy driving rumbled to a stop at the corner, within three feet of me, turned east on 8th Ave, and disappeared. I'll never forget the image, nor get the sound of that Chevy split six out of my head. Over the years I've owned about 20 of these vehicles, some restored, some customized and if they didn't get V-8s they all got modern sixes with dual exhausts. There are few sounds that equal it in my books.
About a year later I saved for and bought from a (long defunct) speed shop on 17th Ave (Brennans Auto & Speed) a 12 or 14 inch three spoke mustard metal-flake steering wheel, although I was far from owning my first drivable car. That steering wheel was to become the foundation upon which I'd build my dream car, even though at the time I had trouble paying for a broken spoke on my bicycle.
Subsequently, I went on to enjoy a successful & wonderful career (40 years) in the collision repair industry, working for a single employer. I've built and enjoyed many different vehicles over the years, even campaigning one on the ISCA show circuit in the late 70's - winning my class in the Pacific division. That was a thrill and I knew I had fulfilled my dream - a dream that had its genesis with a 1932 Ford and a 1952 Chevy years prior. -Alvin Shier
In 1956, my brother and I bought a 1936 Ford Phaeton in Hayward, California from a guy going into the Army. The car was really a "lead sled.” The only things not leaded wer the doors and the hood. It had an early '50s grille installed and an 8" Carson top. My brother sold the car while I was in the Marine Corps. When I got out, I found the car in Fremont, California. It was for sale for $1,800. That was in 1960. I think the car is still in existence as it was too nice to junk! Anyone? - Tommie
I went to high school about 30 or so miles from where I lived. Before I got my license, I would either ride the train to school or bum a ride. One morning, my best bud called and said that a friend of his had just gotten a car for his 16th birthday, and that they would be picking me up every day as long as I helped pay for the gas.
A few minutes later, I heard one of the sweetest sounds I had ever heard pull up in front of my house.
Larry's parents had let him buy a 1950 Plymouth that had belonged to one of their neighbors who was on his way to boot camp and then to Korea.
This Plymouth was lowered, nosed and decked, and had a Chrysler 6 (265+ cubic inches), with dual carbs, dual exhaust, an aluminum head, and the sweetest sounding set of steel pack mufflers I had ever heard. And when Larry yelled "Roll down the windows!" just before we went through an underpass floored at about 60 in second gear, I was hooked. I have been a sucker for straight 6's and 8's with dual exhausts ever since.
I have built a number of muscle cars, classics (I currently have a big block equipped 57 Nomad), drag cars (I have held a couple of records), street rods, etc. The sound of that Plymouth started me out on an expensive, long term, but very satisfying hobby. And the best part over the last (almost) 60 years has been the people that I have met and dealt with. - Thadd McNamara
It was fall of 1952. We lived in Beverly Farms, MA, right smack on the Atlantic Ocean. My dad was a paraplegiac, confined to a wheelchair as the result of a sniper’s bullet in Patton’s Push across France following the Normandy invasion. He enjoyed short car rides around the area, but this time my parents had decided to try an overnight trip down to Cape Cod from our home in Cape Ann. Turned out to be a logistical nightmare due to the complete lack of handicapped access facilities. I was as much into cars as I could be for a nine-year old in a very provincial part of the country. Around Beverly Farms the closest thing to a custom car was a nondescript sedan with a glasspack muffler and maybe a squirrel tail tied on the radio antenna.
In this time before interstates, we got as far as Brockton, a suburb of Boston, by lunchtime. The only place we found was a teenage handout but it advertised hamburgers so we stopped. We were reading the menu and deciding on what to order when in pulled a primered 1939 Ford convertible with loud mufflers. It was chopped and channeled and didn’t have a hood, so the flathead engine with dual carburetors topped with chrome air cleaners was clearly visible. The driver got out and went into the diner. He wore bluejeans, boots, a white tee shirt and a black motorcyle jacket. A few minutes later he came back out, got into the Ford, fired it up and took off in a cacaphony of rapping pipes.
I was way, way more than impressed. I had never ever seen anything as cool as that. Ask anyone with a hobby or special interest how they got into it, and they are usually hard pressed to provide an answer. But today, sixty years later, I have a vivid recollection of each detail and know that brief chance encounter was the first step on my lifelong interest, or perhaps obsession would be a more accurate term, with custom cars. It took me awhile to identify the make and model of car, and even longer before I could appreciate the extent of the custom modifications. And then, in a year end issue of Life Magazine, which illustrated all the cars that had driven on Goodyear Tires, I saw my first Lincoln Continental, which, in fact, is essentially a sectioned and lengthened Lincoln Zephyr. It’s a custom 1939 Ford convertible on a somewhat more grandiose scale.
Three years later, Christmas 1955, I received my first issue of Hot Rod Magazine (January 1956) and the following Christmas a copy of the Trend “Best Custom Cars of 1956” annual which showed Doug Rice’s chopped and channeled 1939 Ford coupe, the “Bonneville Boomer.” This showed me the same modifications that blew me away on the 1939 convertible at the diner in Brockton could also be made to a coupe. I was hooked for life.
Over the following years I picked up several examples. The day I arrived in Las Cruces to begin my university education at New Mexico State University, I saw a chopped and sectioned 1940 Ford convertible and was able to buy it six years later. I found an over-the-top full custom 1939 Ford convertible (chopped, channeled, sectioned, molded, genuine Carson top) in Alamogordo. When I began teaching, I bought a 1940 Mercury convertible with full custom modifications – everything except a chopped top. It is Cobalt blue, deep channel, fenders raised and molded, hood sectioned, dual spots and an early Cadillac OHV-8 with a Cad-LaSalle floor shift tranny adapted to the Mercury torque tube. Last, a 1939 Ford convertible, chopped, channeled and sectioned. I also acquired several 1941 Lincoln Continentals.
I bought these cars at a time when custom interest was more on late model stuff, and considerably before anyone was using terms like “old school”. Consequently, the price was right and condition was good for “builders.” The remarkable thing is that I was able to hang on to all of them.
I belong to a Car Club in Louisville – Obsolete Iron. Arriving early for a meeting eight or nine years ago, I begin thumbing through the latest copy of National Street Road Association’s “Street Scene.” In the back, near the classified ads, there was an article about a community college in North Carolina that had started a program in auto restoration with emphasis on classics and street rods and customs, much like the one at Wyoming Tech. The article was illustrated with two photos of a chopped and channeled 1940 Ford coupe under construction. I jotted down the phone number for future reference.
A couple of years later, I found myself with access to wide area telephone service and some time to kill. I dialed the number and was promptly connected with Stan Ducker, the coordinator and head professor. We spoke about the program for a while, and I told him I really liked the 1940 coupe and wondered if it might be for sale. He replied, “Oh no, the owner is very proud of that car, he built it himself and he helps me with the courses. In fact, he is an older man, but since you are interested in cars like his, I’m sure he would enjoy speaking with you. His name is Ralph Turnberg.” As Stan was looking up Ralph’s number he continued to tell me how Ralph had been involved with cars all his life. “Yes, he said, “Ralph grew up in Massachusetts, and even as I speak I am looking at a picture of him with a custom he had back in the day – it’s a 1939 Ford convertible with a bunch of stuff done to it.” It was at that point that a cold chill began working its way up my spine. I called the number and soon was speaking with Ralph. After the usual formalities of introduction, Ralph started telling me about his coupe. I mentioned that Stan said he grew up in Massachusetts, and I asked Ralph where. He answered, “Brockton.” I believe my next words were, “You’re not going to believe this, but, we met quite by accident, over 50 years ago” and I recounted the chance encounter at the Brockton diner in 1952.-William Day
In September of 1957, when I was 10 years old, I was "working" at my dad's Texaco station one Saturday when the bell rang signaling that a customer was arriving. I ran out front, expecting to pump some 29-cent gas and found myself face-to-face with a gorgeous black, full-fendered '32 Vicky. Red wheels with trim rings, caps, wide whites, and a red roll and pleat interior all of which was pulled around by a Merc flathead with finned heads and dual carbs. It was just passing through town en route to somewhere and I never saw it again, I don't even remember whether I collected for the gas but I never forgot that car. It was the inspiration that led me to the Vicky that I have owned since 1970 and that sits in my garage right now. I have relived that experience hundreds of times since but the picture is as clear as if it were today.-Tim White
I was in my senior years of high school. I was a member of the East New York Hydromaniacs. It was then that I bought my first car. It was a 1940 two door Chevy sedan. On the bottom of each fender was the car’s name, Lil Six. I had fallen in love and I paid 50 dollars for it. She had a blown second gear, but first and third got us to where we wanted to go. Lil Six had no parking brake so a red brick came in handy all the time. When I had to park on hills my old lady had to get out and place the brick behind one of the wheels. One Saturday evening we got to the church dance a little late. The only place left to park was on a hill next to the church. I placed Lil Six in reverse and shut down the motor. My old lady got out and placed that red brick behind the wheel. When we left the dance, Lil Six was nowhere in sight. I found her at the bottom of the hill and deeply in the ditch. My old lady upon said she placed the red brick behind the rear of the rear tire instead of in front of it. Go figure. Oh by the way, she also became my wife. - Vincent Giardina
