Muscle Car Love Is a Wonderful Thing.

I love my muscle car. I love the way it looks. Sometimes I could just look at it forever. Take in all the angles, high, low, side, front, rear. There are so many, and it looks fantastic from every one. It's shaped much different from today's cars. It's got passion, character, soul. One glance and you know she's red hot. Cars were really works of art back then. Now they work for low drag coefficients thanks to the EPA, et al. They'll never make 'em like that again. Sometimes I go out to the garage and admire. Sometimes I come out of a store and it catches my eye in a parking lot. I stop in my tracks and just look. Man, it's gorgeous. I can't help but smile. I've seen my car hundreds of times before, but I never get tired of seeing it again.

I love to twist the key and hear that big engine come to life. It sounds mean and it means business. The whole car shakes. Today's engines are too clean-cut, too nice, too civilized. When my muscle car's engine fires up, you know it ain't no blender. I rev it a couple of times just to feel the torque. It is super-responsive, and I know that people standing to the rear of the car are getting an earful of one of the sweetest sounds to man: massive V-8 cubes reverberating through low-restriction duals. It is awesome audio energy in sizzling supercar stereo.

I love to drive my muscle car. Anytime, anywhere. I don't even need a destination. I can drive to somewhere or nowhere and dig it just as much because, for me, getting there is all the fun. I like to settle into the seats. They're not as good as modern car seats, but they're comfortable to me. And the great thing is, when I am sitting there, I can reach the gas pedal, steering wheel, and shifter. What more could you ask from a seat?

As I drive, I look over the hood. It's a real hood, covering a real engine. There's talk these days of new cars with sealed hoods that'll go 100,000 miles without a tune-up. Ridiculous. Hoods are supposed to open. My car's hood has a latch in front and hinges at the rear like every hood should. When I stop my car everyone wants to see the engine. I always pop the hood and show 'em, even young kids who don't have the foggiest notion of what they are looking at. After all, I'm proud of my engine, and I don't mind showing it off. It's clean. From air cleaner to oil plan, fan to flywheel, this is American industry at its best. Every scoopful of iron ore mined in the hills of somewhere way out there hoped that it would become my engine. It could have become a lamppost or a lawnmower or an elevator counterweight. But iron used to cast this engine could have no higher calling.

As I drive, sometimes I glance to the side to see my muscle car's reflection in store windows as I roll by. It always looks sharp. A blur of motion. Appropriate. Sometimes I see other people looking at it. Go ahead and look, I think to myself. I sure would.

My muscle car has an old radio that sounds tinny. It's funny, but I enjoy that tinny sound more than I would one of those megawatt eardrum busters. I listened to tinny tunes years ago, and it's fun to hear the same jams through my tinny radio, except now I have to tune to an oldies or classic rock station.

But most of the time I'm listening to the engine. You can't help but listen to it. It's not annoyingly loud, but it's not ashamed to be heard, either. Some cars are so quiet, it's like they want to apologize for having an engine. Their mufflers try to squash every sound the engine makes. My muscle car's mufflers are just right. Mellow, but with an edge.

I take care of my engine myself. I change the oil regularly and keep it tuned sharp as a straight-razor finish off the leather strap. Even if I don't drag race it or drive it hard, I like knowing it's at the top of its game every minute. Working on my car isn't a chore, it's enjoyable. Almost like therapy without a follow-up appointment and a $50-per-hour bill. My garage is one of my favorite rooms of the house. Here, I stay in touch with my car. I get away from it all and do my guy thing. Owning and taking extra good care of my car means a lot to me. Most of my friends and family do not understand.

After I've finished waxing the paint, tuning up the engine, or doing whatever it was I was doing, I put away my tools, but I don't hurry. I know that soon I'll walk inside and turn my attention toward one of the many chores necessary to sustain a home and family. I close my toolbox, turn and look at my car one more time. Yeah, it's still as beautiful as ever. Maybe more so. After a moment of quiet thought, I'm ready.

As I turn out the light and walk into the house, I think to myself, "I love my muscle car."
—Originally published in Oct./Nov. 1995

Among the cars Shaw loved was his 1966 Ford Country Squire wagon. He shot this photo of its 428 engine to illustrate how the "screwdriver was mightier than the pen" for a 2011 Last Page.

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