Boy, I really did love that car. Second car I ever owned, first car I bought with my own money. And, it was only nine years old when I got it. Practically new.

The first car was a 1953 Chevy convertible- '53 -and I would like to tell you the stories about that car another time.

This car was also a convertible, black on black, leather seats, power windows and the large v-eight. My first car was a six, that '53 chev, so this added power was a treat. It was an Olds 98, Starfire Convertible. The first of two Starfire Convertibles I would own, as it turned out. One of the first things I did as the new owner of such a fine machine was to make a few minor adjustments to the exhaust. I had learned as an Eagle Scout, when we rehabbed a junker '50 Ford flathead as a scout project, that the old muffler must be replaced with a thirty inch glass pack. In order to get that uninhibited full throated big bore exhaust rumble. This must be done as soon as possible, since it takes about three or four months to break in the new muffler. You see, a glass pack muffler is nothing more than a thirty inch tube with holes in it, covered with fiberglass to absorb the sound. After the first few months, the holes get plugged with exhaust residue and voila! A straight pipe! I.E., non muffled exhaust. Cool.

Since the big Olds had dual exhaust and I couldn't afford one, let alone two, thirty inch glass pack mufflers, I merely removed the offending pieces and inserted straight pipe. It had the desired effect, and no waiting. This was before cars had resonators at the end of the exhaust system, (ditto: catalytic converters) so the effect was of two 12 foot straight pipes running right out of the exhaust manifold to the rear bumper. I'm sure every parent has heard one of these set-ups; a very loud noise upon acceleration, and then a prolonged burbling popping sound as the foot is removed from the gas pedal. I was well on my way to really 'souping up' my Olds.

The next important racing improvement was to adjust the carburetor for maximum performance. This car already had a monster four vein, or 4 barrel carb, so I merely had to remove the factory air cleaner and substitute a flat plate. It wasn't very proficient at cleaning the air going into the engine, but it let all the motor noise roar back out through the valves (the size of silver dollars), up the intake manifold and out the now unencumbered carburetor. The car was now roaring at both ends, so there was only one more important racing improvement to make. Take off the hubcaps. They gave the car a definitely stodgy look, and probably slowed it down. Paint the rims friction reducing black and I was done. This car was definitely ready to hit Woodward Avenue.

My favorite car to race was the Ford Crown Victoria. It had nearly the same engine displacement as the big Olds and the races were always close. Woodward was a dream ( Dream Cruise?) in those days. Few street lights, many drive-ins, and infrequent police presence. At every stop light between eight mile and north to thirteen mile and beyond, heads swiveled to check out the competition. Eye contact was made, motors were revved, and many a parent's beloved work vehicle was tormented beyond endurance. But, I distract myself.

When I became the new owner of this fine machine, it hadn't a dent. And when, some 18 months later I finally threw a rod, (racing a cursed Crown Vic) it had not one piece of sheet metal that wasn't crunched in, in one way or another. But the tale of these wrecks is also another story. Perhaps several stories, actually. This story is about hitch hiking.

Cruising Woodward was always better accomplished with an accomplice. On the night in question, I was out with my good friend Ron Margoooseian. This way, one of us was free to make appropriate banter to interested girls in other cars. Since I was driving, the banter was up to Ron. Ron's favorite line was, "Hey! Want to get married?"

Believe it or not, I was cruising Woodward with Ron when I met my first wife. He used the, "Hey! Want to get married?" line on her cousin Helen, and the rest is history.

But that was another story. On this particular Friday night Ron and I had made several turns up and down Woodward with little or no success. Success meaning, we had not been able to impress any girls with interesting verbosity and get them to talk to us. I encouraged Ron to try another line. He suggested I try my own line. However, when I talked to cars on my left I tended to steer into them, and that left all parties struggling to maintain control of their wildly swerving vehicles. Ron said, "Never mind. I'll talk."

We would start our circuit south of Eight Mile Rd, at the eight mile Big Boy. Across the street was the Dipsy Doodle drive in. There was no eight mile overpass, as yet. The next stop was always the best, the Totem Pole drive in. Unquestionably the coolest drive in on Woodward. I spent countless hours of my youth parked in the Totem Pole, watching the other cruisers, and making comments like, "Check out the baby moons." or, "She's a skag.", or "WOW - check THAT!"

Then we would head north. Mavericks, Ted’s, and finally the thirteen mile Big Boy was usually the turn around point. Then do it all in reverse. Then do it all again. Ron began to grow weary. "Hey, I got a number to call!" he announced. "Pull over somewhere."

Somewhere happened to be the corner of Twelve and a half and Woodward. Webster Ave. A drugstore occupied the space where there is now a video store, but the same little triangle parking lot remains today. And that fateful night, there was a phone booth on the corner, into which my erstwhile buddy Ron disappeared. I decided to leave the big Olds to cool off a bit in the parking lot and indulge in another of our favorite pastimes; hitchhiking.

The idea here is simple. Stand on the corner and check out the cars stopped for the light. If any of the cars contained girls, stick out ones thumb. It was really quite entertaining. If nothing else, one could usually get a conversation going. "Hey, how 'bout a lift?" "Sorry, we don't pick up hitchhikers."

If the car was full of guys, then one must step back a step and look disinterested. I was doing just that because a car full of preppie types was at the light. They decided to rag me with taunts, "Hey, asshole, get out 'a the street." "Who'd pick up a queer like you, anyway."

I successfully ignored them. And as the light changed and they pulled away in their spiffy new '64 Dodge Charger amidst clouds of blue smoke and squealing tires I couldn’t resist flipping the bird. I doubted they could see it, anyway. Wrong.

"Hey, Ron!" Frantically beating on the phone booth. "I just flipped off a car full of assholes and they did a U-turn and are headed back here! We gotta' go!" "NOW!" Too late.

We were just piling in the Big Olds as the Charger came back up to the corner. When the Olds was hot it cranked a bit slowly, alas, and the preppies were coming up Webster as we headed for the exit at the back of the lot. This was where the triangle lot narrowed to only the exit driveway, and the Charger just did get there ahead of us, pulling into the alley and blocking the drive. They slammed to a stop and so did I. "Back up!" Was Ron's advice. Having never before in my life been chased by a car full of pissed off hoodlums I failed to find reverse on the first try. After that it was too late.

Both doors of the Charger flew open, and the four preppies started to emerge. Unable to find reverse, I did find LOW, and with one foot on the brake, squeaked the back tires, threatening to ram the passenger side of their car. The two fellows on that side halted, and after another tire screech, lifted their feet back inside the car. The two on the drivers side also became distracted by this tactic, and were temporarily stunned into immobility. Now I couldn't get the big Olds out of low. "BACK UP!" encouraged Ron. No go. The fellows started to re-emerge from the Charger. My brake pedal was getting perilously close to the floor boards, for some reason. This time as I gassed it, the big Olds crept forward a couple feet, now just inches from the passenger side door. These die hard crazy bastards started getting out AGAIN.

Now, I should mention something about the configuration of a '54 Olds Starfire Convertible. The grill especially. You've seen them, perhaps? A huge heavy chrome plated bumper accentuated by two large bullet like projections. The 'two tit' bumper, as it was affectionately remembered. It was time to put those two boobs to good use.

"Ram 'EM!" exhorted Ron. The preppies were reduced to trying to exit their vehicle from the drivers side door, due to the proximity of the big Olds Big Boobs. They couldn't open the passenger side door. But now what? As the first of them reached the rear of the Charger my mind got made up. The choices had become few. There was no turning back, no searching for reverse. I hammered it.

Right to the floor. The big Olds bogged and threatened to stall, and my heart threatened to stop - and then the big inch v-eight caught, with the throaty roar I had been waiting to hear. Tires squealed and smoke poured. We jumped right into the passenger side door of that Dodge amidst yelling and shouting and cursing that would burn your ears. The preppies milled in confusion, arms raised and waving frantically. I looked at Ron, and he had the biggest idiot smile on his face I have ever seen on a human being. "Go, Go, Go!" he encouraged.

Lacking sufficient sense or better alternatives I just kept the hammer down. Gradually the big Olds prevailed, and the front end of the Dodge began to slide sideways. The level of shouting increased. The transmission began to slip. Smoke was pouring from the tires and from under my hood. As soon as there was clearance to get by I managed to find reverse, backed up and then swerved right and scraped by the astounded preppies and daddies Dodge. In the mirror I could see two of them screaming about the damage to the passenger side of the car, while on the drivers side a tall fellow was exhorting them to get back in. Which they did. The chase was on.

At this point I was literally shaking from adrenaline, and Ron and I were both laughing like a couple of psychos. We caromed down the alley, swung right and then right again and were back on Woodward headed North. It was several seconds until we realized that these maniacs hadn't had enough and were now really pissed and determined to catch us at all costs. I saw them fish tail wildly onto Woodward a quarter of a mile behind us. "They're chasing us!" I hollered.

It was only about two weeks ago that Ron and I had returned from the cottage my folks owned outside Jackson, on Big Portage Lake. We had spent most of the summer there, unintentionally. While there, we had become broke, due to unplanned expenses like eating. We had lived several weeks on stolen eggs from the farmer next door, and frog legs we caught in the swamp, and that's about it. Occasionally we would siphon gas from the farmers tractor and then drive into Jackson to try and find girls. We found plenty, but that was a far as it got. While racing a local (in a damn Ford Vic) something cut loose in the drive train of the big Olds, and we had to back off, due to severe vibration. The drive shaft had somehow gotten out of round. When we got back to the lake we looked underneath and could see where a balancing weight had somehow fallen off the driveshaft. Perhaps from driving through the fields and countryside. This was before SUV's. When we began catching frogs in the swamp with no back legs, we figured it was time to head back to the Motor City. We drafted behind large trucks to make the trip on less than a quarter tank of gas. The car shook something awful at speeds over fifty MPH.

"Hit it", encouraged Ron. The big Olds responded with it's customary roar and cloud of smoke. Right around fifty the shaking began. Ron was watching our pursuers and noted that they were gaining. "Faster, faster, geesus they're gonna catch us!" The big Olds made it up to 60. I couldn't make out the gauges, they were blurred from the vibration. My teeth started to rattle. This wouldn't do. On instinct I made a sudden left turn on thirteen mile. I was going too fast, and the Big Olds swung wildly one way and then the other, threatening to flip over at any moment. I think that only because it weighed nearly four thousand pounds, it stayed right side up. The preppies in their daddie's Dodge couldn't make the turn, but cut across the median and were not far behind as we raced west.

"Head for my house!" suggested Ron. Not a bad idea. He lived in a trendy part of Southfield, about a mile away. A long mile away. Lathrup Village, it was called. Cutting left and right through the side streets we were still outmatched by the slightly battered Dodge, but here speed wasn't as much a factor. Daring was. Daring I could do. When they were almost on our tail I would slam on the brakes. Then whip into the next street before they could recover. They would have to back up to continue the chase.

Earlier, Ron and I had been playing the garage door opener game. Although we had taken the big Olds instead of Ron's car, he had brought the garage opener from his house to play the game. We would drive down the trendy streets of Lathrup Village pushing the garage door button, and watching which garage doors swung open. Make note of the address for later. Great game. Don't ask.

About a half mile from Ron's house the big Olds began to stop responding to pressure from the throttle. It acted like it was going to stall. I shoved it into neutral and feathered the gas, and it would catch again. As the headlights from the Dodge rounded the corner behind us I slammed it back into low and off we'd tear. We were only two streets from Ron's house but our pursuers were right behind us. I tried the brake trick again, but they were ready and didn't bite. Time for a new tactic. In for an inch, in for a mile.

I rounded a corner at about thirty and barely managed to keep control, mostly by luck. As the Dodge came around the corner at a slightly more sane speed I braked hard, put the big Olds in reverse, and did my thing. They saw me coming and tried to get into reverse, but to no avail. I used the rear bumper to the same advantage as I had the front, earlier, but this time on the grill and radiator of our tormentors. There was a loud crash and the tinkle of broken glass. Without further ado I banged it back into low and sped off, only two turns from the safety of Ron's garage. As I turned the first corner I saw smoke come from the rear of the Dodge as they got it going again. No matter. I made the next turn onto Ron's street with the tires on their side and was still doing twenty as we made for his driveway. Ron hit the opener, and the door just cleared us as I slammed on the brakes and the door came down. By some miracle we didn't take out the rear of Ron's dad's garage.

The Dodge flew on by.

I loved that big '54 Olds.

PS Rather than endure too much flack, let me explain something. The garage door game was for this reason: I would come back to those homes later, and SELL them a more secure garage door opener system. It was a sideline I had at the time. The garage door opener trick was simply a good way to find new customers.