Okay, who out there rode in the back of a pickup and is still around today to tell the tale?  I grew up riding in the back of one.  My father had a 1960 Chevy Apache Long Bed Fleetside that hauled everything from boards and planks to bags of cement, plants and trees, camping gear, bicycles, go-carts and more kids than I can recall.  Nowadays, of course, riding in the back of a pickup is a Bozo No-No.  Too many liabilities, “One Call That’s All”, “The Strong Arm”… you get the picture.  

I’m really thankful I grew up in a place and time when that wasn’t the case.  My father would pick me up from school in his old brown Fleetside, and every kid in the neighborhood would pile in the back and ride as far as our house, then walk the rest of the way home.  Whenever we rode to my cousin’s house with the go-cart in the back, I rode back there with it.  Gone fishin’ at my aunt and uncle’s place?  My friends and I rode in the back.  About 7 to 10 Boy Scouts and all our gear would ride back there when we went camping.  On Opening Day of Baseball Season, the truck carried the whole team in the parade from Moreland Shopping Center to Gresham Park Ballpark. 

And, not only did I ride in the back of my father’s pickup.  I rode in the back of other father’s pickups as well, and my parents didn’t mind.  My friend Andy across the street’s Dad had an old blue 1950-something Ford that you started with a foot pedal.  When Mr. Shook went to the dump or the incinerator, Andy and I rode in the back with all the unwanted items and debris.  Our job was to make sure nothing flew out.

In high school, I was in Jr. Civitan.  We had hayrides.  Meaning, we all climbed in the back of pickup trucks and rode to Stone Mountain to meet with various other Civitan clubs from other schools.

I think the last time I rode in the back of my father’s pickup was when I was 18.  My buddy Walt and I went to Florida in my Mach 1.  The coil died on the way back in South Georgia between Valdosta and Tifton.  Daddy came down in the truck and towed the car home.  Walt and I rode in the back.  Come to think of it, that was the only time I ever rode in the back of my father’s pickup on the expressway.

My buddy Chip and I took the truck to Road Atlanta at least three times a summer from 1971 until about ’77 or ’78.  When we all needed to go from one end of the track to the other, guess how we all got there?  Yep, back of the Old Apache.  A buddy took his F-150 Ford to the beach in the late 70’s when all of us youngsters would descend on Daytona for two weeks in early June.  When we all went somewhere together, that’s how we got there… back of the pickup.  We would all ride in it down the beach.  The cops would see us and never think twice.  Times were a lot different back then.  They were more concerned if you were drinking beer on the beach. 

Yes, times were a lot different back then in many ways, too many to list in this space.  Although on a recent Sunday afternoon, the whole family did jump in the back of my brother-in-law’s truck and rode over to check out their new property.  Three generations, from the grandparents to the kids, all in the back of a pickup… Still Cruisin’!

My friend Raleigh informed me recently that the Karmann Ghia turns 61 this year.  Although I have never owned one, I have spent quite a bit of time in, around, and behind the wheel of these beautifully unique sports cars.  A brief history from VW Vortex tells us that by the early 50’s, VW was doing quite well, and the economy in Europe was turning.  Wilhelm Karmann, a coach builder who designed the Cabriolet for Volkswagen, approached Carrozzeria Ghia and asked them to design a sports car for Volkswagen.  The result was the Karmann Ghia.  The first cars rolled off the line in August of ’55, sales totaled more than 10,000 in the first year, and the rest is history.

My late buddy Chip, who was the closest I ever had to a brother, got a ’71 model when we were 17.  It was yellow, and Lord knows how many miles we put on that thing, but it was a bunch.  We covered pretty much all of north and central Georgia in it, and he drove it to Tampa one summer to visit his grandparents.  We used to pile in it three at a time, one of us wedged in the luggage compartment in the back, and ride for hours in the summer with the windows up through Henry County and beyond.  Why the windows up in the summer?  It was the mid-1970s.  Do the math.

Another buddy, Dennis, built a red ’66 with an absolute beast of an engine in it.  I’m not kidding, this thing could smoke a Porsche like nobody’s business.  One day, for reasons known only to our sixteen year old brains, we decided to take it trail riding on the power lines.  Dennis hit one of those concrete gas line markers at a pretty good clip, and we got wedged on it.  We had to walk back to his house and get his dad to come back with a jack to get the car un-impaled.  He wanted to know what we used for brains.  We, of course, had no answer.

The Karmann Ghia was also a spy car.  Remember the TV show “Get Smart”?  Agent 86 Maxwell Smart drove one.

I almost owned one once, a blue ’64 I was going to trade a guy a dune buggy for.  We actually made the trade and I drove it for a few days, until his mom found out about it and vetoed the deal.  I have always said that if I had it to do over, I would have bought a Ghia convertible instead of a Cabriolet.  The engines were an absolute joy to work on.  When you opened up the boot, everything was right there and easily accessible, especially in the older 40 hp models.  The spark plugs were easy to reach, there was room behind the fan shroud, and the valve covers were easy to get to from underneath.

The Ghias handled beautifully, although you had to work the gas to build up power, and “row” the car through the curves with the shifter.  But the suspension and the steering were solid, and despite the rear engine, the rear end was stable, even in the later models with the larger engines.

Speaking of the later models, in 1974 VW phased out the Karmann Ghia and replaced it with the Scirocco,  a move I won’t even dignify with words.  The only thing I will say is you never see any Sciroccos at the car shows.  But you do see the Ghias… sleek, smart and Still Cruisin’!  –J.   

We just got back from spending a week in Florida.  The place we stayed had beach bikes available.  This was the first time I had ridden a bicycle in 20 years.  I wanted to ride one of the three Hot Rod Yellow bikes available.  The gear was stripped on the first bike I selected and the pedals didn’t work.  The chain was off the second and the third had two flat tires.  So much for the Hot Rod Yellow.  I settled on a nice green one, instead.  As I was putting the others back as I had found them and was closing up the shed, my mind wandered back to the fourth grade and the first time I ever rode my bike to school.  I pulled into the school yard, parked my bike in the rack, locked it up, unstrapped my books and went inside.  All day long I kept pulling the key to the lock out of my pocket and looking at it on the keychain my father had given me.  The feeling was incredible.  My mother had not brought me to school.  I had not ridden the bus.  I had ridden my bike and after school, I was going to go out and unlock it and ride it home.  I felt like a real grown up.

And, the old adage about learning to ride a bike is true.  Once you learn how, you never forget.  The last time I rode a bicycle was a beach bike in the mid-90’s at my brother in law’s place in Panama City.  The bikes they owned were all “girls” bikes, and before I go any further, let me say that in my humble opinion, ALL beach bikes should be “girls” bikes.  You step right through and get on on the seat.  Frankly, I never really understood the bar on the “boys” bikes.  The first time I ever hurt myself in a way only a boy can hurt himself I slipped off the pedal while going up a hill and hit the bar.  I had to sit on the curb and wait until I could move so I could go home and have my parents take me to the emergency room.  Eventually however, the agony subsided and I went on my way.  

Incidentally, one of my favorite pictures of Jackie (and there are many) is of her on a beach bike.  She’s hot, and I don’t mean from the humidity…

My brother in law’s beach bikes were all equipped with baskets as well.  No, not the little wicker ones with flowers, but real baskets, perfect for holding a twelve pack of beer.  We used to get sent to the grocery store on the bikes and very seldom, if ever, went straight there and back.  One time we stopped off at the daiquiri shack and after several, worked up the courage to go up for a helicopter ride which was next door.  Another time we stopped off at Hooters where they were having the “Hooters Olympics”.  These games involved hula hoop contests, wheelbarrow races, races on those big orange bouncy balls… you get the picture.  We were appalled and after three or four beers apiece, left in disgust.

No helicopter rides or Hooters Olympics this time, however.  Just a nice, quiet ride around town.  I did stop off for a beer at a local watering hole.  Then, I climbed back on my green beach bike and continued on… Still Cruisin’!  –J.

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I love tractors.  If I ever hit the lottery I would probably buy land because it would give me a good excuse to go out and buy a ridiculously loaded John Deere.  But, I digress.  Although a ridiculously loaded John Deere is a tractor, my buddy Barry has got a TRACTOR.  His is a 1949 9N Ford, built to work and last forever.  The engineers succeeded in that aspect, because the 9N is still chugging along today.  Granted, it’s not much to look at from an aesthetic standpoint.  It is dented and rusty, but hey, it’s a working tractor!  It’s not supposed to look like a Lamborghini.  

The 1949 9N Fords originally sold for about $585.  Models advertised online today range between $1200 to $1600, depending on the condition.  The 9N’s featured a 20 hp 4 cylinder flathead engine, engineering marvels in their own right.  Parts are getting harder and harder to find for these engines, with most being aftermarket purchased online.

Speaking of aftermarket, Barry’s 9N features a remarkable piece of aftermarket engineering of its own.  The throttle handle broke, so a bungee cord holds the throttle open at one speed… wide open.  The transmission is not synchronized, so shifting gears requires skill and double-clutching.  Or, simply starting off in the gear you need.  The electrical system is 6 volt and a generator.  Yes, you can still buy 6 volt batteries!  Barry inherited the tractor from his father-in-law in 1995 and the rear tires had just been replaced.  At 21 years, they are still strong on the sides and full of tread, so that will give you some idea of the life of tractor tires.  The 9N has aftermarket wheels on the front, due to the fact that after a flat, the lug nuts broke off trying to remove the wheel.  There are some things even WD-40 can’t budge.  There is also a small toolbox on the side of the tractor that may or may not be aftermarket.  It holds the hardware and clips for the attachments, as well as a few tools for hooking and unhooking. 

The tractor is used today for relatively light duty by farming standards, pulling a bush hog for cutting and a harrow for seeding.  The old 9N used to see some highway time as well.  The fuel tank holds 9 gallons, and the flathead requires non-ethanol gasoline.  The gas station a mile or so up the road from Barry’s house used to sell non-ethanol, so Barry would crank the old gal up, grind her into 3rd gear, load up with a plug of tobacco (according to Barry, you can’t drive a tractor without a plug of tobacco), and chug up to the Shell station at 25 mph full throttle to fill up, waving people around when necessary.

But alas, the Shell station does not sell non-ethanol anymore, so the 9N’s road days came to an end.  Barry fills up the portable tanks and adds about 4 gallons at a time.  So fill ‘er up, hook up the old bush hog, turn the key and push the button.  The old flathead rumbles to life, double clutch it into gear, and off to work… Still Cruisin’!  –J. 

My friend David got his ’69 Porsche 912 for his sixteenth birthday.  Our class of ’73 turned sixteen 45 years ago.  Even someone as mathematically challenged as myself can figure that one out.  David has owned his car for 45 years.  Let that sink in for a bit.  45 years.  I’ve known sixteen year old kids who didn’t even own a car 45 minutes.  I got a Meyers Manx dune buggy when I was sixteen and drove it exactly two months.  Hell, I’ve known men going through middle aged crises who bought a Porsche and tore it up within two weeks.  45 years… it’s mind boggling.

David’s Porsche was the first one I had ever really seen outside of magazines.  I remember pulling up next to it in the gym parking lot and gawking over it, mesmerized.  It had things in it you had read about but never seen.  Leather seats.  An AM/FM radio.  A five speed transmission.  Five speeds!  That was two more than I had on the tree of my ’65 Fairlane!  It was a beautiful bright orange, with white graphic panels on the sides.  When Dave cranked it up, it purred like a sewing machine.  It was like no car I had seen before or since, and I fell in love with Porsches on the spot.  

David drove the car pretty much every day through high school, college and beyond.  The fact that he kept it in such good shape at such a young age speaks volumes about his maturity level, something I certainly was not familiar with at that age.  He has had the 912 completely restored, still painted that beautiful bright orange.  It makes regular appearances at our high school reunions, looking clean and pristine.  He owns several other Porsches now as well, but I would hazard an educated guess that the 912 is the one David could never part with.

Such is the bond between man and machine.  Over time they become part of us.  Be it a car, bike, boat or plane, the link becomes inseparable.  A certain vehicle becomes part of our identity, and when we climb into it or straddle it and fire it up, we are filled with a warmth and happiness only we can understand.  The open road, space and time are different in these vehicles, a feeling that really cannot be described.  We spend hours cleaning and polishing, tinkering and tuning, petting and pampering.  We will not think twice about spending whatever it takes to keep our baby humming along, yet balk at going to the doctor ourselves because it’s just too darned expensive.  

David’s car can be seen in the Classic Car Gallery portion of this website, “The Duke”.  I hope I was able to capture some of the beauty of this fine machine.  And, my hat’s off to Dave.  He has managed to hold onto and preserve something that very few, if any of us, have.  45 years… Still Cruisin’!

My ’69 VW Convertible has a new home.  No, he hasn’t been sold or lost in a pink slip drag race.  He has retired, so to speak, to a life of leisure.  If any car deserves it, he does.

I got my little convertible in the summer of 1983.  Being a Bug Guy since I was a kid, it was the realization of a lifelong dream.  I bought him off a buddy for $500 and a canoe.  He was garaged, but he was in rough shape.  Stuff was piled on top of him.  His top was gone, nothing but the frame.  He had more than a few dents and dings on the fenders, and the rear floorboard on the driver’s side was completely rusted through.  I didn’t care.  I was going to restore him.  

Mechanically, he was sound.  I drove him the rest of the summer with the top frame pulled back, hidden by the canvas cover.  At the onset of winter, I began the restoration process.  I had fooled around with cars my whole life, but never done any restoration work.  If you haven’t, let me fill you in.  It’s hard, much more than I had bargained for.  It is time consuming, tedious and expensive.  It took me a year and a half to complete the job.  The end result is well worth all the work, but unless you are highly skilled, it is best to bite the bullet and farm out the finishing work to an expert.

So, in the winter of 1990 I gave him to a friend who owned a body shop.  Frank stripped the car down to the bare metal, primed and painted the car VW beige, put in new undercoated floor pans along with new chrome and trim.  The little guy looked brand new.  Again, I drove him that whole summer with the top down.

Over time, however, things happened.  A friend clipped it and tore up one of the fenders.  Another friend backed into it with his tailgate down and smashed the deck lid.  While having a new top put on it in ’98, the upholsterer dropped a piece of equipment on the hood and smashed it.

The car had always been parked in the garage up until I sold my house in 2013.  The garage at our house in Conyers has been converted into office spaces, so the car sat outside.  That was tough.  Though I tried my best to keep him clean, the elements really began to take a toll.  Every time I walked past him, it would break my heart.  I was on the verge of purchasing one of the portable carports, when a very good friend graciously offered to store the car in his basement.  

My little buddy  is now warm, safe, dry and protected.  Sure, I miss seeing him everyday and being able to jump in and drive him whenever I want.  But, I feel much better knowing he is in a secure place.  And, while he may be living the life of automotive luxury, he is, after all, Still Cruisin’!  –J.            

The older I get, the more cop cars look cool.  Seriously.  I first started noticing this about four or five years ago.  I was sitting at a red light and a Georgia State Patrol car was across from me, a silver Dodge Charger with the orange lettering.  I thought wow, that thing really looks really cool.  Big tires, black wheels, silver hubs, light rack and bumpers, it exuded authority.  The light turned green and it growled past me, ready to jump into action at any given moment.

The modern police cars are true muscle cars.  The days of the clunky Crown Victoria Interceptor are over.  The Dodge Charger Pursuit, shown above, carries a 345 cubic inch, 365 HP V8 Hemi with beefed up suspension, raised rear clearance, heavy duty braking system, and a brush bar up front that resembles a cow catcher.

The Ford Taurus Interceptor features a specially calibrated gearbox, allowing the gears to hold on longer in pursuit mode, and are set to perform a J-turn.  The officer can acclerate hard in reverse, swing the car around and take off in the opposite direction.  The Chevy Caprice PPV is capable of 150+ mph and a 13.8 quarter mile.  In short, these cars are beasts.

I’ve found that most officers are more than eager to talk about their cars.  So, the next time you pull into a Dunkin’ Donuts and see an officer, ask him about what’s under the hood.  It can’t hurt, and maybe he’ll let you slide the next time he sees you make a California Stop at the four way… Keep Cruisin’! –J.

I talked with my old buddy Jimmy last week, with whom I had not spoken with for a long time.  We were roommates back in our early twenties, and how we survived, I’ll never know.  If you opened up our refrigerator at any point in time, pretty much all you would find would be a jar of mayo, a pack of baloney and a case of beer.  We did keep the place clean, so as not to repel girls.  One week, we splurged.  We got HBO installed.

This was in the mid-seventies, when it was called Home Box Office.  All it showed was movies, only three or four a month.  One of the movies that was running at the time was a Burt Reynolds movie entitled “WW and the Dixie Dancekings”.  It seemed to be on every time we turned on the TV, and lines from the movie became part of our group’s vernacular.  Jimmy mentioned the movie when we talked, and said he had been trying to find it on DVD, but with no luck.  I did some digging and discovered that the movie has never been released either to VHS or DVD, and is very rarely, if ever, aired on the networks.

I don’t understand why.  It is one of the best comedies Reynolds ever did, certainly better than some of the pap he was producing in the years following (Cannonball Run II; Stroker Ace).  The film is set in 1957, with Reynolds starring as WW Bright, a Korean vet who travels about the south in his 1955 Black and Gold Two Tone Oldsmobile Golden Anniversary Special, robbing SOS (Southland Oil Systems) gas stations and splitting the profit with the attendant with the agreement that the attendant will describe someone other than WW when they call the police.  He hooks up with The Dance Kings, a country band featuring Jerry Reed, Conny Van Dyke and Don Williams, and takes them to Nashville to try and hit the big time.  Art Carney plays the fundamentally religious lawman hired by the SOS company to capture WW. 

I did manage to find the entire film on YouTube.  It’s in the sidebar to the right.  And Burt, if you happen to read this, please reconsider and release ‘ol WW to the public… he’s got a hurt arm, y’know!  Keep Cruisin’! –J.   

My little buddy Gavin had his first taste of the checkered flag last month when he won the Cub Scouts Atlanta Area Council Yellow River Tiger District Pinewood Derby.  His car is an all black number, sporting white racing stripes and the number 103.  It is a sleek wedge design, making the clunkers we ran when I was a kid look like corncobs on caster wheels.  The kids also compete district wide now, as opposed to when I was nine years old.  Yes, the wheel had been invented by then, and we only competed within the pack.  

The Pinewood Derby is a great way for a kid to build something and get a taste of entering it into organized competition.  The Scout is given a block of wood made of pine, 4 wheels and four nails.  The finished car must use all nine pieces and not weigh more than 150 ounces.  After that, he is on his own with his imagination.  When I was a kid, a guy in my den built his to look like The Munster Koach.

The concept originated in Manhattan Beach, California in the 1950’s.  Pack 280 Cubmaster Don Murphy’s son was too young to compete in the Soap Box Derby races.  So, Murphy came up with the idea of racing miniature wood cars.  They had the same gravity powered concept as the Soap Box Derby cars, but were much smaller, easier to build and more economically feasible.  The idea spread rapidly, and within a year the Boy Scouts had adopted the Derby for use in all Cub Scout Packs.

The track generally has two to six lanes and slopes to the ground.  The race is run in heats, giving every car the chance to run in each lane.  The first place winners from the packs advance to the district competition, and the district winners race against each other across the entire council.

So, congratulations, Gav Man!!  Keep that sleek black racer out in front, slinging rubber and moving dust!  Keep Cruisin’!  –J.

I sold my convertible and bought a soccer van.  Not just any soccer van, mind you.  A silver 2006 Chrysler Town and Country.   Within 24 hours, I saw no less than 10 silver Town and Countrys on the road.  I have seen scores since.  Unless you drive a vintage classic, you don’t really notice how many cars like yours are out there until you purchase one.  

Thus, I have lost my identity.  I forfeited my little drop-top 5 speed GLS Cabrio that girls actually looked at (the car, not me) in favor of practicality.  For a guy with lifelong youth issues when it comes to automobiles, this is traumatic.  

Mind you, it’s not all bad.  It does have a sunroof.  I looked and looked for a convertible model, but finally resigned myself to the fact that Chrysler never built one.  Dodge’s stowaway seats are great.  The  two back seats and the rear bench fold down into holds in the floor, converting the van to a light duty cargo van.  For moving artwork and and show gear, this is awesome.  The seats can then be returned to their original position, making the van dual purpose.

And, I actually enjoy driving it.  Problem is, there is simply no way to look cool doing so.  I asked a friend who once owned a Ford Aerostar for advice.  She told me “Wear dark glasses.  Avoid routes your friends use often.  Night travel is recommended.”  I did take her advice and wear my Ray-Ban pilot glasses when driving, but I don’t think it helps.  I bought dice valve stem caps.  They got a laugh or two, but it’s still like putting lipstick on a pig.

And, while the van may be the most sensible way to make a trip to Florida, it’s just not the same as cramming your stuff into the trunk, back seat and  floorboards, dropping the top and blasting off southbound.  And let’s face it, cruising the strip or the beach in a van is simply not the same as in a convertible.

Such is life.  I have traded sport for sensibility.  So, if you happen to notice me in my Silver Soccer Van, smile and give me a thumbs up… I will return the gesture and Keep Cruisin’!  –J.