Chopped, channeled, and shaved

Photos by Steven Sunshine

Text by Kristen Lombardi

They came to Worcester from all points, from as far away as Quebec, Florida, Maine, and from California. Thousands of them arrived in sexy, sculpted aqua-blue Thunderbirds or coal-black Cadillacs, in silver Z28 camaros or orange Ford highboys, with highly-polished chrome and names like "Black Rose," "Serendipity," and "Just Peach." They either postured with cool affectation, or waved wildly at admiring passersby, yet all of them came for one reason only -- to see and be seen.

The New England Summer Nationals, which occurred at Green Hill Park over the Fourth of July weekend, has fast become a major automotive event, and this is just what its promoter, Bob Moscoffian, had in mind when he conjured up the idea eight years ago. Being a classic-car man, Moscoffian was well-aware of how "people with nice cars want to show them off." But he also knew how mundane such shows could be -- how enthusiasts park themselves beside their vehicles, waiting and hoping for someone to take notice. Moscoffian longed for jam-packed excitement, a show where flash and amusement might attract less-knowledgeable crowds.

With upwards of 40,000 people attending this year's four-day event, it's safe to say he achieved his goal. And the Nationals, which drew a record-breaking, 4000 registered cars, seems destined to keep growing, because, as Moscoffian explained, "We offer something different. Those who don't care for cars will walk out of here loving them."

The mood in the park was certainly one of awe. People camped along Skyline Drive on lawn chairs and beach towels, displayed banners announcing "Hot Heads" and "Asphalt Angels," and delighted in drivers cruising the strip. In every direction, you saw the glint of chrome, heard the roar of engines, smelled the stench of rubber. It was a festive celebration of motor mania, a truly American spectacle at which popular, nostalgic images were held up with pride -- Marilyn Monroe, Mickey Mouse, and Bugs Bunny on dashboards; fuzzy dice and fox tails on mirrors.

These were not ordinary owners, of course, content to drive flat, featureless Ford Escorts and Toyota Tercels, but avid enthusiasts, so dazzled by the personality and power of yesteryear's cars that they devoted massive amounts of time and money toward restoration. (Some boasted of spending as much as $80,000 on their cars.) They were tinkerers, mostly men, who vied for the biggest, brightest, and most forceful set of wheels; as one buff put it, "These guys caught the fever and just can't kick it."

Nowhere was this passion, more apparent than at night, when downtown Worcester opened itself up to muffler raps, burnouts, even drag races through the Main Street tunnel. It was a scene of chaos, with 300 or so drivers in orange Challengers, blue Impalas, and black camaros revving engines, waiting for a chance in the spotlight. Spectators eagerly lined the tunnel, some arriving five hours early to catch a glimpse of the beefed-up machines. It was, definitely, a view to rival others, full of thick, enveloping smoke, fierce, bright flames, and a pungent, stifling smell -- exactly what Moscoffian promised when he uttered the challenge: "People who come here will experience the car."

He and his crew, naturally, left the rubber marks to prove it.

There is nothing like the personal touch. No matter how perfect a car is when purchased, you feel compelled to rip it apart, then piece it back together in accordance with your style, taste, and personality. That's just what Bill Doherty of New Brunswick, Canada, did when he bought a 1931 ruby-red Chevy from a man named Brian. "I didn't want to drive around in Brian's car; I wanted my own car. It's sort of a macho thing," Doherty says. He decided to paint it blue-sapphire with white flames (which he designed), then put on white-walled, orange-rimmed tires. Doherty, an investment banker, thinks the car now captures the '50s, while maintaining modern niceties like a cassette player, cruise control, and air conditioning. Besides, it suits this self-proclaimed exhibitionist's desire to be seen; as he puts it, "The wilder you go, the more stares you get. I enjoy all the attention."

Enthusiasts always recall their fellow man -- if not by name, then surely by face and car. The instant camaraderie that exists between street rodders, antiquers, hot rodders, and so on stems from a natural affinity people share with like-minded types. It is a serious trust, one that dictates an unspoken code of conduct: you don't poke fun at or copy another guy's car; and you never pass an enthusiast without extending a hand. John McPhillips of Long Island, New York, owner of this 1950 turquoise-pearl Mercury, admits that he can easily speed by a broken-down Toyota or Honda, but adds, "It's dirty pool to pass by a rodder with a flat-tire. Then you're asking for trouble."

On to Part 2.