Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                               Episode – 7 

By the spring of 1991, the feed mill was silent. A hollow stillness had replaced the clatter of grain conveyors and the hum of diesel engines. For Johnny B. Whiskey, it marked the end of one chapter and the uncertain beginning of another. With his job at the mill gone and trade school in full swing, he needed income—and fast.

That’s how he ended up under the harsh fluorescents of the Sears, Roebuck, and Co. Automotive Center at the local shopping mall. It wasn’t glamorous. No drag slicks or headers. No fire-breathing Hemis or thumping small blocks. Just oil changes, tire rotations, and the occasional battery swap for some family’s rust-bitten Cutlass.

But Johnny didn’t complain. He showed up early, kept his box clean, and was always willing to offer a helping hand. He treated every brake job like it was going on his Dart. Customers noticed, and so did the manager.

It wasn’t performance work, but it paid the bills and gave him access to a lift, which he used after hours for his own car, a luxury that felt like gold.

Meanwhile, school kept rolling. Mr. Avstar, his mentor and professor, was knee-deep into the steering and suspension unit, and Johnny couldn’t get enough. It was like a light had switched on.

“Most guys think steering’s just a wheel and some tie rods,” Avstar told the class one day, leaning against a stripped K-member on a stand. “But real handling? That’s geometry. Angles, alignment, and understanding how the tires talk to the road.”

Johnny nodded, already thinking about how his Dart would respond to a tighter caster setting and less toe-in. He spent every spare moment reading manuals and experimenting with camber/caster shims on school cars on the shop’s alignment rack.

In the lab, he adjusted rack and pinions like a surgeon, and he could eyeball a worn ball joint by the time most of his classmates were still fumbling for the grease gun. Mr. Avstar noticed.

“You’ve got a feel for this, Whiskey,” he said one afternoon. “It’s not just in your hands; it’s in your gut.”

Outside the classroom, change was in the air.

Jennifer had started her early student teaching, working in a second-grade classroom two towns over. It was a new world for her, filled with lesson plans, glue sticks, and the occasional breakdown over class management.

But even with her plate full, she kept one eye on Johnny. She loved his passion, his drive, and especially the way he treated his Dart like it was part of the family. What she didn’t love was the street racing.

Johnny had a reputation, quick off the line, fearless in the top end. But with every stop-light duel and backroad burnout, Jennifer worried. She’d seen what could happen when speed met bad luck.

One night, she sat across from him in his parents’ garage after dinner.

“I know you love racing,” she said. “But I don’t want to see your name in the paper.”

Johnny sighed. “It’s just what we do.”

“But it doesn’t have to be. There’s a drag strip out in Great Lakes. NHRA-sanctioned. Real track, real safety gear. You can race and walk away with a time slip, not a ticket or worse.”

He looked at her. She wasn’t nagging. She was scared. And deep down, he knew she was right.

That weekend, Johnny bolted in a fire extinguisher, borrowed his dad’s truck and Jennifer’s uncle Bob’s trailer, and took the Dart to the strip for the first time.

The experience was electric. Controlled chaos. Burnout box. Tree lights. Tech inspection. It wasn’t like the streets, but it was better. Safer, faster, and strangely, more fun. He wasn’t proving himself to strangers anymore. He was chasing numbers, shaving tenths, pushing the limits in a place where skill mattered more than guts.

His first pass was a 10.32 at 129. Not bad for a street car on pump gas and relatively skinny rear tires.

Jennifer was in the bleachers, cheering like he’d just won the Indy 500.

His elapsed time got him a safety notice from the track listing the multiple components required to update the Dart, including a roll bar, before he was allowed to return.

Back at Sears, the days were long and repetitive, but the job taught Johnny professionalism. Customers wanted answers, and he learned how to talk shop without sounding like a know-it-all. His co-workers respected him, even the old-timers who’d been there since bell bottoms.

He’d clock out, wipe down his tools, and spend evenings working on the Dart or helping Jennifer with her teaching supplies.

By the time summer rolled around, everything was aligning. His skills were sharper. His driving was smarter. His relationship with Jennifer stronger.

And looming on the horizon was the performance garage internship; his shot at building real horsepower, not just rotating radials on minivans.

One night in late May, he and Jennifer sat on the tailgate of his friend’s pickup, parked in a grassy field under a blanket of stars. A warm breeze carried the smell of oil and fresh-cut grass.

“You proud of me?” he asked quietly.

She leaned on his shoulder. “I always was. But now I know you’re not just chasing speed. You’re chasing something bigger.”

Johnny looked out at the dark horizon. For the first time in his life, he saw more than just the next race.

He saw a future.