A few days later Al comes by for a visit. Apparently the classes have been quite successful and my students are seeing results from their students. There’s something like a six month waiting list for my class, and some of the teachers are wanting to take it again just because they enjoyed it so much. I’m blown away. Then a thought occurs. Bethy’s working the loader, Trina’s on a supply run, Al’s here, the jeep’s outside…

“Hey Al, you like to go fast, right?”

“It is one of my passions. You wanna go for a ride on the tram?” he smiles.

“Actually, I’ve got something else in mind, something new. Well, for us anyway. And seeing as how the girls are out and all’s quiet on the western front, I think this might be an opportunity to get up to some mischief.”

“Well, I can’t say that I get many opportunities for new mischief that involves going fast. Lead the way.”

We hop in the jeep and I run us down to the motor pool.

“That was definitely new, and quite interesting, but I can’t say I’d describe it as fast,” says Al.

“It wasn’t, and this won’t be either,” I say, climbing into the fuel mule.

“Miss Chief, huh? What have you got going on down here?”

“Well, I have an idea, but I’m not sure. We’re going to find out together.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” says Al, taking the passenger seat.

We run up to the gas station and fill the tank, which takes a minute, it’s a really big tank. Then I drive us way down to the end, past the motor pool. Not far past the motor pool we start seeing the black marks, and as we progress they get darker, and thicker, and wider, until finally the whole floor looks like it’s been paved with rubber. It smells like it too. It looks just like burnouts, but I’ve been watching the odometer, and we’ve come a mile and a half from where they started. Nothing’s gonna spin the wheels that far unless it’s powerbraking. Right?

When we get to the very end, there is one last door on the right. Past it is the wall, and the wall is covered in specks of rubber. We stop and get out.

“What the hell went on down here?” asks Al.

“I’m not certain, but I think we’re about to find out,” as I walk over to the door. It is locked. There is a keyhole. I insert my key and twist, and it opens to reveal a monster’s lair. I find the lights and then… Wow! There she is! She’s not exactly pretty. She’s definitely not small. She’s a whole lotta Miss Chief! Damn! I think I’m in love!

She is a flesh eating dinosaur of a hot rod, built in the grand tradition of the behemoth land speed racers of the twenties and thirties. Starting at the suicide front end, where the big Budd truck wheels shod in highway rib tires stick out past the front of the frame rails, is a big, I beam, kingpin drop axle from a heavy truck. Between the wheels is a deuce and a half grill shell, modified to have a slight V towards the bottom which tapers up, smoothed, extended slightly, and laid back at an angle. Her deuce and a half frame has been highly modified, with Z’s front and back, so that the long center section is only about five inches off the floor. From the front axle, massive, fabricated split wishbones stretch back almost six feet to just in front of and under the doors. The cab appears to have once been part of a deuce as well, but has been chopped, channeled, and sectioned into something that is hardly recognizable. The windshield lays back at an extreme angle, the sides taper inward towards the top, and it’s chopped so low that if you wore anything more substantial than an old, leather aviator’s helmet, you’d never be able to see out. Directly behind the cab begins the fabricated hydrogen tank. It precisely matches the silhouette of the back of the cab and flows back, past the single deuce rear axle, fitted with dual wheels wearing military NDT’s, into a smooth, torpedo like tail just past the back end of the frame.

On to the centerpiece of this rolling work of art. The engine itself is a thing to behold! At first I think it is a big inline number, but when I get up close for a better look I realize that it’s an inverted V type aircraft engine. I locate the data plate on the block and have a hard time comprehending the reality of what I’m seeing. It’s a Chrysler Experimental XIV 2220. A 2,220 cubic inch, centrifugally supercharged, 2,500 horsepower, overhead cam, 16 cylinder, dose of hemi headed whup ass! Only a handful were ever produced before jet engines took over the skies, and to try to find one in running order? Well, you might as well try to race a hot rod on the moon. Which is precisely what I’m planning to do at the moment.

The cherry on top is the beautiful, bomber style nose art painted on the doors. A much more scantily clad version of the same green skinned, black haired, antennaed pinup girl straddling a flaming rocket, cracking it’s tail with a whip, as it’s blazing around the moon. To the upper left is Miss, and to the lower right is Chief.

I look over to Al, “Is it just me, or do you have a hard on, too?”

He looks over his shoulder as if someone might overhear us, and then grins, “It’s not just you. But she looks so still and, lifeless. Is she dead?”

“No, just sleeping. Wanna help me wake her up?”

“I’m not sure. I’m a little afraid she might eat me.”

“It’ll be ok as long as I’m here. Just stay calm and friendly, and don’t make any sudden moves.”

We stand there in a moment of silent awe, and then gradually begin to see the rest of the room around us. It’s about a third of the size of the main maintenance shop, which is still pretty massive, and is equipped in much the same way. There’s just less. And then again there’s more, much more! This is not just a shop, I can plainly see. It’s the ‘Space Racers’ clubhouse. The greasy, oily, historic home of hot rodding on the moon. I just want to dive in and roll around in it!

The space is clean, but kind of cluttered. There’s parts and tools strewn about on workbenches, notebooks covered in greasy fingerprints detailing the modifications they’ve made, what worked and what didn’t, what to NEVER EVER try again. A big shelf of trashed parts labeled ‘Lessons Learned’. Another shelf of fresh parts labeled ‘Fresh Shrapnel’. Stacks of various tires, some mounted on rims for quick changes on race days, or whatever you’d call it on the moon. There’s even a few other vehicles.

There is a jeep, that looks mostly like a jeep, but has three quarter ton running gear under it so the front wheels kinda stick out and there’s duals on the rear. Megaphone, fender well headers are peeking out behind the front wheels. The ’Space Racers’ logo (the one from Sweet Thing’s jacket) is emblazoned on the hood and Sleepy Jeepy is painted over the rear wheels.

A carryall that has been chopped, channeled, and sectioned to within an inch of its life, but still sits pretty high, like a gasser, so the top of the long roof sits about level with the top of the jeep’s windshield. The hood sides are removed and there are upswept zoomies sweeping out over the front fenders. It also has duals on the back and Dragon Wagon is painted around the ‘Space Racers’ logo on the doors.

Last is a torpedo bodied (or fastback) staff car, that has been turned into something like a proto lead sled. It is chopped, channeled, smoothed, and lowered, with a slight tail dragger rake. The lights and door handles are frenched. It's is nosed and decked, with organ pipes coming up through the hood that just barely protrude past the surface. There is a custom grill that has been fabricated from what look like teeth from a big excavator bucket or something. A couple on one side have been painted black. Again, there is the ’Space Racers’ logo on the doors with Moon Draggin’ scripted around it.

These guys kept busy!

In one of the back corners, sort of cordoned off by a bunch of crates stenciled ‘Chr. Ind. 331V’, is the lounge. There are a couple of old couches against the wall, a big table with a bunch of mismatched chairs, and a beat up sideboard with a bunch of liquor bottles in various states of consumption, a clutter of random glasses, and a bunch of pictures on it and taped up over the wall behind it.

“Check it out,” I say to Al as I start walking towards the lounge, “It’s the wall of fame.”

He follows me over and we have a look. Most of the black and white photos are of a group of about seven guys, in various combinations, working on the rods, mugging for the camera, hanging out in the lounge, and generally goofing off and having a good time. A few of them show some of the guys with their girls, and even a kid here and there, all warm and smiling. Then there are some action shots, many of these with notations in various hands and colors of ink.

‘Sleepy Jeepy’s best run, 103.8 in the quarter with Squirrely’. The photo shows Sleepy Jeepy with balls of flame glowing under the fenders and a slight man behind the wheel with sharp, Latin features.

‘Butcher frags the Dragon Wagon’. Shows the Dragon Wagon with the front wheels up slightly in a hard launch, a burly black man in the driver’s seat. Four foot flames are shooting out the zoomies, and it’s puking the crankshaft right through the oil pan and scattering pistons and rods all over the floor.

‘Crank spanks the Moon Draggin’, 140.6 standing half’. Shows a broad shouldered blond man with a square jaw behind the wheel. Flames licking at the windshield from the organ pipes impart the sensation of speed.

‘Chief gets taken for a ride’. Shows a man that does, indeed, look a lot like me, in the passenger seat of Sleepy Jeepy. He’s hanging on for dear life with an ‘Oh Shit!’ look on his face as the jeep rips sideways around the T intersection with flames blowing out the headers, back tires smoking, and the nose pointed to the wall with the front wheels cut way back to save it. Behind the wheel is a petite girl with dark hair and a huge smile on her face. In a different hand at the bottom is, ‘You’re welcome! Love, Bitsy’.

‘Miss Chief’s first run’. Has Miss Chief emerging from a huge, thick cloud of tire smoke, shooting feet of flame out the stubby, airplane zoomies. The picture is kind of shaky, like it was taken during an earthquake, a further caption at the bottom reads, ‘Pucker factor 10!’.

‘Chief, Fastest man on the Moon! 196.8 flying mile!’ This is a big enlargement taped up on the wall. It shows all the guys standing alongside Miss Chief out at the T, with big smiles and looks of accomplishment on their faces. In the middle is Chief, standing behind Miss Chief’s open door wearing a flight suit and a leather aviator’s helmet, and a smiling face that says ‘I can’t believe I survived that!’ Another hand along the bottom reads, ‘Only because he ran out of road!’

This is a really cool history lesson!

Then Al says, “Holy shit!” picking up one of the pictures from the sideboard and pointing to a tall, thin man captioned ‘Sparky’, “This is my grandfather!”

“Wow! Family connection, huh? That actually explains some things.”

“I had heard some stories that he used to be kinda, wild, but never anything about ANY of this… Those bastards! They were holding out on me.”

“Hey, don’t think too harshly of ‘em. From what I understand, this was something that people didn’t really want to talk about. They loved it so much, that when it ended, well, nobody really wanted to remember. It hurt too much to think about.”

“I guess you’re right. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Now I really want to go for a ride!”

“Now you’re talkin’!”

So we walk over to Miss Chief and I run my hand up her swooping, scarab shaped tank, up to the filler port behind the cab (around which is neatly scripted ‘Feed Me!’) and it’s the strangest sensation. I’m not sure if it’s just me being excited or what, but it feels like she’s vibrating under my hand, almost like she’s purring.

“Hey Al,” I remove my hand, “Come put your hand on Miss Chief here and tell me if you feel anything.”

He lays his palm on top of her cab for a moment, and then draws it away sharply, “Woah! It’s almost like she’s… growling at me!”

“Really? Do it again, I want to try something.”

He gives me an ‘Are you sure about this?’ look, but places his palm back down. Then I place my palm against her as well and, wow! He’s right! She’s not happy! Then under my touch she calms down to something like, ‘Well, I guess if you say he’s ok… but if he does anything I don’t like I’ll bite him.’

Al steps back and gives me a look, and as soon as his hand is gone she’s all cuddly kitten again, wanting to play.

“Ok, so you felt that too, right?” I say.

“Yes, I don’t think she likes me. But she seems quite taken with you. Better watch out, I bet she’s a wild date. You know, the kind that can be really fun, but is also likely to make a huge scene at any moment?”

“I think you’re right,” as I open her door for a peek inside. She swings open smoothly with a slight groan and a squeak at the end that sounds kinda like ‘Oooh, baby!’ An odd shiver runs through my whole body and, though I am sorely tempted, I say, “Sorry baby, I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.” I gently shut her door with an ‘Awww, shucks!’

“Let’s take the jeep,” I say.

“That sounds like a better idea,” agrees Al.

The keys for the other rods are hanging on hooks on the edge of the sideboard, each with their own embossed leather tab. As we walk past, out of curiosity, I lift the lid of one of the crates. Inside is a brand new, wrapped in cosmoline, Chrysler Industrial 331 Hemi. The kind the government used to use to run auxiliary gensets on propane in the bottom of missile silos back in the day. Makes sense that there would be a bunch here, government always gets access to new toys long before the public. And since it’s a big V8 in plentiful supply, it makes sense that they would end up under the hoods of the rods these guys were building. No speed shops up here though, so I wonder if these guys were grinding their own camshafts, making their own high compression pistons and stuff. I mean, Miss Chief is supercharged, but her engine was designed that way. These others, well, let’s see. I pop the hood of the jeep and the engine looks like it was just taken out of the crate and plopped down into a jeep. Which, considering it’s a jeep, is probably more than sufficient. I imagine they went through a few axles before they changed it over to three quarter tons.

I climb up into the helm of Sleepy Jeepy and stick the key into the ignition. Before proceeding any further, I check the gear arrangement (you never know with a modified vehicle) and it’s the standard four speed and transfer case from the three quarter ton, so no worries there. I check the gauge on the gas tank in the back, it’s full. So we’re good to go, I guess.

“What’s this about?” asks Al, pointing to the center of the dash, where is scripted ‘2 For Fun! 4 To Run!’

“Ha!” I get it, “It means if you just wanna play, have fun and slide it around, you leave it in two wheel drive. But if you want to make a hard launch and a good straight line speed run, you lock it into four.”

“Oh, ok,” he still looks a little confused. I forget that people don’t know these things here, at least not anymore.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” and light the fire. It is pleasantly deafening and rackety. It’s not a cackly, ‘Hot For Teacher’ idle or anything but it has a little burble to it that says the cam might have been reground a little bit. A nice, healthy little hot rod motor. I ease us carefully out into the hall, past Miss Chief who somehow seems to huff in disappointment as I idle past. Don’t worry baby, you’ll get your turn.

Once we’re into the hall and straightened out, I stick my foot in it and immediately haze the duals as balls of orange flame huff out the headers. I’m not sure if it lifts the tires or not, but it definitely takes all the weight off of the front suspension. I let off and the headers pop and crackle, echoing gorgeously down the hallway. Then I get back on it and burn the tires through all four gears. It’s definitely loose, but surprisingly stable and not too hard to keep in shape. I let off when we hit about fifty and we drag and crackle down the hall to the motor pool. This thing is fun! I look over at Al, who’s smiling like a schoolboy who just saw his first tits.

“Wow!” he shouts, “This is… Wow! I mean, the tram is fast, but this is, so much more REAL!”

I know that look. He’s hooked for life now.

I ease back into it now, giving it time to hook up, and really stretch it out. The round speedometer only goes to sixty, and says Miles Per Hour across the bottom. At the top of fourth gear I glance down and we are going Per. I start backing off as we pass the gas station and have us down to about fifteen towards the end of the hall where I pop it back into second, break it loose, spin it around in a cloud of flaming exhaust and tire smoke, and rip sideways back the way we came. When we get back to the T, Bethy is standing there with a pissed off look on her face that slowly changes to something like lust and amazement when I pull up and stop next to her.

“What the hell are you doing? We’ve got a big crowd and we need your help at the bar!” she attacks, then changing gears, “I like this though. Did you fix up my jeep for me?”

“Nope, this is not for you. It’s a valuable historical artifact. But once you’ve got enough time in a regular jeep, I’ll show you how to drive this one. Ok? And if you can handle it, and you like it, maybe we’ll build you one of your own. Sorry I lost track of time, me and Al were just having a boy’s afternoon out. And you know how it is when you’re having fun,” she looks a little disappointed but accepts it because I apologized nicely, “Now, if you’d like to go for a ride in this one, hop in and I’ll take you back to your jeep.”

“Ok,” she smiles and hops in, mollified by the peace offering and the prospect of getting her jeep back. Because it is now most definitely HER jeep. I burn off through the gears and come to a slightly slippery stop in front of the motor pool where her jeep is parked.

She leans over and whispers warmly into my ear, “Yep, you’re building me one,” then pecks me on the cheek and hops out, “Hey Al, you want me to show you how to drive?” eager to display her new skill.

Al gives me a look like, Really? Can I?

“Sure man, go ahead. She’s not too bad. I still got the mule down there, so I’ll park this and pick up a fresh one on the way back.”

“Thanks Chief, this has been a lot of fun! Can’t wait to do it again!” as he hops out and jumps into Bethy’s jeep.

‘Thanks Chief’? Where the hell did that come from? Whatever, it’s all good. I turn back over my shoulder and yell to Bethy, “Hey woman! You be careful with my friend there. Don’t break him!”

“I won’t!”

I fire up and tear off down the hall.