Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                                Episode – 9 

The sun rose warm and bright on the first Monday of May 1991. Johnny B. Whiskey adjusted the collar of his uniform shirt as he looked at his reflection in the side mirror of his ’68 Dart. It wasn’t the same beat-up Dart he’d driven the past couple of years—no, this one had come a long way. It wore a fresh coat of primer now, rolled on in the garage behind his parents’ house. Beneath the hood, the warmed-up small block had seen its share of wrenching and tuning. Most recently, it sported a freshly installed roll bar, thanks to a borrowed welder, the helping hands of his buddy Dale, and the steady guidance of Jennifer’s Uncle Bob.

Johnny stepped into the front office of Hudson Classic Mopars, the dealership where he’d secured a summer internship through the automotive tech program at the vocational school. He could hardly believe his luck. This place wasn’t just a dealership; it was a museum of Chrysler muscle. On the lot and inside the showroom were pristine Super Bees, Cudas, Road Runners, and even a few rare Hemi-powered machines that seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights like sacred artifacts.

Mr. Ed Hudson himself greeted Johnny. The man was tall, gruff, quick with a joke, and forearms like tree trunks from a life spent in the shop.

“You must be Whiskey,” he said, offering a handshake that could crush steel. “You’re early. That’s good. Mopar guys are early risers.”

Johnny grinned. “Yes, sir. Just grateful for the opportunity.”

“Well, don’t be too grateful. There’s plenty of greasy work ahead. This isn’t just polishing fenders for car shows. We build ’em. We restore ’em. We race ’em.”

“I’m ready,” Johnny said, and he meant it.

Morning in the Shop

His first task was humble—inventorying and organizing fasteners, clips, and engine parts—but Johnny didn’t mind. Every drawer he opened told a story. A bin labeled “426 Hemi Valve Covers” caught his attention. He gently lifted one out, the weight and shape as familiar to him as the valve covers on his own 426 project motor sitting at home, slowly coming together with each paycheck.

Around 10 a.m., Mr. Hudson introduced him to Kenny, a seasoned restoration tech who’d been with the dealership since 1975. Kenny was working on a ’69 Charger R/T that had come in from out of state, rusted and forgotten. The plan was a complete rotisserie restoration.

“Grab that DA sander, Whiskey,” Kenny said. “Let’s get her stripped down. You ever use one before?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “On my Dart. I’ve been doing bodywork nights and weekends.”

Kenny nodded, clearly impressed. “Then you’ll do just fine. We’ve got a lot of cars and not enough hands.”

Evening Shift at Sears

By four o’clock, Johnny was wiping sweat from his brow, rolling his compact red toolbox—just the basics—out the back of the dealership. He loaded it into the Dart and turned the key. The exhaust barked to life, announcing his departure like a shotgun blast down the side street.

Just as the day crew was clocking out, he clocked into Sears Automotive at five. He’d been working there since the feed mill closed the previous year, doing tire rotations, oil changes, and the occasional brake job. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills—and more importantly, it gave him employee discounts on tools.

He worked the evening shift till close, keeping a steady pace while keeping one eye on the clock. With every passing day, the overlap between the dealership and Sears started to wear on him physically, but emotionally, Johnny thrived. He was living and breathing cars every hour he was awake.

And Jennifer made sure he didn’t burn out.

Jennifer’s Steady Hand

Jennifer was waiting on Johnny’s parents’ porch most nights when Johnny came home, her long blonde hair pulled back, usually a smudge or two of grease on her jeans. Some nights, she’d drop by unannounced at Sears and place sandwiches or a thermos in the Dart for him. Other nights, she was in Johnny’s dad’s garage, tinkering with her uncle’s old Craftsman toolbox, trying to help where she could.

“I tightened the bolts on the rear brace,” she said one evening, referring to the roll bar they’d installed the previous weekend.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Johnny said, smiling.

“I know. But I wanted to.”

Johnny looked at her then, and for a second, the exhaustion melted. She wasn’t just a girlfriend. She was a teammate, a co-builder, and the only one supporting his dream from day one.

The Roll Bar and Racing Dreams

The Dart was looking meaner by the week. After school and work, on Saturdays after Sears, Johnny and Dale welded, cut, and painted. The roll bar installation hadn’t been easy; they’d mismeasured once and had to re-cut a section, but Jennifer’s Uncle Bob had stepped in with his knowledge and steady hands.

By this point, Johnny had been to half a dozen test-and-tune events at the strip. He’d finally gotten the launch down and was cutting consistent 10.20s, just a few tuning tweaks away from the 9s. Confidence was building, but he hadn’t yet entered a competitive bracket class.

That was about to change.

That Saturday Night – First Bracket Race

After a long Saturday shift at Sears, Johnny raced home, showered, and loaded the Dart on the borrowed trailer. Jennifer met him at the garage with a cooler, sandwiches, and a fresh pack of spark plugs.

“You got this,” she said, kissing him. “You’ve had it all along.”

The sun dipped below the trees as Johnny pulled into the staging lanes. Engines roared, the smell of race gas was thick in the air. It wasn’t a test and tune anymore. This was the real thing.

Round One: Johnny focused on his breathing, staged shallow, and waited. The lights dropped: yellow… yellow… yellow… green.

Johnny smashed the throttle, and the Dart lunged forward, slicks biting hard. He had a clean launch, no spin, no hesitation. His reaction time was solid, better than most rookies. The 340 roared through first, second, third, and fourth just past the 1/8th-mile. Johnny was dialed in like he’d done this a hundred times.

His competitor was in the other lane, driving a slick-looking ’69 Camaro with a dial-in nearly half a second quicker. But Johnny knew the game: it wasn’t just about being fast but about being consistent.

He crossed the line first, but his eyes immediately darted to the scoreboard: No red light. No breakout.

Win light: Lane 2. Johnny.

Round Two: A turbocharged Malibu. Trickier, but Johnny dialed in and ran his number within .02 seconds, another win light.

Round Three: He faced a local hotshot in a 440-powered Duster. It was close, but Johnny cut a .018 light and ran a tight pass. He won by a fender.

Semi-Final: Johnny red-lit by .003. It was a heartbreaker. But when he got out of the car, the crowd in the pits, drivers, crew members, and even Kenny from the dealership gave him a round of applause.

“You’ll get ’em next time,” Kenny said, clapping him on the back. “Nobody wins their first night out like that. You’re the real deal, Whiskey.”

Driving Home

Later, driving home with Jennifer beside him, cash in his pocket, and a trophy from the semi-final finish rattling in the back seat, Johnny glanced over and smiled.

“I think I can really do this,” he said.

Jennifer leaned over, resting her head on his shoulder. “You already are.”