This rant isn’t going to make sense to many people, but to those of you who understand, I think you’ll get a kick out of this. I am the member of an elite group. We are known as the second-generation motor-heads, or rodders. We were born, raised, and some of us conceived, in the back of a street rod. We spent our childhood summers traveling in a convoy of pre-1949 built from scratch, jimmy rigged jalopies. Okay, they weren’t jalopies by any means. These cars were beautiful. Every last shred of chrome, steel, and, in the case of my dad’s upholstery, crushed velour, was built by hand from scratch. We spent our weekends in the summer touring the eastern US, hauling campers in tow, to different shows known to us as Rod Runs. If one of the hot rods in the convoy broke down, the entire convoy would pull off and fix it. We didn’t need AAA. We were AAA. We all had CB’s, and each street rodder had a CB handle. Our campers were towed by our street rods. We didn’t believe in towing a classic car. What fun is it if you can’t drive something you put so much pride and effort into building? We had no respect for someone who did haul their street rod. If a street rod was on a flat bed, that bitch had better have been totaled out in a drag race. Otherwise, you weren’t a member of our club. We would set up our campers, weekend after weekend, build camp fires, have sock-hops, play games, raffle items off, host Chinese auctions, bring in 250 dozen ears of corn, and show our cars. The second generation rodders would run off and play together, while our parents would get sloppy drunk, and in some instances, pass out underneath their motorhomes. This was the norm for us. We were the Street Rods of Northwest PA. I didn’t know that other kids didn’t know what a street rod was. I thought every kid’s dad had perpetually dirty hands and fingernails. I didn’t know that other kid’s parents didn’t get together in convoys and camp every weekend, even if it was in a corn field during a tornado. I thought that every kid’s dad could talk about cars endlessly. I realize now that we were just the lucky chosen ones. The second generation motor-heads are all adults now. Although the Street Rods of Northwest PA has since disbanded, the bond of the members and their children is as strong as ever.
On a recent visit home, I was reunited with many of the second generation rodders. It is as though we never missed a beat. We got together, and now, instead of just our fathers discussing carburetors, we all discussed them. We have all done well for ourselves, and I would like to attribute it to the fact that we were brought up around such camaraderie. We were taught that all hard work also needs to be enjoyed and appreciated. Many of us have built street rods of our own. I still have the dream of building one soon…I just need garage space. Our dad’s garages are still bigger than any living space. There are still at least two hot rods in the garage, and more street rodder magazines in our house than anyone could ever imagine. Everytime I hear the deep rumble of a souped-up engine and smell exhaust, I smile. I’m reminded of a wonderful childhood.
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