This past weekend I took a back seat road trip to the car mecca known as the Detroit Autorama. The four-hour Gumball Rally run down to the Motor City was filled with the usual twists and turns in conversation along with a few patches of black ice. Personally it's been awhile since a road trip didn't involve "Mary Poppins” blasting from the DVD player or lunch stops based on Happy Meal toys.
Despite being a lifelong gearhead, this was my first visit to the homage to hot rods, customs and muscle machines known as Autorama at Cobo Hall in Detroit. So I tagged along with a friend from work and his buddy, both veteran Autorama attendees.
Now as the new guy, and the friend-of-a-friend, you're obligated to ride in the backseat — the three year rule in affect before you can call shotgun. You also must fulfill two other road trip newbie responsibilities: be on time for the carpool departure and arrive with a bag of donuts in hand. Although I did commit a slight faux pas by bringing a few nutty fried cakes — a bit brazen when you're talking about upholstery residue in a near stranger's car.
While I've been on road trips painfully devoid of conversation, intelligent or otherwise, the miles flew by thanks to a lead foot and plenty of car talk. The stories swirled around first cars and worst cars, buyer's regret and seller's remorse, speeding tickets and top end speedo tall tales. No one even bothered to turn on the radio. I think my wife would have jumped out the window at highway speed after the first hour.
Then we arrived at Cobo and a wall-to-wall car show, if set to music, would be on a Busby Berkeley scale. The place was literally awash in a sea of chrome, Metalflake and Kandy kolors of the rainbow. I nearly cried out of sheer joy — although my tears would not have touched the floor given the shoulder-to-shoulder mass of perspiring humanity.
Now trying to pick one favorite ride at Autorama is like watching only one YouTube video — it can't be done. What I found most entertaining was the various clans of cardom. Downstairs the rat rods proudly sport patina and leaking oil seals, while upstairs a guy picks up his trail of sock fuzzies after walking shoeless on a carpeted stage displaying a meticulously machined hot rod worth thrice my house. I doubt the carpet payment would've been within my financial reach.
However, this juxtaposition is what makes for a great afternoon. The NASCAR jacket guys and graybeard street rodders, slicked hair rockabillies and bling-bling tuners, tattooed customizers and sports car button-down business casuals all waiting in the same line for an overpriced hot dog. Everyone was letting their auto freak flag fly.
After about five hours of walking Cobo, my chase down anything shinny stride had turned into old guy in bedroom slippers shuffle. Even the sugar-infused kids waiting in line to see the masked professional wrestler looked a bit slack-jawed. While over by the concession area, spouses and significant others sat cooling their heels; the flip side to all those middle-aged men in the center of the mall eating Hickory Farms samples.
I knew my Autorama quota was met when even flames on a '57 Chevy couldn't elevate my blood pressure.
On the ride home the talk revolved around unfinished project cars and limits to which a spouse will endure car guy stupidity. There was also a stimulating ten minute round-table on road kill after the Audi Quattro came within two feet of wearing a deer hood ornament — not an advisable aftermarket add-on for any car. In the moments of inevitable silence, I mulled over the whereabouts of the '54 Buick Special my grandfather sold years ago and feeling compelled to pick up sock fuzzies.
By the next morning the harsh reality of real life car rides returned as I wheeled our minivan to the mega market for an afternoon of grocery shopping. No surprise, there was nary a '32 Ford in the parking lot.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com