moore_rb
05-23-2005, 07:02 PM
What a shame.
Those were the first 3 words I uttered as we rounded the corner in the basement parking garage of some obscure, run down and graffiti covered building in Brooklyn, and first came to gaze on the 6 foot high chain link fence, and the lifeless, colorless, but still instantly recognizable shapes inside.
They were all gray; tainted by decades of dust accumulation. Windows were down, tires were flat, and hubcaps were missing. What was missing most of all, however, wasn't made of steel or rubber.
It was energy. The excitement, electricity, and passionate energy that would normally fill the heart of an enthusiast upon seeing 36 sequential model year Corvettes in one gathering was lacking. Instead, there was a somber, almost mournful atmosphere surrounding us. Even the air outside- dark, cloudy, and chilling, seemed to suggest that we were attending a funeral rather than a celebration of America's sports car.
Our goal was simple: collect pictures, VIN's and odometer readings from as many of the cars as possible, so that each of their respective backgrounds and pedigrees could be ascertained. As we began methodically moving among them, I felt more and more like an archeologist, working among a group of Egyptian mummies; trying to glean whatever details I could about what life was like for the individual before they were relegated to the crypt. It was dry, dirty, and unemotional work, yet we made every effort to collect the data we needed without further contributing to the deterioration that these automotive pharaohs of years past had been subjected to.
We spent about 5 hours among them, and found them to be in various states of originality, completeness, and repair. We all picked our personal favorites, using our own subjective criteria, but everyone in the group agreed that there were two among them who absolutely did not deserve to die, and needed a second chance.
One of only 300 built, the 1953 car was not even in good shape, but the fact that there was a 1953 body sitting on a 1953 chassis with a 1953 interior in it meant this was a treasure worthy of restoration and celebration. It deserves no other fate, especially not the kind of fate that would reduce it to the equivalent of a circus side-show freak: discolored, defaced, and put on display as a testament to the evil pagan idolatry that automotive enthusiasts are tagged with by the environmentally super-sensitive. The truth is, this car should probably never be driven, or allowed to pollute the atmosphere, again; yet it should neither be bastardized into another demagogue of an era long past in the name of art. It should be allowed to exist with dignity as the artistic creation it was when it rolled out of Harley Earl's design studio over 50 years ago.
Ditto the 1957 example. Onyx Black with Inca Silver side coves, 37,000 miles showing, and sporting a dual-4 barrel carb setup, it was a stunningly original example that could possibly win Bloomington survivor status with just the lightest freshening up.
And there were others. A red 61, whose odo showed no signs of tampering or rolling over, and had ticked off only 3433 miles. The black 64 coupe (my personal favorite) that also showed a low 19,000 miles and just pulled at my heart strings as the perfect candidate for the C2 car with a GenIV LS7 powertrain project I've been cooking up in my head for months. The black 71 with 17,000 miles, I could go on and on….
And there were more tragic examples. The 73 that had 90% of it's front bumper laying on the floor as broken hardened rubber chips. The 67 convertible that had been painted a non-original metallic maroon and had chunks of fiberglass missing from all over the car, The black 65 with the nose of the White 84 pressed right up against the rear of it. Again, I could go on and on…
But it was the lack of energy that stuck out the most. As I write this I keep drifting back to how cold and lifeless the air was in that garage. These Corvettes were surrounded by shiny brand new Mercedes, BMW's and Lexus', many still warm from having just been parked that morning, yet the negativity emanating from the crypt completely stifled the automotive exuberance that my wife says I often go completely over-board with. No matter how badly I wanted to, I just could not get myself charged with enthusiasm about spending the day among these relics. I just kept thinking to myself, over and over and over again…
…What a shame.
Those were the first 3 words I uttered as we rounded the corner in the basement parking garage of some obscure, run down and graffiti covered building in Brooklyn, and first came to gaze on the 6 foot high chain link fence, and the lifeless, colorless, but still instantly recognizable shapes inside.
They were all gray; tainted by decades of dust accumulation. Windows were down, tires were flat, and hubcaps were missing. What was missing most of all, however, wasn't made of steel or rubber.
It was energy. The excitement, electricity, and passionate energy that would normally fill the heart of an enthusiast upon seeing 36 sequential model year Corvettes in one gathering was lacking. Instead, there was a somber, almost mournful atmosphere surrounding us. Even the air outside- dark, cloudy, and chilling, seemed to suggest that we were attending a funeral rather than a celebration of America's sports car.
Our goal was simple: collect pictures, VIN's and odometer readings from as many of the cars as possible, so that each of their respective backgrounds and pedigrees could be ascertained. As we began methodically moving among them, I felt more and more like an archeologist, working among a group of Egyptian mummies; trying to glean whatever details I could about what life was like for the individual before they were relegated to the crypt. It was dry, dirty, and unemotional work, yet we made every effort to collect the data we needed without further contributing to the deterioration that these automotive pharaohs of years past had been subjected to.
We spent about 5 hours among them, and found them to be in various states of originality, completeness, and repair. We all picked our personal favorites, using our own subjective criteria, but everyone in the group agreed that there were two among them who absolutely did not deserve to die, and needed a second chance.
One of only 300 built, the 1953 car was not even in good shape, but the fact that there was a 1953 body sitting on a 1953 chassis with a 1953 interior in it meant this was a treasure worthy of restoration and celebration. It deserves no other fate, especially not the kind of fate that would reduce it to the equivalent of a circus side-show freak: discolored, defaced, and put on display as a testament to the evil pagan idolatry that automotive enthusiasts are tagged with by the environmentally super-sensitive. The truth is, this car should probably never be driven, or allowed to pollute the atmosphere, again; yet it should neither be bastardized into another demagogue of an era long past in the name of art. It should be allowed to exist with dignity as the artistic creation it was when it rolled out of Harley Earl's design studio over 50 years ago.
Ditto the 1957 example. Onyx Black with Inca Silver side coves, 37,000 miles showing, and sporting a dual-4 barrel carb setup, it was a stunningly original example that could possibly win Bloomington survivor status with just the lightest freshening up.
And there were others. A red 61, whose odo showed no signs of tampering or rolling over, and had ticked off only 3433 miles. The black 64 coupe (my personal favorite) that also showed a low 19,000 miles and just pulled at my heart strings as the perfect candidate for the C2 car with a GenIV LS7 powertrain project I've been cooking up in my head for months. The black 71 with 17,000 miles, I could go on and on….
And there were more tragic examples. The 73 that had 90% of it's front bumper laying on the floor as broken hardened rubber chips. The 67 convertible that had been painted a non-original metallic maroon and had chunks of fiberglass missing from all over the car, The black 65 with the nose of the White 84 pressed right up against the rear of it. Again, I could go on and on…
But it was the lack of energy that stuck out the most. As I write this I keep drifting back to how cold and lifeless the air was in that garage. These Corvettes were surrounded by shiny brand new Mercedes, BMW's and Lexus', many still warm from having just been parked that morning, yet the negativity emanating from the crypt completely stifled the automotive exuberance that my wife says I often go completely over-board with. No matter how badly I wanted to, I just could not get myself charged with enthusiasm about spending the day among these relics. I just kept thinking to myself, over and over and over again…
…What a shame.