One night in the fall of 1965, I was cruising through the Morgan’s “Big Boy” drive-in/restaurant, my usual stomping grounds in northeastern Ohio at the time. The spot attracted the local hot-shoes and their cars on a regular basis. On this particular night, I couldn’t help but notice a brand-new Shelby AC Cobra parked right up front. This 289-powered roadster was empty, top down, and wearing bright silver paint with red leather interior and chrome wire wheels. The Cobra was also displaying Pennsylvania plates. The PA state line wasn’t that far away, so I knew someone was out for a nice, cool joy ride in one of the most exciting machines in the world.
I couldn’t resist, so I parked my Mopar, walked inside the busy restaurant, and looked over the crowd of about 100 people to see who that car belonged to. I spotted the rascals almost immediately. The two looked to be in their early thirties, and one of them was wearing a green Army fatigue jacket. I walked up to their table and introduced myself, then pulled up a chair and sat down without anything that even resembled an invitation.
Fortunately, the owner was friendly and eager to talk about his car. By the time they finished eating, I had convinced him how much fun it would be to take me for a ride in his Cobra. We left his pal in my Dodge out in the parking lot during our excursion.
The drive-in was situated on the corner of a major intersection. We pulled out and went down Route 224, which ran past an area called Mill Creek Park. This beautiful, natural landmark literally stretches all the way through town. A well-maintained, two-lane black-top road snakes a full 20 miles through and around this nearly 3,000-acre forest. The best part was, on a fall night, that road was going to be empty and quiet, except for us in the Cobra. My host laughed out loud at first sight of a 20-mph speed-limit sign.
He hit the high-beams, punched it in First gear, nailed Second, then hit the brakes for the next bend in the road. There was never a straight long enough to go really fast, so we stayed in Second gear much of the time. But he leaned on that 289 every cubic inch of the way. Even with its narrow wheel and tire package (by today’s standards), the little Cobra could still haul the goods around what amounted to a tight little road course surrounded by darkness. The 289’s solid lifters played their famous tune the whole time, and it seemed to echo in the otherwise silent wilderness.
After about 10 minutes of tempting fate, I asked him about the Cobra’s straight-line performance. He said, “Where shall we go?” I directed him to one of our notorious street-racing venues, Lockwood Blvd. This stretch of concrete was at least 2 miles long and connected Route 224 and Shields Rd. It was a wide, three-lane road with woods on one side and only a few houses on the other, along with more wide-open spaces.
We got on Lockwood from the Shields Rd. end. There was not a car in sight, so my host floored it in First gear as soon as the wheels straightened out from that turn off from Shields. Once again, the transition from the still of the night to a screaming small-block Ford was instantaneous, if not glorious. Even the noise of the of the wind buffeting around this top-down roadster couldn’t silence the enthusiastic voice of the this eager V8. He shifted hard to Second gear and then let the small-block rev again before throwing Third, red-lined it, then went into high gear and backed off. It looked like 120 on the speedo from where I was sitting.
If this guy still has the Cobra, now valued in the seven-figure neighborhood, I know one thing for certain: He is not about to take another complete stranger for a hot lap through the woods, or on a triple-digit blast down some dark and unfamiliar backroad any time soon.
Source: Read Full Article