Tue Mar 19 2013 01:08:12 GMT+0000 (Coordinated Universal Time)
Some street-rod trends seem to shy away from performance — or least the illusion of performance — while focusing more on sleek exterior design, flamboyant interiors and engineered suspensions. Ed Umland of Eddie’s Chop Shop still showcases engine firepower and makes sure the car isn’t overwhelmed by paint and billet.
This twin-turbo ’34 coupe currently under construction at his in Orangevale, California, facility boasts a nasty twin-turbo 598ci big-block that proudly flaunts all the required tubes and plumbing to such a menacing degree that there’s certainly no reason to apologize. It’s clean and organized, yet radiates raw horsepower on all visual and sonic levels.
First, the details. The long-block was built by Don Zemina of Motor Machine Super Shop and is based on a Dart tall-deck block fitted with Callies crank and rods, JE pistons, Crane cam, Isky lifters, Smith Brothers pushrods, Federal Mogul bearings and ARP hardware. The Dart Big Chief heads received a little massage work before the Manley valves and Jesel rockers were installed. Wrapping up the long-block assembly are a Melling oil pump, Milodon oil pan, Jesel belt drive, MSD distributor and Titan head gaskets.
Sun Dec 30 2012 02:03:00 GMT+0000 (Coordinated Universal Time)
Back in 2005 I adapted the famous poem, “A Visit From St. Nicholas” by Clement Clark Moore into the drag race themed “A Visit From St. Garlits”. The adaptation was a pretty big hit with the hot rod set and grew some decent legs on the internet. In what has to be the highest form of electronic flattery, I actually got it sent to me in an e-mail forward by someone who had no idea I wrote it. Here’s a slightly updated 2012 version!
A Visit From St. Garlits
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the pits
Not a crew man was stirring, no nitro cars were making hits
The rods and pistons were hung in their holsters with care,
In hopes that St. Garlits soon would be there;
Capps and Force were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of header flames danced in their heads;
And Alexis DeJoria in her ‘kerchief, and Del Worsham in his cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the strip there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the tower I flew like a flash,
flipped on the lights and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the freshly prepped track
Gave the luster of mid-day and hit my eyes with a smack,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature old digger, powered by eight tiny Hemis, oh dear!
With a little old driver, so quick like a starlet,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Garlits
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Grippo! Now, Wickam! Now, Rourke and Chiluk !
On, Byrd! On, Liggett! On, Garrison and Nutting!”
To the starting line tree! To the top end of the strip!
We must leave the line hard, we have quite a trip!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With a blown Hemi on nitro, and St. Garlits too.
And then, in a twinkling, I smelled on the roof
A snoot full of nitro, it was the last bit of proof!
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Garlits came with a bound.
He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of parts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his demeanor so merry!
His headers were hot, they glowed like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a chassis pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He was short and stout, a right intimidating old elf,
And I stood at attention when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And rebuilt a blower; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his slingshot, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they launched off, with the ferocity of a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”