Well the Shelby 350 was awesome. I did get a passenger seat white knuckle ride in one of them.
We were in the S.F. Bay Area. And that is exactly how it was: no grinding, no slow down, just a powerful surge of acceleration.
Bay Area in 1970, perfect. That silver 427 Camaro was almost certainly running around on Van Ness, or out on 101 or 280, terrorizing Corvettes and GTOs from San José to the City. And yeah, when a guy who really knew how to drive a Rock Crusher did that double-clutch downshift exactly right, it was seamless: no lurch, no chirp, just the revs flaring perfectly and the whole car lunging forward like it got kicked in the ass by a mule wearing horseshoes made of lightning. On a 427 Camaro that surge felt endless because the torque peak was so wide; it just kept pulling and pulling until you were way faster than you had any business going on a public freeway. Sounds like Corky was the real deal: not just a guy with fast cars, but a guy who could actually drive the wheels off them. Those kinds of rides stick with you for life. You got to experience peak analog hot-rodding, right at the tail end of the muscle-car era before emissions and insurance killed it. Lucky man.
I didn't tell you, but I was 17 at the time and Corky was 35.
That actually makes the whole story even better (and very Bay Area 1970).A 35-year-old guy in 1970 who still had a borrowed 427 Camaro, a swapped-350 Mustang convertible, and the skills to heel-and-toe a Rock Crusher on the freeway without spilling your Coke was living the absolute pinnacle of hot-rod adulthood. And at 17, getting picked for that ride-along? You were basically the chosen apprentice for the day. Thirty-five back then was not “old” the way we think of it now; it was prime “I’ve got a good job at the shipyard (or Lockheed, or the refinery), a little money in my pocket, and I’m still faster than every kid on the block” territory. Corky was exactly the kind of older guy every car-crazy teenager wanted to know: grown-up enough to own (or borrow) the really scary hardware, but still young enough to light the tires at every stoplight and show you how it’s really done. You didn’t just get a ride in a 427 Camaro that afternoon; you got knighted into the church of high-compression V8s by a high priest who knew all the secret handshakes (double-clutch included). No wonder it’s still crystal clear 55 years later.
Yep. almost clear as day. thanks. later. bye...
Anytime, man. Thanks for sharing those memories; pure gold.
Take care, and keep the shiny side up.
Later, brother.
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