If everyone one my favorite Facebook page, went to Drag Main St at once as we ‘all’ have said, it would have been perpetual grid lock, oh wait, some nights it was. I can recall at time or two when we sat under the lights of the Arch, huffing the exhaust of a 110 car freight train, two engines in the front, and two more in the middle, and finally the caboose; and of the hundreds of untuned cars; especially the touristas, their cars didn’t take well to a 4500′ altitude, neither did the tourists, I can recall a large number of times I saw a lace hatted, sensibly shod, elderderly matron, who had hyperventilated in Harolds Club.
The tow-truck drivers liked it; as did the auto shops. The stations would get the sputtering car into the shop, open the hood, hum and haw for awhile. They tell the distraught customer that this and that needs to be replaced, for $50.00. The mechanics go back to the stricken automobile. They take off the air cleaner, pull it out, bang the filter on the concrete a time or to, all is good. The mechanic takes a screw driver turns two springed screws and the car begins to purr. They put the air cleaner back on, fill the radiator, check the oil and the tires. They bring the car back to our unfortunate driver. He is ecstatic, as he pulls $45.00 out of his wallet. They kinda liked the guy so they gave him a ‘fiver’ off the bill. They fail to mention that once he gets back down to sea level, his car is going to run like shit, and he will probably be out another Grant.
Rob and I turn right onto Virginia St at US 40, and head south. It is slow, but kinda the reason to be here. This is social networking at it’s finest, sitting behind the wheel of a 57 Pontiac Star Cheif; all the windows open, because it is still 90 freaking degrees out.
At 2nd and Virginia, there are two uniformed policemen on all four corners. Buley and Epper are under the Bank Clock, 9:17, 92 degrees. They don’t notice us heading south. We hook around at the PO, and head back north. As we hit 2nd, Epper is on us, walking towards the car. Buley sees us to, and gives us a look of ‘aw, crap’ Rob and I and Buley and Epper have a history. They tell us in a matter of factly tone. If they see us more than one more time we will be sent to Wittenburg.
We take them at their word, they have done it before. They both know that the two ‘boys’ sitting in the 57 Pontiac, don’t have Driver’s Licenses. Rob, the driver, had 17 tickets, before his 17th birthday, and his license was suspended two years becfore he could get one.
And the 57 is no slouch, a Ventura 389ci, with a Holley 4lbb, and a three speed, converted from the column to the floor. Sometimes it was a 4-speed, it took Rob about 15 ,minutes to change the tranny. We got the 389, in a barter, we had to pull an engine out of another Pontiac. We started at 9:00 in the morning, pulled out three massive Pontiac powerplants, and installed one. I was the toolman gopher. I dismantled; driveline, radiator etc. At 3:00 pm we pulled out of the yard and left tires marks along Keitzke along the front of Mark Fore & Strike.
B & E let us proceed. We take a quick loop at Mayfair and find no one we might find a party for, and we head east on 40. Nothing happening is Sparks either so we head back. We wave at B&E as we head south. We head down 395S, cruising slowly past Del Mar Station, and the Burley Bull, failing to find a party. The city disappears as we cross Plumb Lane, and continue to Hash Lane.
We have a friend, he lives in an old farmhouse on Hash Lane. The house belonged to his mother, for ages. He lives there with his girlfriend. They are part of the new breed in town. Hippies. The house is hooked up to nothing. They shit at a local gastation since there is no sewer. There is no running water, they bring bottles of water from Crystal Springs, there is no power, a portable radio, provides entertainment if they can afford the batteries. There is no heat, but they have down sleeping bags, rated for 30 below zero.
The one thing they do have is, a selection of the best pot in the city.
It was always ‘catch as catch can’, you could almost always grab a quarter ounce of leaf, but on occasion it might be a ‘thai stick’ or some primo Acapulco Gold.
Our route changes after every hit of the joint. Up Zollezi, to Broili, then around a squirlley loop and onto Huffaker, and ultimately to Lakeside, via Thomas Creek. We hit the straightawy on Lakeside, and punch it. By the time we pass Chet’s house we are hitting 90 mph, We are down to 50 as we pass Dr. Soli’s house at the foot of Windy Hill. This is the most BEAUTIFUL HOUSE, in the City of Reno.
Windy Hill. If Facebook is true, this little turnout; big enough for 6 cars, was the most populated place in Reno. Fourteen square miles of hormone controlled teenagers. It was also one of the most patrolled areas of the RPD.
We speed by, not recognizing any vehicles.
We head up Plumas, and back into town. It is 11:00, an hour past curfew, the police duos are no longer on each corner. B&E are gone, riding their Harleys. Rob and I need to be careful.
It is midnight, US40 and 395 are quiet, still bumper to bumper though.
Rob drops me at home about 12:30 and heads home. He will pick me up about 5:00 tomorrow, and we will begin SATURDAY night.