…and the Zombie Apocalypse.
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. But then 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, considered 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).
Today, the landscape has changed. 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 into the rearview at her fatherless twins.
So 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, semi (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)
More from the Zombie Apocalypse:
The Love Bug
On the journey to enlightenment, the classic Beetle was the transport of truth for hippies (and circus clowns).
The Mighty Dodge
Even worse, with just a dusting of snow, those muscular Mopars are reduced to whiny liberals.