Corvette Summer 454

…and the Zombie Apocalypse

Your heart skips a beat as you gently ease into the seat.

The thunderous exhaust note is exhilarating. With a prod of the throttle, the frame wrenching four-inch stroke warps the front end.

Lift off the clutch, and there is no discernible movement forward until, with a latent smile of satisfaction, you feel your backside drift sideways. Bending the nose into the billows of churning smoke, the chunky over-sized rears finally melt into the sizzling asphalt, catapulting you… back.

…back in time. Back to when roads were open, love was free, and summer nights lasted forever.

There are two kinds of men in this world: Those who own a big block and those whose wives won’t let them.

Sure… a small block would have produced more than enough oomph to rip the feather weight from the pavement’s grip on reality. But as everyone knows… there is no substitute for cubic inches (except more cubic inches).

And somehow some mad scientist crammed the fiberglass shell with 454 freakin’ cubes of… Turbo? we don’t need no stinkin’ turbo. That’s nearly 7½ liters for you European weenies (or 22 stale beers).

Back in the day the Stingray roamed where it pleased, caressing like a gentleman the gorgeous curves of countryside. Respected by many, possessed by few, and challenged only by local wildlife: Goats, Mustangs, and the errant Road Runner. Leaving all with a newfound sense of humility and a mouthful of dust.

No navigational aids
No interactive displays
No cameras and no catalytic converters

Not that modern incarnations are to be contested lightly. But enhanced technology meant to guide and protect, in reality, only insulates – removing the driver from the road.

Too bad the entire line got RIP’d with the C7 after GM’s midwives C-section’d the C8 and birthed a Corvair.

Sadly the landscape has changed. Today the highways are clogged with blob-like disposable transports (of foreign alpha-numeric designations) driven by mindless zombies. The most menacing of which are Moms in Minivans.

And that one-time leggy blonde with whom you chased the dawn? She is now a pink pussyhat screaming at her fatherless twins in the rearview.

And as fate would have it one dreary day, just as the voice-enabled command console helplessly erupts in bells and whistles, her lane-departing, auto-steering, pre-emptive braking, sorta autonomous family van flies PMS-ing through a stop sign.

…and in a series of cartoonish sound effects, mom, the minivan, and all the mini zombies tumble through a neighbor’s white picket fence encased in an array of emergency flotation devices – completely unharmed, of course (the crumb-crunchers’ in-car entertainment system never losing wi-fi connectivity).

But in an spectacular display of fiberglass fireworks, your beautifully sculpted Stingray disintegrates around you; leaving you butt-scootin’ along the black top with a gear shift in one hand, fuzzy dice in the other, and the tape-eating 8 track cryin’ “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie… .”

Daily Drive 9 to 5: ★
Gettin’ Outta Dodge: ★★★★★
Zombie Survival: (not likely)