Passing on the performance car legacy - budget Camaro build - bonus episode

Episode one, purchase and bodywork.

Episode two, mechanicals and interior.

Episode three, final details and the finished car.

Bonus episode, LS conversion.

Double bonus episode, converting the 4L60e tailshaft housing to a mechanical speedo drive.

Triple bonus episode, the details leading up to the purchase of this car and what it meant.

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All my life I’ve owned old cars. I fix them up and sell them, moving on to the next project. However, I recently arrived at the point where I wanted a final project car to keep for the long term. Rebuilding old cars is hard work, and I’m not getting any younger. Besides, I don’t think I drove the last four projects for a combined total of 500 miles. 

That last project was supposed to be my 1967 Camaro coupe. It had just achieved glittering road-worthiness after a ground-up rebuild when my friend Duncan called. I could tell something was on his mind. His voice shaky, he whispered, “I want a muscle car.” I knew what was up. Those five words told an entire story, a tale of youthful indiscretions behind the wheel of dad’s car, of gas fumes and perfume, of cruising and girls and grease. Memories of a time past, coming forth in the wake of advancing age and graying hair, the heady brew of nostalgia mixed with adrenaline. 

Yes, Duncan was afflicted. His disease, long dormant, had flared up like an itched that had to be scratched. And I owned the scratch. 

But now I had a predicament. I worked very hard on this car. Do I really want to sell it, this last project? That evening I told my wife. But she already knew before I opened my mouth. 30 years of marriage leaves few secrets uncovered. And to my amazement she became an enabler. She said she knew how much I loved lying under cars busting knuckles. Why should I give up something I love? 

So Duncan and I quickly reached an accord. He got the keys and I got funding for my next project. 

That car turned out to be another 1967 Camaro, a convertible. My plan was to simply do some mechanical upgrades and drive it. But I underestimated the sickness, a particularly virulent strain known as “while-I’m-at-it.” I’m doing the brakes, so why not replace the bushings while-I’m-at-it? The motor is out, so I’ll paint the engine compartment while-I’m-at-it. That’s the way it works. 

With parts now scattered all over my garage floor and a stack of parts catalogs with dog-eared pages, I eventually realized I was off plan. I decided that I would finish the mechanicals, give it a temporary paint job, and get it on the road. I could restore the body later, but enjoy the car now. It was summer after all, made to order for a convertible. 

After a trip to a “jobs-killing” big box store and a quick spray job, the car was now resplendent in a surprisingly glossy Rust Oleum fire truck red. The rest of the car was only partially assembled with no windshield and no door handles. An empty five gallon bucket served as the seat. It was enough. 

Ah, there is nothing like the maiden cruise. Duncan and his son Nate were on hand to witness the momentous event. The engine roared to life, mellifluous melodies of fossil fuel detonation dancing through my brain, outgassing through a pair of Purple Hornies, which are, well, “mufflers.” The car sounded strong. 

Nate rode with me, wide eyed, and Duncan followed behind in my previous Camaro. I smiled. Nate was infected. Indeed, he would go on to purchase a big block Nova several years later. A quick shakedown trip around the block confirmed that this Camaro passed muster. Duncan noted that there were no unfortunate emissions of liquid or smoke, but what appeared to be a mouse nest was discharged from the folds of the convertible top. 

This is the stuff of personal legends, memory-making at its finest. As a bonus, a new generation has taken up the flickering torch of American performance automobiling and thrust it forward with rekindled flame, lighting the way for a continued appreciation of a time when Detroit muscle ruled the world.