Burning Rubber in the 1971 Plymouth Cuda
It has been frequently said, “it is better to drive a slow car fast, than a fast car slow”. I would counter that if you are driving the right car, it doesn’t matter how fast you are going. Most car enthusiasts laugh when someone asks them, “if you could have any car, what would it be”? The conversation inevitably turns into a long list to cover every aspect of driving. But there is always the one. A car that when you see it online, you aren’t amused. Instead you look longingly like seeing an ex-girlfriend who dumped you for another man. A car you honestly have thought for an uncomfortable amount of time about organ donation to be able to afford. For me, it is a Dodge Charger 500 in Richard Petty blue. For my new friend Fredrik, it was a 1971 Plymouth Cuda with the 426 Hemi in orange. In 2002, Fredrik bought his dream car. Sort of. The Plymouth Cuda he had found was neither orange or Hemi powered. Rather, a yellow convertible body with a faded white interior and a humble 318 for a power plant. The rear quarter panels were rusted and the convertible top was torn up. But… he was sitting in his dream car and his dreams would get the car where it needed to be.
Julia and I met Fredrik at a cruise night in Delsbo, Sweden. Over 100 classic American cars driving round and round the small town center in a one kilometer loop. I was enjoying the spectacle in the back of a SUV, roast beef sandwich and camera hand in hand. While most of the drivers were content with the slow leisurely pace of the Delsbo loop, the more exuberant (to put it mildly) participants would rev or make a show for my wide smile and camera. Fredrik took things to the next level. When his gleaming orange Cuda came down the road, I was on my feet shyly spinning my fingers hoping for tire smoke. He was eager to comply. The 426 Hemi roaring, Fredrik burned rubber lap after lap before me. Mind you, the roads were slick with rain and priceless American muscle cars were only a few meters in front and to the side of him.
After a few laps, Fredrik rumbled to a stop beside us, through a wide smile he asked , “how can I get these pictures, where are you online?”. A normal level headed journalist would simply pass out his business card or provide an email or phone number. One problem, I am neither normal nor level headed. Instead, I haltingly attempt to give him my Instagram, but over the deep bass of exhaust from cars all around, my words are drowned out. Looking to my right I see and hear the growing queue of cars impatient to continue their cruise. Horns and big block revs roar their displeasure with this bumbling American blocking traffic. So caught up in the Raggare spirit of the show, I come to the simple solution. I pull up my contact screen, toss my cell phone into his lap, and tell him to bring it back on the next lap. Genius. He shrugs and peels out in a 15 meter water soaked burn out. Was that a bad idea? I shrug too. We will see what happens, I guess.
After an uncomfortably long amount of time, Fredrik returns phone in hand. Just as before, he peels off into the night. About an hour later, right before I’m about to call it a night because of the increasingly heavy rain he returns and pulls up onto the curb. He gets out and offers me a ride.
We take things slow in the beginning, rumbling along the loop. The car’s interior is spotless. The once tattered white interior has been redone. Black leather seats and immaculate black trim covers the dash. The only hint that this car has been redone is a glowing tachometer beneath the dash. Until he told me, I thought the car was a well maintained original. Everything is exactly as it should be. On lap two, things became dramatically more interesting. “Should I do another burnout”, he asks. Duh!
Expecting a simple brake stand smoke show considering the now soaking wet roads, I quickly learn dear Fredrik doesn’t give a fu… We launch mid corner to the left, inches away from a pristine 50’s Buick. Fredrik carries the slide through the corner and only increases the throttle as we straighten out. Sliding left and right across both lanes of traffic we go about a kilometer before the car runs out of RPM. His car is geared for the long roads of the Hälsingland. The Cuda isn’t a drag car, it’s a driving car. We repeat the process on the way back. Just when I think Fredrik’s settled down, he looks at me and asks if we mind if he takes the top down on the convertible. It’s pouring rain. Why? You might ask would we take the top down in the rain in a parking lot filled to the brim with 15 to 18 year olds showing off their own subculture of EPA-traktors (30 km/h limited cars for underage drivers). You guessed it, for another massive burnout and power slide and peel off into the night because as he put it simply, “cars are meant to be driven”. Having sufficiently terrorized the children and exploding my adrenal gland all over itself, we return to a more leisurely pace for the return. Fredrik drops us off back at the still open rear hatch of the SUV and peels off into the night.
Forget America, forget Australia, the Swedes are the new kings of the muscle car.
Roughly a week later, we reconvened to go for a drive. Fredrik meets us at an idyllic campground at Lake Dellen. Now that we were uninhibited by rain or road hungry lines of cars, we had the opportunity to take a closer look at the beautiful Plymouth Cuda. Model correct Hemi vinyls line the rear quarterpanels leaving no surprises as to what’s under the hood. The engine Fredrik used was a turn-key crate 426 Hemi. The engine is unmodified, except for chrome valve covers and a few dress-ups. The 426 is paired to a 727A three speed TorqueFlite automatic transmission with long gearing in the back. Exhaust flows in heavy handed notes that you feel in your stomach through stunning chrome finished long tube headers. Suspension is original and the car rests on humble steel wheels and authentic Cooper tires. Overall, the Cuda was in pristine condition. The black leather interior was even more striking in the clear light of day.
Joining him on our solo cruise is his daughter with her barbie. At only 3 years old, she’s already got the bug for the automotive and when we start driving, Mary is standing in the back seat looking over her father’s shoulders screaming for him to go faster. Here is where the old adage of “fast car slow, slow car fast” falls on its face. It didn’t matter if we were going 30 or 120 km/h. When the weather is perfect and your child is laughing and your friends are with you in your dream car, any speed is the best speed. It didn’t matter when we rumbled along at a snail’s pace looking at the scenery. It didn’t matter when Mary’s pleading finally got Frederick to punch it down the strait-away. If you truly love your car, everywhere you go at any speed becomes a delightful playground.
