Hamilton's Morice McMillen (near lane) executes a big smokey burnout. Photo / Colin Smith
As the old Chev pulled out of the hardware uberstore carpark, I saw the driver clock the kid and his old man watching it leave.
Idling with a cam-lumpy V8 note that showed it wasn't built to roll over and play dead, I didn't think he'd be able to resist
it.
The traffic light flicked to green, the seas of motoring mediocrity parted as the mid-50s, finned and fine piece of American metal made its presence heard. And felt, for that matter, right in the guts.
The young fella looked up at his dad like his wee mind was blown, and the same look was returned. Mum wasn't impressed. In fact, by the expression on her face, you wouldn't know that she'd just been tool shopping -- and hiding unbridled happiness like that isn't easy for anyone.
"Oh grow up," she spat. It wouldn't have mattered if she was serving up a plate of steaming Brussels sprouts and tripe, the car boys weren't letting it go. It was a beautiful machine from when Detroit was really Motor City, and it made the right noises that, to those who didn't understand, -- mother included -- were oh-so-wrong.
