It’s the roar of the engines, the smell of leaded gas, the traffic jam at Thirteen Mile Road and Woodward Avenue at Northwood Shopping Center. It’s the two-tone cars of the 50’s, namely the turquoise, blue or red combined with white. It’s the neon purple, pink, and orange of the street rods. It’s the old white-haired dudes revving their Plymouth and Ford hot rods. It’s the Vettes, Mustangs, Camaros, and the GTO muscle cars—the Cobras, Shelbys, Prowlers.
We even have a Jake and Elwood Blues Brothers Bluesmobile, a 1974 Dodge Monaco police patrol car driven by Blues Brothers look-alikes.
It’s the 16th annual Woodward Dream Cruise. The annual show of cars that starts the vanity parade of deluxe beauties made in Detroit in the heyday of the automobile industry, and they wholeheartedly embrace it—they being the almost two million lovers of cars who line the route from Ferndale to Pontiac from day break till mid evening.
Just when your bones start creaking and the prescription bottles on the kitchen windowsill start to outnumber the times you head for the ladies room, you suddenly feel like a kid again. That old excitement of the convertible top down while hugging that eight lane highway with the Beach Boys blasting their phenomenal music is back again, just like it was in 1960.
Excitement fills the air as 40,000 classic cars and hot rods start their annual parade up and down the Woodward strip. No show surpasses the Woodward Dream Cruise. It’s the biggest and greatest car show on earth. The lanes have been packed with classic cars for days before the big Aug. 21 event, only adding to the euphoric frenzy.
You stop at the light at Thirteen and Woodward, which has become the mecca for cars and car lovers alike, gazing at the creations from decades ago. The classics outnumber the dull boring autos manufactured today.
The guy next to you at the red light is racing his engine. You look over expecting some fresh face kid challenging you to a take off, and instead see an old dude with snow on the mountain reliving his high school years.
You yell over to him, “Isn’t it great to be a kid again?” He smiles and the exchange of the usual questions take place. “What year is that? Where did you find your car? What condition was it in?” The same brief banter is repeated over and over with different owners. You swap stories on the car’s history, always ending or beginning with “Your car is a beauty.”
From Eight Mile Road to Pontiac 15 miles straight north, the same ritual is being repeated. Parking spots along Woodward are at a premium. Gawkers bring their lawn chairs early for premium viewing, and they sit with coolers for hours breathing in the unmistakable smell of noxious fumes. Burn outs are aplenty but not a sensible way to treat an oldie.
The guys with the new high-powered Mustangs and Trans Ams have their own gathering spot. So do the MOPAR fans. The parking lot at Thirteen Mile will be open for cruisers for two days before General Motors takes it over for a private display. At one time, parents with children and dogs in tow could roam the aisles admiring the cars of the past when designers had styling imagination. Now everywhere you look, the Big Three and suppliers have turned the cruise into an advertising opportunity. T-shirt and food hawkers line the streets. Area restaurants have a field day. I find it incredible how a funeral home, cemetery, and even a Catholic nursing home have been bitten by the commercial bug, offering coffee for sale.
This week the unimaginative SUV’s of silver and black are outnumbered by these colorful works of art from GM, Ford, and Chrysler, many that originally sold for a pittance compared to the big bucks the owners know they now command. “Do not touch” signs prevail. Dusters in hand, car buffs keep cleaning the car surface for maximum shine.
One woman confronted her husband with an ultimatum, “It’s either me or your car,” to which he quickly responded, “It’s been nice knowing you.”
Owning a classic is designated as a male bastion, but a few women have invaded their territory. We love them for their originality, body style, color, and chrome, lots and lots of shiny chrome. So what if all we know is how to fill the gas tank? They are works of art.
When I slip into the driver’s seat of my classic convertible, I have the pleasure of breathing in that special aroma of aged leather, oil, and car polish. To me it is Chanel Number Five.
Ladies please, no fancy wide-brimmed straw hats while cruising. Stash it for a baseball style hat. K-Mart has them in many feminine colors. This is not the haughty Concours d’ Elegance, it is the car show for everyday Michiganders.
I have a fellow soul mate and convertible lover in lead-footed Sarah Hagopian who previously owned a 1968 red Firebird drop-top guaranteed to draw attention. Her 1988 Toyota Turbo with removable sunroof presently sits poised in the garage of her lovely Bloomfield Hills home. Loving fast cars, especially convertibles, seem to go hand in hand.
We’ve come a long way, baby. And remember 100 years ago when the Ford Model R came out, there were only 8,000 cars and 144 miles of paved roads.
God bless Detroit and our automakers. Let’s keep those production lines humming. And always remember who brought you World War II.
Gastronomic advice: Make sure your cooler has a good supply of ring bologna, liver sausage, and Ritz crackers. That’s what “gas station guys” like to nosh on. Safe cruising to all. Vrrrooom!
Betty Apigian-Kessel
Latest posts by Betty Apigian-Kessel (see all)
- Meet the Legendary Margaret Lafian of Detroit - October 3, 2017
- The Lament of the Armenian Lady Farmer: How Green Is My ‘Bardez’ - September 22, 2017
- A Purposeful Visit to Great Lakes National Cemetery (Part II) - August 8, 2017
Be the first to comment