Craig's pride and joy--the drag-racing coupe he built himself before he was old enough for a driver's license
As the automobile phase began to grow on me, my folks gradually went out of their minds. For three years I had lived and breathed airplanes. The tool shed had been completely turned into an airplane factory and the tools were crammed into the garage--you couldn't even get into the car without stumbling over the lawn mower or a rake or something. Now I didn't even go out back anymore. I just sat in the front yard or gazed out of the den window and across the street to the Rourkes.
Roger and Gene Rourke, who were a few years older than I, belonged to a Culver City car club called the "Igniters," and their place was the unofficial club headquarters. There was always an assortment of fantastic street rods and chopped and channeled coupes in front of their house, and it was--well, it was paradise.
At first I would just sit and watch the activity from my vantage point across the street, but I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to have a closer view of some of that machinery, and I had to know what they were doing.
The first time I went over, there were parts all over the driveway and backyard. One of the guys was removing a transmission or an engine or installing some new piece of hot rod equipment. The place was just a maze of parts. And it was, as far as I was concerned, the real Garden of Eden.
Standing in the midst of the pistons and camshafts and carburetors, I thought, "Man, this sure beats balsa wood and propellers." This was for me.
I went over to one of the guys and asked if I could help. He was in the final stage of adjusting a carburetor on a candy apple red '32 Ford coupe and I guess he showed remarkable restraint when he simply said, "Get out of the way, kid."
I was around a lot in the next few weeks, but there never seemed to be anything I could do. I was either in the way or too small.
The only way I was ever going to be accepted, I realized, was if I knew something about the mechanics of cars; so I went to the library and checked out an armload of books about the internal combustion engine and how it works. I studied at home for the first time in three years, and my parents were delighted. Their joy was short-lived, however. One evening my stepfather came up to my room to tell me how glad he was to see me taking an interest in my studies. He sat down on the side of the bed, and in his most eloquent father-and-son-talk manner said, "Craig, your mother and I are really proud of what you've been doing recently. I mean the studying and staying away from the planes and the guys across the street. You're really growing up."
He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "What subject are you studying now, son?"
"Engines," I said. He looked at me in disbelief and asked, "What did you say?"
"I said 'engines.' Did you know that you can increase the displacement of a block by boring it and using oversized pistons?" I asked triumphantly.
He got up and ran out of the room shouting, "Portia, this kid isn't studying, he's reading about hot rods!"
A few days later I went back across the street. Armed to the teeth with automotive knowledge, I went right up to Roger Rourke and said, "I know a lot about cars and engines and aerodynamics, and I'd like to help you and the guys with your cars." Somehow this colossal announcement failed to arouse much enthusiasm, and I found myself back in my own front yard.
My mother again came to my rescue, although she didn't realize she was doing it. She was talking to Mrs. Rourke one day and told her of the studying incident, because she thought it was kind of funny. I guess Mrs. Rourke must have been impressed by the fact that I had been interested enough to spend all those evenings studying about engines and all, and I think she said something to the boys--something subtle like, "Find something for Craig to do or get out of the backyard." Anyway, next evening after school Roger came over to the front yard where I was sitting with Flash, my dog (here was that speed thing again), and said, "Craig, I've been thinking, and I guess there might be a few things you could help us with. Why don't you come on over, and we'll see if we can find something for you to do. That is if you still want to help."
Did I want to help? It was about the greatest thing that had happened to me since I was sprung from art school. I beat both Roger and Flash across the street.
They did find a few things for me to do, although most of them were pretty messy, like packing wheel bearings and changing oil. My mother took a somewhat dim view of the operation on wash days. But I guess she rationalized that since I was just across the street and she could see me from the kitchen window--I was the super greasy kid lying under the '39 Merc--there was no harm in it.
Also when the fellows realized that I did know something about cars and that I was interested in helping, they actually started accepting me. I was a kind of junior assistant apprentice Igniter, not just the kid from across the street whom they had to pamper or else find another place to work on their cars. Roger and Gene used to spend a lot of time explaining things to me. I knew many automotive principles, but now I was seeing the results of engine tuning and rebuilding firsthand. I really was interested and paid rapt attention to everything they told me. I continued reading books from the library on all phases of automotive construction and design and could sit and talk with the Igniters about anything relating to cars. They even took me for rides in their wild machines. I was the pride of the seventh grade--in my opinion, anyway.
Then one night, right after the fellows had come back from an Igniters meeting, the big surprise came. It was the moment for which men climb mountains and sail uncharted seas. They called me over and presented me with an aluminum car plaque. It read simply, but eloquently, "The Igniters, Honorary Member." I could have walked home on the electric wires, skipping easily from pole to pole.
By the end of my first apprentice year as an Igniter, I knew about all there was to know about building hot and classy cars: at least I had most of my classmates and my folks convinced of it. Actually, I had spent so much time under the cars that I had started to develop an upside-down view of motoring. But I was in the automobile thing all the way. I even carried a copy of Hot Rod magazine in my hip pocket at all times because it had become the bible of hot-rodders. I considered it a badge of the trade, and to be without one, I felt, was almost as unheard of as hanging around with the kids my own age.
It was inevitable that the day would come when I had to have my own car to work on. Much to the chagrin of my parents it came at age 13--not 16 when I could drive it. Thirteen! They didn't actually say yes, but I started to haunt the used car lots in search of the perfect car. And I started to save money.
When relatives asked me what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday, I answered, "Money. No presents, just money." I got a job after school sanding cars in a body shop for 50 cents an hour. After four months, and with the help of a few sympathetic relatives who took me at my word at Christmas time, I had saved $45, and then the great discovery day came.
There it sat on a used car lot in Santa Monica--in all its rusty splendor-a '34 Ford three-window coupe. The only problem was that the price was $75, which left me roughly 30 hours of sanding, one birthday, and one Christmas short.
To say I had worked out the perfect pitch by the time I got home would be an understatement. This $30 I needed was really important. It represented a chance to make something of myself--a chance to make up for the first 13 years of my life, which at this stage I considered pretty much wasted. Everything hung in the balance, and Clarence Darrow never pleaded a case more magnificently. I stepped back to accept the plaudits of the adoring jurors and well-manneredly slipped back into the role of the perfect son, obediently awaiting the verdict.
My stepfather looked at me sternly, judgelike, and said, "All right, but it's going to represent your birthday present."
It was the greatest birthday present I had ever received, and it wasn't even my birthday. He quickly added: "And there will be no driving your car until you're old enough for your license."
I had already covered that point in my brilliant summation. It came right after the part that went something like: "And if allowed to get the car, I promise to obey the rules of the road, to keep myself physically strong, morally straight, and in bed by nine each night."
Actually I did realize that it would take many long months of hard work before the coupe would be ready to race--er, drive. If I had had any idea at that point just how many cars I would have to sand to get the money for parts, I might have waited longer--say ten or twenty minutes longer.
All autobiographies should have a sentence that goes something like: "This is where it all started." Well, this was where it all started. I could finally, at the ripe old age of 13, put into practice some of the things I had learned while pausing for about six thousand hours under the cars of other hot-rodders. You see, I was now a hot-rodder. The fact that I couldn't drive had nothing to do with it. I had a hot rod and, consequently, I was a hot-rodder--plain and simple.
I could make use of my considerable knowledge of aerodynamics and my firm grip on body work techniques (at least the car-sanding part). About the only facets of my 13 years of experience I didn't bring into play in my first few days of planning were the hedge-trimming period and my artistic ability, but they were to be of use later.
At first I worked on the car in the backyard, but that was fairly unsuccessful. I had to keep the parts covered all of the time, and it was a real problem. It rained a lot that first year. All of the fellows who worked in Roger's backyard were there only a few days and for relatively minor projects. This one of mine was going to last for three years, and there wasn't that much canvas in Los Angeles.
Thus began the search for drier and more elegant quarters in which to rebuild the coupe. I looked all over the Venice area and found that it's pretty tough for a 13-year-old to rent anything--not to mention someplace to build a hot rod. So when a school chum offered to let me use a chicken coop in his backyard, I accepted. Well, it was drier, and besides the price fit right into my budget. It was free.
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| The flathead engine in the coupe that got Craig started racing. He began working on the car at age 13. |
With the help of a couple of the Igniters, I poured a concrete slab in the place and a three-year process of building a drag coupe began. Part by part, nickel by nickel, the car began to grow. First I pulled the '37 flathead engine (an earlier go-faster attempt of someone) and put two super-charged flatheads in it--one in the front and one in the back. Man, what a charger that would have been if someone hadn't broken into the place and stolen the rear engine--super-charger and all. I guess I could have called it the great chicken coop (coupe) caper if I had seen any humor in it. But it wasn't funny. I had sanded cars and run errands and saved for nearly a year to get the coupe to that stage, and the whole affair was pretty traumatic.
It took me a while to get over the robbery, but I found that if I spent even more time working after school and at night, I didn't think about it as much. Even at age 14 1 was able to reason with myself and come up with pretty rational decisions. I knew that this concerted effort at car sanding and neighborhood chores would not only help me over my first real tough period, but would give me more money and get me back to work on the coupe sooner.
This was about the first time my stepdad felt that some good might come out of the hot rod project. He told me that he was really proud of me for the mature way I had handled the whole affair, and he did one other thing. He offered to lend me some money if I wanted it. This was really important to me because I realized for the first time myself that I was beginning to grow up a little. "Thanks," I said, "but I want to work and make it myself." We were both proud of the decision I made.
