Not Your Typical Appalachian Car Guy

Hailing from deep in the heart of the Appalachian mountains, from my home, if you travel an hour east or west, the terrain only gets flatter. I like to say that I live in the Land Of Dragons. Because any self respecting car guy knows the DRAGON, right? Where I'm from, we laugh at the hype of the Dragon. Where I'm from, police cross the mustard, your grandmother crosses the mustard. Nobody bats an eyelash. We drive a Dragon to work. I grew up and cut my teeth on a road that was 22mi long and has 85 turns. I know, that pales in comparison to the mighty 315 turns over 11mi that the Dragon-goers claim. Go pull up a map and count the turns, there's not 315. Not unless you count the tiny kinks and treat every corner like the racetracks of NASCAR(a continous turn being counted as turn one and two). But that is just one of easily a dozen speakable roads within a 30mi of my home growing up. 

I terrorized them all. From the early 2000's onward, I was chasing apexes in washed-out gravel pulled onto the road by Paw-Paws, dodging potholes made by overweight coal trucks, and preying upon anyone in front of me -- whether they were aware of my challenging presence or not. I used to compete with myself to not touch the brakes even if I couldn't break the speedlimit because I was trapped in a miles long stretch of curvature without a passing zone. I used to race against no one but myself. No one else in my area had my particular affliction. My friends were either into dirt bikes, or Fo-Wheela's before we were old enough to drive legally. And after? They were either parked up with performance parts in parking lots, or drag racing. Finding a long flat-ish straight stretch in Appalachia is far and few between. But if you like curvy roads... this is the Mecca you've dreamed of. 

I had the Japanese comic books that read back to front, black and white pen-shaded illustrations of cartoonish people standing next to painstakingly accurate picturesque cars. The contrast of art style within the pages was matched only by the content therein. They all challenged each other and themselves with empty pockets and full egos. I was enamored. Growing up, fantasizing I was the local legend of whatever cartoon that God was writing about me, the unknown, unsung hero of a story that didn't exist, I was convinced I was the best around. And I probably was... because I didn't know anyone who was willing to race me ... actually race me across any of the curvy roads where I lived. I street raced some, got in a bunch of trouble. Learned that doing illegal shit in front of everyone was a good way to get caught, and pay the piper. So I kept my mountain escapades to myself, always. Whenever I succumbed to my own ego and began excitedly telling anyone I thought might appreciate it -- they looked at me with disgust, with horror, with confusion, or flat-out indifference. So I learned to shut up about it. 98% of my peers literally did not understand. I grew tired very quickly of trying to explain. 

I'm not saying I was actually anyone or anything of note at that time... but I became somewhat well known for waking up entire hollers of people at 2am when I came screaming through at 7,000rpm in a Japanese shitbox. I mainly stuck with Nissan, because front engine, rear drive. But I had a Toyota, Subaru, and even a Porsche for a while. All were various power levels but brakes, tires, and exhaust was always the first modifications. Back then, you were somebody if you had 350hp, now People Movers with 7 seats and child safety locks have 300hp. I never cared much for horsepower, I cared about brake fade, and greasy tires. One of the only curvy-road friends I had at the time had an identical car to me, but I had brakes, and tires... and he had a "Stage 2 reflash" and a downpipe. I dove into corners, he pulled me on the straights. We used to meet up on lonely roads and ask each other "How fast we going tonight?" "Ehhh, 6/10's." That meant a leisurely stroll through the mountains, nothing serious. We used a 1-10 scale but never said anything other than 6, 7, or 8. Which basically translated to Slow, Medium, or Fast. That was the only time we buckled up. We only ever ran after midnight, when the traffic was the most sparse, and we could see headlights coming so we knew to get back into our lane. Sometimes we'd pass a cop, first the brake lights, then the blue lights. We never lifted. We, arrogantly, were convinced no one could catch us. Although I will never know for sure if anyone ever chased us. I like to think that by the time they found a place to turn around, we were long gone and not worth chasing. And the mountainous terrain meant radios were spotty at best, and cellular phones were extremely unreliable. When we parted ways, we each recited our secret handshake. 

Alright man, have a good one, Shiny Side Up.

Yeah man, good runs, Sticky Side Down. 

Clutch in, First gear, Clutch out. 

--Smokey