Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                                                  Episode – 11

The summer of 1991 came to a close like a well-tuned small-block winding down after a long burnout—hot, smoky, but unforgettable. Johnny B. Whiskey’s internship at Hudson Classic Mopars had officially ended. He’d spent the past few months buried in Hemi valve lash adjustments, Holley tuning quirks, and the deeply satisfying rhythm of socket wrenches echoing off concrete walls. It wasn’t just work—it was passion under hood.

Several of the Hudson employees shook his hand, grease and all, telling him he was welcome back anytime. “You ever need a lift, or want to wrench on something special, the door’s open,” Mr. Ed Hudson had said, slapping Johnny on the back. “Don’t let that school get in the way of your education.”

So, with the leaves just beginning to turn on the trees around the campus of Mid-State Technical College, Johnny fell back into his second-year routine: auto tech transmissions classes during the day, Sears part-time in the evening, and drag racing every weekend. His favorite instructor, Mr. Avstar, greeted him with a sly grin and a fresh shop challenge every week. Avstar was old-school through and through, the type who could diagnose a 727 Torqueflite’s issue just by the smell of the fluid.

Johnny was becoming one of the best in his class—quiet but sharp, confident with his proficiencies, and never afraid to call out a damaged ground wire on a bench test. His reputation was growing, especially at the Saturday night bracket races at Great Lakes and Sunday afternoon races at Mid-Valley Motorsports Park, where his 1968 Dodge Dart was becoming a legend. It didn’t hurt that his now high 9-second Dart was consistent as a metronome, and Johnny’s reaction times were quick enough to give the seasoned veterans trouble.

The Dart wasn’t flashy. It was all business, but under Johnny’s careful attention to setup, tuning, and maintenance, it was unbelievably successful. He hauled it with pride on his latest purchase—a used 18-foot open trailer he’d scored from a retiring racer for a song. The whole setup was yanked to the track behind his trusty ’73 Power Wagon, a clean, well-running, but weathered 4×4 with plenty of heart.

Jennifer had returned to college too, a senior now. She had a heavier schedule this year, full of student teaching and education seminars. Her time was mostly booked during the week, and Johnny missed her. But they made the weekends count.

Every Friday evening, she’d throw her overnight bag in the Power Wagon’s cab, climb up into the passenger seat, and lean into Johnny as the Dodge growled its way down the rural highways toward the track. The wind through the window tousled her long hair, and the CB radio crackled with friendly trash talk from racers already lined up in the pits.

Jennifer never complained about the dirt, the noise, or the long nights under a pit light. She wore cutoff shorts, a Mopar hat, and smiled with pride every time Johnny made it past the first round. She brought snacks, kept Johnny calm, and helped wipe down the Dart between rounds. She didn’t press Johnny about the future—but on those quiet rides home, sometimes with a trophy on the seat between them, her eyes would wander to him.

They were twenty-somethings—Johnny was 22, Jennifer 21—and though their love was strong, it hovered in a kind of limbo, tethered between youthful freedom and the shadow of adulthood creeping closer with every graduation requirement checked off. They talked sometimes, usually on the tailgate of the Power Wagon under the stars after a long night. Not about wedding rings or moving in together, but about what came next.

“I figure I’ll get my degree, maybe go back to Hudson’s, maybe open my own shop someday,” Johnny said one night as they shared a thermos of coffee. “I could do restorations… race prep… not just oil changes.”

Jennifer nodded, her legs dangling off the edge. “I’ll be in a classroom by this time next year, teaching third graders how to write a sentence.” She smiled, then hesitated. “Where will we be?”

Johnny looked out into the dark, headlights of the last few racers disappearing over the hill. “Together, I hope. Just… figuring it out as we go.”

It wasn’t a promise, but it was enough.

Week by week, the fall rolled in. Johnny added more parts to his growing 426 Hemi stash—fresh rods, a forged crank, a set of Stage V heads he scored through a guy Mr. Avstar knew. He kept everything organized, labeled, and clean, each component waiting its turn in the build. He still wasn’t sure what it would go into—maybe a ’68 Charger shell, maybe the Dart someday—but the engine was a dream he could hold piece by piece.

Jennifer’s schedule grew more demanding. Some nights she called him, half-asleep, from the floor of the education building where she’d fallen asleep grading mock lesson plans. Johnny missed her but never said so outright. Instead, he left notes in her mailbox, doodles of a Dart launching with a stick figure waving from the window.

Sears became a steady gig—tires, batteries, alignment racks—but Johnny saw it for what it was: a good paycheck, not a future. The future, whatever it was, smelled like race gas and sounded like open headers on a cold morning.

Thanksgiving came. Then finals. Johnny and Jennifer studied at her newly obtained apartment when they could, she at the kitchen table with a pile of books, he with a manual and a laptop open to Summit Racing.

They were growing, slowly, like old vines on brick. Not rushing it but holding on tight.

When the semester ended, they celebrated with a simple dinner at the local diner. Johnny gave her a small box—not jewelry, but a tiny chrome keychain shaped like a Hemi valve cover.

“I’ll build the engine,” he said. “And you’ll build your classroom. And then we’ll see.”

Jennifer smiled, touched it softly, and replied, “I like that plan.”

No promises. Just dreams, grease-stained and golden. They still had a road to travel, and it was long, winding, and full of gear changes.

But for now, Johnny had a race car to prep, a Hemi to build, and a woman beside him who loved the ride just as much as the destination.