Flatheads
Nostalgia seems to be the antidote to cure the Shock of the Future here on the wireless South End. Just when folks are thinking about that Prius purchase or waiting for a fuel cell Chevy, the old car guyz are intent on something pre-fuel injection, non-hybrid and seriously retro. The Flatheads, an ad hoc group of antique car aficionados, meet once a week at the Diner for a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast buttered with 30 weight. Whey they roll in, the Diner looks like a scene out of American Graffiti, gleaming waxed Mercurys and perfectly restored Oldsmobile Rocket 88’s. For a few hours the South End freeways return to Big Fin glory.
The boyz argue double vs. 4 barrel carburation, rebored cyclinders vs. short block, stock vs. custom. They trade sandblasting work for decal painting. They travel to each other’s garages — which, by my shade tree standards, would qualify for Health Dep’t food prep certification, they’re that immaculate. Snap-On tools are organized in rolling cabinets, parts are labeled and easily accessed (I bet they even have computer files. I know they used the internet to locate replacement parts.) Lifts and grease pits look like a dealer’s repair bay. The boyz are serious.
One of the drawbacks to their hobby, other than high divorce rates and a serious drain on retirement funding, is something most Flatheads acknowledge but not proudly or loudly: Car Accumulation Syndrome. One restoration leads to the next. They no more than finish that ’57 BelAir than they’ve got a project car hauled in on a flatbed, some must-have, couldn’t pass up Model A or a ’65 Mustang from their high school glory days. Garages get enlarged and the missuz’ dream of a kitchen remodel gets deferred once again.
I used to park my beater ‘70’s pickup at the end of the Diner’s showroom, hoping their enthusiasm for vintage vehicles might rub off. But sadly, my days of busted and bleeding knuckles, recalcitrant bolts seized in the block, hateful stripped threads, all the grime and grease and grunt made that a little unlikely. I never had a garage. Just crawled under my broken rigs and worked in the rain, the cold, the private hell that was MY car repair. I didn’t work on them for fun. I worked on them because I was too poor to own a decent rig. So when I drive by the Diner these days, I salute the Flatheads with a toot of the horn and thank my lucky stars I own a truck, a modern, computer modulated, sensor-driven, circuit board-on-wheels truck WAY too complicated for a boy like me to work on. Nostalgia is nice, but I like to make it to town.
Hits: 28