Review: 1967 Classic Recreations Eleanor Mustang

H. B. Halicki was a used car salesman who wanted to make a movie. With a little money, one big idea, and a 1971 Mustang Mach 1, he made Gone in 60 Seconds. And in that particular way that movies, especially '70s movies, can be, it wasn't all that good, but it was awesome. Fast forward to Michael Bay's remake in 2000, and the Mach 1 was replaced by a 1967 Shelby GT500. When we got a call offering us the actual car from that movie for the weekend, we felt obliged to say yes... and then drive it like we stole it. The verdict: Eleanor is the hottest piece of car we've spent a weekend with in quite some time.

To bring up another enduring movie character, do you know why so many people quote Tony Montana? Because he had a way with words, and those words were often right, such as when he said, "First you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the woman." A common shortcut is to swap "the power" part of that equation for "a hot car," and then you can go straight to step three.

There are different kinds of hot, though; more often than not, when a guy buys a car, he's just a guy in a hot car. On rare occasions, and in rare cars, however, the combination of driver and car instantly renders a guy – and everything he touches – hardcore hot. The kind of car that makes people want to call you "Wolf," or "Hawk." The kind of car that makes hot women stand in your vicinity twirling their hair, hoping you know how to combine the words "love" and "dashboard light." The kind of car that is like putting on a cape.

That car is Eleanor.



A 1967 Mustang Fastback isn't enough to pull off that transformation on its own. To go all the way, to ring the bell, you have to go to – of all places – Yukon, Oklahoma. That's where the crew at Classic Recreations will, after you've given them at least $109,000, turn an ordinary Mustang into Nicolas Cage's greatest desire.

The transformation is comprehensive. An in-house 401 c.i. racing engine with aluminum heads goes up front, topped with an aluminum crossflow radiator, two 12-inch cooling fans, Mass Flo fuel injector system, Concept One serpentine belt drive system and ceramic coated headers. Power runs straight back to the rear wheels via a five-speed Tremec TKO manual (or an optional six-speed Tremec, or an automatic, if you're that guy) and Posi-Traction. The base model puts out 535 horsepower. At the other end, the engine has been worked to 770 hp and will relieve you of $189,000. The vintage body is held in check from twisting around all that power with enough bracing to qualify as scaffolding.



Inside, the car is overhauled with new seats bearing five-point harnesses, Classic's in-house gauges, a wood and aluminum steering wheel at the end of a Flaming River column, and the interior treatment from the deluxe versions of 1967 Mustang models. A feature you could not have gotten on your 1967: a NOS system with an "Armed" toggle on the dash and a "Go Baby Go" red button on the shift knob. The decision to add such accelerated go gas eliminated the possibility of a trunk; there is a space back there behind the rear window, but it's occupied by a giant tank of nitrous.

Underneath, the modern mech theme is upheld by a Total Control suspension conversion that puts coilovers and sway bars front and rear. And behind those Classic Recreations wheels are Baer brakes holding fast to slotted and cross-drilled rotors.

Outside is where we had only minor hesitations about a thoroughly beautiful car. We don't fault Classic because it is merely recreating a movie car. The issue is with Eleanor herself. She's a bit... busy. Mainly up front, and only in certain places and from certain angles, we just kept feeling "Hmm, there's a lot going on." We think it's the number of curves and bulges running from the hood bulge down to the lower grille and the twin, center-mounted lamps; that area of arc and shadow is quite a contrast to the otherwise straightforward lines of the car. It's still a hot piece, and call us blasphemers if you like, but we do prefer it to the 1971 Mustang from the original film.



Outside, though, doesn't matter when you get inside, which is our favorite attribute of Eleanor. And our favorite thing about the inside is this: it's simple. Spend a few moments getting locked into your harness, after which you'll realize that there's nothing to do in Eleanor but drive her. The windows are manual. The locks are manual. The climate controls are Mesozoic: heat comes from the engine, the air conditioning isn't worth fiddling with because even with it on, you will sweat in this car. There are no LEDs to adjust the color of. The key is a tiny, flat piece of metal. Compared to today's lumps of plastic, Eleanor's key looks like something you'd open a suitcase with. The only buttons in the entire car are on the stereo.

Stick that little key in the slot on the dash, turn, and unleash a barrage of rambunctious. The dual 2.5-inch pipes running through Spintek mufflers and exiting just behind the doors barely contain the engine's explosions. Eleanor is easily the loudest car we've ever driven – it set off at least two car alarms every time we took it out. So loud that we practically avoided cemeteries out of respect for the dead. So loud that you could turn a corner and see people already looking down the road for you, trying to figure out where to run to escape the bellow. So loud that wholesome, innocent bystanders would shake their heads as you drove by, thinking "That's a bad, bad man."

You damn right.



That sweet, sweet thunder rendered the sole buttons inside the car, on the Panasonic stereo, useless. Don't be fooled by that speaker array, either – it's just for show. Well, not actually, but it might as well be because you've got to have the volume cranked up so high that it feels like your ears are being assaulted on another flank. And that's before you hit the gas. When you do that, forget about hearing anything.

So you turn the stereo off and you play with the gas as often as possible, for the sound and the fact that the 550 horsepower in the car we had makes a 1967 Mustang run like Niagara. We welcomed the chance to stop at any light, not only for the opportunity to take off, but just to get 60 seconds to play with the throttle. Highway cruising is pure ease, and when you drop down a gear and turn the noise up to "Battleship Engine Room," you exercise the pedal and the car bolts. The suspension is on the firm side but not at all uncomfortable, doesn't squat, and only gets snippy with when going over large, sharp bumps.



Yet for all of the changes made to the car, we can't tell you how it drives at the limit. This is the actual car from the movie, and it's owned by Denice Halicki, the widow of the man who made the original film in 1974, H. B. Halicki. She lives in the hills and didn't want to get a workout every time she turned the wheel, so Eleanor is set up to drive somewhat like an old Buick. The power steering boost comes on so strong and so quickly that when you turn the wheel a fraction in either direction, the wheel practically turns itself after that. One finger – no, make that one knuckle – is enough to explore the limits of lock. That meant we couldn't quite tell where the wheels were, so we couldn't get them placed quickly on the twists.

What we could tell from broad sweepers, where you could set the wheel and then test how quickly you could run through the turn, leads us to believe that the car's abilities are also far beyond those of a stock 1967 Mustang. Sure, with no electronic aids, if you get gimme-gimme with the accelerator, especially out of a turn, you are going to have some issues with the back end. But if you refrain from stabbing, put the knife away, and chauffeur with a sound mind, the 275/40 tires out back hold on to the road at speeds we'd be happy with in any modern sports car.



While we would certainly love to find out what Eleanor can really do, we have to admit we'd be more than happy with the limits of the movie car even if it does have Park Avenue steering. It can still do plenty, it's a perfectly raw dog, and the sensations trigger all the right areas of the brain. This is one of the terrifically few cars that can actually make you a star.

Just a few months ago, this particular blogger hadn't driven a Mustang in donkey's years. Now, a new one seems to come every other month, and each one is better than the last. We had to go back before we were born to top the last one, but we're pleased to announce that the streak continues. Eleanor is – ready for it? – our new favorite Mustang. Go, baby, go...

[Source: Autoblog]

VIDEO: Simply the Best - Clarkson shows Ferrari 348 much love on Top Gear circa 1991

The Sixties came back for a while. Then the Seventies returned for an encore performance. Now, even things from the Eighties are coming back into style. But we're praying to everything holy that the Nineties stay far, far behind us. Especially after taking this trip down memory lane to a 1991 episode of Top Gear.

Yes, in case you were wondering, Jeremy Clarkson was hosting the BBC car show even back then, having started in 1988. And yes, his Brit-fro was even bigger then, even when juxtaposed against his big-shouldered, blinged-out biker jacket and high-top sneakers.

As if to foreshadow how far Top Gear has come over the past couple of decades, Clarkson (Sideshow Bob wig and all) climbs behind the wheel of a Ferrari 348 – widely remembered as a low point in Maranello's history – and loved it. Hindsight being 20/20 and all, we did manage to extract one juicy nugget of Clarkson perspective that stands the test of time: namely, that driving a 160mph sportscar around town at 30 is every bit as justifiable as driving a four-seater by yourself. We'll just edit out the Tina Turner soundtrack the next time we pull that one out of the mental Rolodex

VIDEO: Simply the Best - Clarkson shows Ferrari 348 much love on Top Gear circa 1991

The Sixties came back for a while. Then the Seventies returned for an encore performance. Now, even things from the Eighties are coming back into style. But we're praying to everything holy that the Nineties stay far, far behind us. Especially after taking this trip down memory lane to a 1991 episode of Top Gear.

Yes, in case you were wondering, Jeremy Clarkson was hosting the BBC car show even back then, having started in 1988. And yes, his Brit-fro was even bigger then, even when juxtaposed against his big-shouldered, blinged-out biker jacket and high-top sneakers.

As if to foreshadow how far Top Gear has come over the past couple of decades, Clarkson (Sideshow Bob wig and all) climbs behind the wheel of a Ferrari 348 – widely remembered as a low point in Maranello's history – and loved it. Hindsight being 20/20 and all, we did manage to extract one juicy nugget of Clarkson perspective that stands the test of time: namely, that driving a 160mph sportscar around town at 30 is every bit as justifiable as driving a four-seater by yourself. We'll just edit out the Tina Turner soundtrack the next time we pull that one out of the mental Rolodex

/wv

Review: 1970 Hotchkis E-Max Dodge Challenger

Before we begin, we have to state up front that we've rarely – if ever – had more fun with a car than we had with the Hotchkis E-Max Challenger. And the loud yellow Dodge was in our possession for maybe five hours. Why are we cutting to the chase like this? Why not structure this review like any other and start with the basics, describe the vehicle and then state a conclusion? First of all, just look at the bloody thing: "dripping with sex" is the only proper description. But the truth is that this is more the recounting of an adventure than a plain old car review. Keep reading. You're going to have some fun. Though not nearly as much fun as we did.

This is the type of experience that as a journalist you undeniably have to go through.
But yes, we should start with the basics. Legendary suspension tuner Hotchkis took a 1970 Dodge Challenger with a 340 six-pack and built themselves an autocrosser. The list of modifications is not only the stuff of which jealousy is made, but exhaustive. Though, Hotchkis claims the E-Max isn't so wild, "Even in Auto-Cross trim, E-Max is a relatively stock vehicle compared to many of the auto-cross competitors." Good to know. That said, it's still a long list.

Here's some of it: Custom Moroso oil pan, Be Cool aluminum radiator, Red Line synthetic oil, Optima Battery, MSD ignition, Classic 5-Speed Tremec TKO, Flowmaster exhaust, Stoptech brakes, Forgeline wheels and Yokohama tires, Sparco Milano 2 seat (as in just the driver seat), Hurst Shifter. Not bad, right? Then you got all the Hotchkis stuff that lies beneath, including tubular A-arms, front and rear sport sway bars, subframe connectors, sport springs, adjustable steering rods with a fancy Flaming River power steering unit and adjustable strut rods. Says Hotchkis of their handiwork, "The bolt-on system creates a proper negative camber curve, sufficient positive camber for high speed stability and full bump and droop travel without bumpsteer. Prototype Hotchkis-Afco adjustable stocks provide high performance damping." Got it? Good – let's get to the story.

Considering my job is what it is, I get many cars delivered to my house. And some of them are pretty dang fancy. But the E-Max Challenger is the first vehicle I've ever heard coming from down the block. I should probably explain that I live four flights up in an isolated little bohemian bungalow north of Downtown Los Angeles – i.e. I can't hear anything. But oh lordy did this puppy rumble. Er, burble. Well, burble and rumble and bark and growl and just basically kick the dead out of bed. The seemingly 70-feet long Hooker Competition headers certainly contributed to the cacophony, as did the shortened side pipes.



The boys from Hotchkis handed me the keys and I just couldn't stop smiling. Really? Somebody just showed up and handed me the keys to this? What did I do so right in a former life? Climbing into the sport seat and buckling the lap belt brought me back. I've been here before, strapped inside old Detroit iron. But something is different. I can't put my foot on it – until I did. These are not your father's muscle car pedals. The clutch feels light and modern. The throttle is, well, responsive. And instead of the boot-in-mashed-potatoes feeling that most old Mopars give off, the brake pedal is firm and reassuring. Oh boy. Tooling around the 'hood a bit I'm slightly amazed at how much the bright yellow Dodge feels like a go kart. A gigantic go kart, but a go kart nonetheless. Blame the teeny diameter steering wheel, tight shocks and instant torque. Oh, and I never for one half second stop smiling.

Due to our ridiculous travel schedule, this day was the only day until early December that both myself and Drew Phillips would be in LA at the same time. Meaning that it was our only chance to drive and shoot the car together. Seeing as how standing around while Drew works his magic is thirsty work, I performed my now usual pre-photo shoot routine of stopping at the gas station/car wash to buy some Gatoraid. As I roll up (still smiling) everyone is just staring at me. OK fine – the car, but still – they're really taking a gander. Now, I've rolled into this same gas station in everything from a Nissan GT-R to an Aston Martin DBS and the masses' reaction is typically, "Meh." Not with the E-max. After hearing half a dozen, "Man, this thing is awesome!" I'm off, the big stupid smile still draped across my face.



To get to Drew's place in Pasadena I have to make my way up the old, curvy part of the 110 and it's an ideal place to check out a car's handling on some moderately twisty tarmac. What was going on here? This is a near 40-year-old American car. Where's the waft? The body roll? The wallow? The bad behavior? All of it is just absent. The big yellow Hotchkis car rides hard and its rear end makes some peculiar sounds over bumps, but this is unbelievable. Turn in is crisp, it goes where you point it and there's even a minor sensation from the steering wheel resembling feedback. Couldn't be, could it? Could they have done this good of a job? Let me also point out that every driver on the freeway is staring at me. Er, at the Challenger. And you'd better believe I'm still smiling.

I pull up and Drew pops his head in the cabin with an even bigger grin. The charm this E-Max exudes is intoxicating. Not only that, but it makes the driver feel incredibly special. Again, just look at it (and I wish you could listen to it). No matter what car pulls up next to you, your ride is cooler. End of story, there simply is no competition. And on a certain level, that's really what the muscle car zeitgeist is all about. Just cold cruising down the boulevard looking better than everyone else and feeling great while doing so. You simply don't get that sensation with the bulk of modern cars. You know what? Let's just say all modern cars. I mean, a Lamborghini Gallardo is cool and all, but let's not kid ourselves.



We blast down the on ramp onto the freeway and I can hear Drew giggling. Well, more like unable to control his hysterical laughter, which is all the more funny because I'm doing the exact same thing. The Hotchkis Challenger is no faster than say a WRX, but the excitement, the pleasure, the sheer titillation of the Mopar makes the Subaru feel like a busted Segway. And I own a WRX. This could be one of those you-had-to-be-there-moments, but we had more fun getting up to 80 mph than, well, let's just say ever. The sounds, the sensations, the electricity – it's simply overwhelming. Fantastically so.

Of course, being such a complete car, we do get the full muscle car experience. Our location is over 30 miles away and we're in a four-decades-old car in late afternoon heat on a not exactly glass-smooth surface. There's nothing even resembling air coming out of the vents and with the windows down, I'm unable to talk to Drew without shouting. Windows up and it's really hot. The rumble from the 340 is just outstanding, however, and I find myself downshifting into fourth just to hear it scream a little. And at modern freeway speeds, even with all the good chassis stuff underneath, this Challenger's a bit of a handful. But for the most part the two of us remain grinning from ear to ear.



We get to our spot and Drew tells me that he wants to do some panning shots. Translation: he wants me to drive back and forth on a nearly abandoned road as he snaps away. My pleasure, and as I make my first few passes wide open in third gear I can't believe how lucky I am. This is my job. I'm actually getting paid to act like a zit-addled teenager with daddy's ride (or at least, someone else's car). It's just unbelievable. Totally, amazingly unreal. Drew motions me in. He's having some trouble with his autofocus and wants to swap lenses. He gets new glass from the trunk and I give the E-Max a little gas, ready to restart the misbehaving when she stalls.

I twist the key and nothing.

No crank, no tick, no turning, no nothing. Dead. The Challenger is dead. Kaput. A non-starter. But mostly dead. What happens next is rather embarrassing and points to the old adage that those who can't (wrench), write. I'm convinced it's the starter. Or the coil. Or the distributor. Or the points (totally oblivious to the bright red MSD ignition pack bolted to the far side of the firewall). At any rate, in my mind it's something electrical and catastrophic. The dome light is still coming on and the headlights work, and a few of the aftermarket gauges are still getting juice – indicating to my know-very-little mind that the battery still has plenty of power. We try arcing the battery relay. We get spark, but no start. We pathetically try push starting it in first gear. Then, realizing that high compression motors need more speed, a little faster in second. Nada. Literally nothing.



After a series of seemingly never ending phone calls between us, Hotchkis and the PR agency that set the whole thing up, it's decided that the super friendly (and quite lovely) PR lady would come out and give us a hand. Why? She owns a 1970 Dodge Challenger and is therefor familiar with their quirks and eccentricities. She's at least 30 minutes out and Drew suggests we get in the car because the sun's down and it's getting cold up here at the edge of the desert. Naturally, we're both wearing flip flops. I point out that sitting in a busted car on the side of the road is not exactly safe. On cue, we hear coyotes begin their nightly howls. And in case you're wondering – yes, we're still smiling.

Eventually, Elana the PR person and her friend Tom pull up in a big, burly Cummins Ram pickup. I explain my electrical gremlin theory but they want to try simply jumping it. Five minutes later, the Challenger roars back to life. Tom whips out his multi-meter and checks the charge: 11.98 volts. We then test the alternator – not a single volt. Ironically, the only OEM part Hotchkis left mounted to the block had died after 39 years. Tom put the meter back on the battery and we watched in something resembling horror as the voltage ticked down. 11.96, 11.95, 11.94 and so on. "Think we can make it to Pasadena?" I asked. "Probably, but you'd better get going."



Long story made short, we got. Drew and I are now racing not only against a lame battery, but any cop that might yank us over for having pathetic headlights. Almost truthfully, we'd have had more light if I stuck Drew out on the hood holding a lighter. The ride back is tense (yet still fun) and I explain to Drew that this is the type of experience that as a journalist you undeniably have to go through. Sure, we could have wimped out at any point and called AAA for a flatbed, but for a litany of ineffable yet cosmic reasons, we have to see this one through. After all, it's our job to do so.

Beaten, exhausted and yet still fully giddy from the nerve-wracking ride home, we (finally) turn onto Drew's street where we decide that we'll stash the car until Hotchkis picks it up in the morning. Because of street cleaning we have to park the Challenger on the opposite side of the road, requiring a U-turn. I nose the yellow, crippled beast into a driveway for a three-point turn. "Wouldn't it be hysterical if it broke down right here?" Drew asks maybe two or three seconds before the car dies again. Still laughing (and now blocking two lanes of traffic) we jump out of the Dodge and begin heaving. A driver from a passing car that we've held up is kind enough to climb out and give us a hand. Five minutes later (you try turning that wheel!) and the Hotchkis E-Max Challenger is safely resting for the night.



On the ride home both Drew and I are still cackling like seventh graders, wistfully reliving the evening's events. We are in total agreement – this car is fun. And thankfully, for Drew at least, he'd get to do it all over again because we simply didn't get enough photographs. Speaking of which, when the E-Max first showed up I snapped a photo with my phone and sent it to Facebook. It's now about 10:00 pm and a gearhead pal of mine texts me asking if I will come give him a ride in the Challenger. I reply that no, sadly the alternator's dead. Not going to happen. He writes back, "Dude – Autozone is still open. Let's fix it!" Looking back, I really wish we had because man, what a wonderful, fabulous, outstanding machine.

[Source: Hennessey Performance Engineering]

Review: 1970 Hotchkis E-Max Dodge Challenger

Before we begin, we have to state up front that we've rarely – if ever – had more fun with a car than we had with the Hotchkis E-Max Challenger. And the loud yellow Dodge was in our possession for maybe five hours. Why are we cutting to the chase like this? Why not structure this review like any other and start with the basics, describe the vehicle and then state a conclusion? First of all, just look at the bloody thing: "dripping with sex" is the only proper description. But the truth is that this is more the recounting of an adventure than a plain old car review. Keep reading. You're going to have some fun. Though not nearly as much fun as we did.

This is the type of experience that as a journalist you undeniably have to go through.
But yes, we should start with the basics. Legendary suspension tuner Hotchkis took a 1970 Dodge Challenger with a 340 six-pack and built themselves an autocrosser. The list of modifications is not only the stuff of which jealousy is made, but exhaustive. Though, Hotchkis claims the E-Max isn't so wild, "Even in Auto-Cross trim, E-Max is a relatively stock vehicle compared to many of the auto-cross competitors." Good to know. That said, it's still a long list.

Here's some of it: Custom Moroso oil pan, Be Cool aluminum radiator, Red Line synthetic oil, Optima Battery, MSD ignition, Classic 5-Speed Tremec TKO, Flowmaster exhaust, Stoptech brakes, Forgeline wheels and Yokohama tires, Sparco Milano 2 seat (as in just the driver seat), Hurst Shifter. Not bad, right? Then you got all the Hotchkis stuff that lies beneath, including tubular A-arms, front and rear sport sway bars, subframe connectors, sport springs, adjustable steering rods with a fancy Flaming River power steering unit and adjustable strut rods. Says Hotchkis of their handiwork, "The bolt-on system creates a proper negative camber curve, sufficient positive camber for high speed stability and full bump and droop travel without bumpsteer. Prototype Hotchkis-Afco adjustable stocks provide high performance damping." Got it? Good – let's get to the story.

Considering my job is what it is, I get many cars delivered to my house. And some of them are pretty dang fancy. But the E-Max Challenger is the first vehicle I've ever heard coming from down the block. I should probably explain that I live four flights up in an isolated little bohemian bungalow north of Downtown Los Angeles – i.e. I can't hear anything. But oh lordy did this puppy rumble. Er, burble. Well, burble and rumble and bark and growl and just basically kick the dead out of bed. The seemingly 70-feet long Hooker Competition headers certainly contributed to the cacophony, as did the shortened side pipes.



The boys from Hotchkis handed me the keys and I just couldn't stop smiling. Really? Somebody just showed up and handed me the keys to this? What did I do so right in a former life? Climbing into the sport seat and buckling the lap belt brought me back. I've been here before, strapped inside old Detroit iron. But something is different. I can't put my foot on it – until I did. These are not your father's muscle car pedals. The clutch feels light and modern. The throttle is, well, responsive. And instead of the boot-in-mashed-potatoes feeling that most old Mopars give off, the brake pedal is firm and reassuring. Oh boy. Tooling around the 'hood a bit I'm slightly amazed at how much the bright yellow Dodge feels like a go kart. A gigantic go kart, but a go kart nonetheless. Blame the teeny diameter steering wheel, tight shocks and instant torque. Oh, and I never for one half second stop smiling.

Due to our ridiculous travel schedule, this day was the only day until early December that both myself and Drew Phillips would be in LA at the same time. Meaning that it was our only chance to drive and shoot the car together. Seeing as how standing around while Drew works his magic is thirsty work, I performed my now usual pre-photo shoot routine of stopping at the gas station/car wash to buy some Gatoraid. As I roll up (still smiling) everyone is just staring at me. OK fine – the car, but still – they're really taking a gander. Now, I've rolled into this same gas station in everything from a Nissan GT-R to an Aston Martin DBS and the masses' reaction is typically, "Meh." Not with the E-max. After hearing half a dozen, "Man, this thing is awesome!" I'm off, the big stupid smile still draped across my face.



To get to Drew's place in Pasadena I have to make my way up the old, curvy part of the 110 and it's an ideal place to check out a car's handling on some moderately twisty tarmac. What was going on here? This is a near 40-year-old American car. Where's the waft? The body roll? The wallow? The bad behavior? All of it is just absent. The big yellow Hotchkis car rides hard and its rear end makes some peculiar sounds over bumps, but this is unbelievable. Turn in is crisp, it goes where you point it and there's even a minor sensation from the steering wheel resembling feedback. Couldn't be, could it? Could they have done this good of a job? Let me also point out that every driver on the freeway is staring at me. Er, at the Challenger. And you'd better believe I'm still smiling.

I pull up and Drew pops his head in the cabin with an even bigger grin. The charm this E-Max exudes is intoxicating. Not only that, but it makes the driver feel incredibly special. Again, just look at it (and I wish you could listen to it). No matter what car pulls up next to you, your ride is cooler. End of story, there simply is no competition. And on a certain level, that's really what the muscle car zeitgeist is all about. Just cold cruising down the boulevard looking better than everyone else and feeling great while doing so. You simply don't get that sensation with the bulk of modern cars. You know what? Let's just say all modern cars. I mean, a Lamborghini Gallardo is cool and all, but let's not kid ourselves.



We blast down the on ramp onto the freeway and I can hear Drew giggling. Well, more like unable to control his hysterical laughter, which is all the more funny because I'm doing the exact same thing. The Hotchkis Challenger is no faster than say a WRX, but the excitement, the pleasure, the sheer titillation of the Mopar makes the Subaru feel like a busted Segway. And I own a WRX. This could be one of those you-had-to-be-there-moments, but we had more fun getting up to 80 mph than, well, let's just say ever. The sounds, the sensations, the electricity – it's simply overwhelming. Fantastically so.

Of course, being such a complete car, we do get the full muscle car experience. Our location is over 30 miles away and we're in a four-decades-old car in late afternoon heat on a not exactly glass-smooth surface. There's nothing even resembling air coming out of the vents and with the windows down, I'm unable to talk to Drew without shouting. Windows up and it's really hot. The rumble from the 340 is just outstanding, however, and I find myself downshifting into fourth just to hear it scream a little. And at modern freeway speeds, even with all the good chassis stuff underneath, this Challenger's a bit of a handful. But for the most part the two of us remain grinning from ear to ear.



We get to our spot and Drew tells me that he wants to do some panning shots. Translation: he wants me to drive back and forth on a nearly abandoned road as he snaps away. My pleasure, and as I make my first few passes wide open in third gear I can't believe how lucky I am. This is my job. I'm actually getting paid to act like a zit-addled teenager with daddy's ride (or at least, someone else's car). It's just unbelievable. Totally, amazingly unreal. Drew motions me in. He's having some trouble with his autofocus and wants to swap lenses. He gets new glass from the trunk and I give the E-Max a little gas, ready to restart the misbehaving when she stalls.

I twist the key and nothing.

No crank, no tick, no turning, no nothing. Dead. The Challenger is dead. Kaput. A non-starter. But mostly dead. What happens next is rather embarrassing and points to the old adage that those who can't (wrench), write. I'm convinced it's the starter. Or the coil. Or the distributor. Or the points (totally oblivious to the bright red MSD ignition pack bolted to the far side of the firewall). At any rate, in my mind it's something electrical and catastrophic. The dome light is still coming on and the headlights work, and a few of the aftermarket gauges are still getting juice – indicating to my know-very-little mind that the battery still has plenty of power. We try arcing the battery relay. We get spark, but no start. We pathetically try push starting it in first gear. Then, realizing that high compression motors need more speed, a little faster in second. Nada. Literally nothing.



After a series of seemingly never ending phone calls between us, Hotchkis and the PR agency that set the whole thing up, it's decided that the super friendly (and quite lovely) PR lady would come out and give us a hand. Why? She owns a 1970 Dodge Challenger and is therefor familiar with their quirks and eccentricities. She's at least 30 minutes out and Drew suggests we get in the car because the sun's down and it's getting cold up here at the edge of the desert. Naturally, we're both wearing flip flops. I point out that sitting in a busted car on the side of the road is not exactly safe. On cue, we hear coyotes begin their nightly howls. And in case you're wondering – yes, we're still smiling.

Eventually, Elana the PR person and her friend Tom pull up in a big, burly Cummins Ram pickup. I explain my electrical gremlin theory but they want to try simply jumping it. Five minutes later, the Challenger roars back to life. Tom whips out his multi-meter and checks the charge: 11.98 volts. We then test the alternator – not a single volt. Ironically, the only OEM part Hotchkis left mounted to the block had died after 39 years. Tom put the meter back on the battery and we watched in something resembling horror as the voltage ticked down. 11.96, 11.95, 11.94 and so on. "Think we can make it to Pasadena?" I asked. "Probably, but you'd better get going."



Long story made short, we got. Drew and I are now racing not only against a lame battery, but any cop that might yank us over for having pathetic headlights. Almost truthfully, we'd have had more light if I stuck Drew out on the hood holding a lighter. The ride back is tense (yet still fun) and I explain to Drew that this is the type of experience that as a journalist you undeniably have to go through. Sure, we could have wimped out at any point and called AAA for a flatbed, but for a litany of ineffable yet cosmic reasons, we have to see this one through. After all, it's our job to do so.

Beaten, exhausted and yet still fully giddy from the nerve-wracking ride home, we (finally) turn onto Drew's street where we decide that we'll stash the car until Hotchkis picks it up in the morning. Because of street cleaning we have to park the Challenger on the opposite side of the road, requiring a U-turn. I nose the yellow, crippled beast into a driveway for a three-point turn. "Wouldn't it be hysterical if it broke down right here?" Drew asks maybe two or three seconds before the car dies again. Still laughing (and now blocking two lanes of traffic) we jump out of the Dodge and begin heaving. A driver from a passing car that we've held up is kind enough to climb out and give us a hand. Five minutes later (you try turning that wheel!) and the Hotchkis E-Max Challenger is safely resting for the night.



On the ride home both Drew and I are still cackling like seventh graders, wistfully reliving the evening's events. We are in total agreement – this car is fun. And thankfully, for Drew at least, he'd get to do it all over again because we simply didn't get enough photographs. Speaking of which, when the E-Max first showed up I snapped a photo with my phone and sent it to Facebook. It's now about 10:00 pm and a gearhead pal of mine texts me asking if I will come give him a ride in the Challenger. I reply that no, sadly the alternator's dead. Not going to happen. He writes back, "Dude – Autozone is still open. Let's fix it!" Looking back, I really wish we had because man, what a wonderful, fabulous, outstanding machine.

[Source: Hennessey Performance Engineering]