Time Always Wins
I am restoring my 1970 dodge challenger for the second time.
No crash caused this. No fiery wreck. Just the quiet, inevitable grind of time. You buy a muscle car in the late 80s, paint it, throw a junkyard motor in it, and drive it for two decades? Yeah. You get to start over.
We bought this base-model challenger from the guy who had it since it was new. It had miles on it. Bad miles, mostly. It sat under neighbor’s sprinklers for years. The cracked vinyl top trapped rain against bare metal on the roof. Rust ate through the steel like pinholes in a sieve.
I wasn’t going to keep it, honestly.
I already had a ’72 challenger. A brute. Rattle-can black paint. I drove that thing around la and curtains twitched. It was dirty. I liked it that way. Then the ’70 came back from the shop.
Glistening blue. Like a cartoon dolphin.
I sold the ’72 that day. Gave up the dirtbag lifestyle. Put a 440 big-block under the hood and used the car for everything. Daily commute. Drag races.
It carried me to pr firms. To hot rod magazine, a sixty-mile round trip each day. To freelance gigs and finally here, at car and driver. It wasn’t just transportation. It was a test mule for suspension guys. It went on american top gear. Dyno tests. Photo shoots.
I’ve done so many burnouts I’ve lost count.
One time a cop was there. He didn’t laugh when I told him the smoke blocked my view.
The Slow Rot
Hot cars die fast. Freeway heat kills paint. Racetrack grit eats clear-coat.
The quarter-panels cracked. The roof holes grew, dimpling underneath the peeling surface. The front fender still bled rust from the day I rolled it into a gas station post—right after the first paint job, no less. It wasn’t cool decay. Just ragged.
I tried to patch the roof before. Quick fix. Bad idea. This time I needed a full swap.
First-gen challengers have aftermarket panels, mostly. So I paid exorbitant shipping to get a new roof. I handed it to “Peter the swede.”
Peter is Finnish. Everyone calls him the swede. We’re ignorant of nordic geography, I suppose.
Peter specializes in mopar metalwork. He isn’t impressed with other people’s work. Never is.
He texted me daily while he dug out layers of bondo. And surprises. Car surprises are usually rust. Unless it’s a head gasket, but usually rust. Once the metal was clean, he tore the car down more to prep for paint.
Ghosts in the Machine
Buying an old car is archaeology.
National park maps in the glovebox. Beer can tabs behind a panel. Seven cloves of garlic in the trunk, for reasons no one explains.
Now I’m digging up my own history.
Sand in the vents? Buttonwillow raceway off-road test. The hairpin turn was too hairy, apparently.
Tangled wires under the dash? An air-fuel gauge experiment from years ago.
That tube of expensive mascara stuck between the seat and console?
Dang.
I’ve been looking for that since six years ago.
Dave shuten came to the rescue. He builds high-end customs usually. He agreed to touch my dodge, which felt like him slumming it.
He visited twice. Both times he rejected our level of teardown.
“Hey, it’s up to me,” he said, letting the judgment hang. The implication clear. If I did it, I’d do it right. You’re not doing it right.
Finally, we got it stripped clean enough for his shop. They are smoothing the metal. Respraying it. Bright. Blue. Dolphin-bright.
Now I put it together again.
How hard can that be.
