Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                                                  Episode – 12

Thanksgiving had come and gone. Time with Jennifer had been good, but now both she and Johnny B. Whiskey were knee-deep in finals—a blur of textbooks, highlighters, and too much bad coffee. Johnny was still splitting his days between campus and the garage, mind and hands equally worn.

Racing season had treated him well: second in points at Great Lakes, champion at Mid-Valley Motorsports Park. The winnings never touched a savings account—they went straight back into the Dart and the tow rig, an endless cycle every racer knew.

The 340 was out of the Dart now, scattered across the garage floor, half its parts at the machine shop. The rebuilt 4-speed sat under a tarp like a soldier waiting for orders. A newly-scored narrowed Dana 60 waited, too—a beast of a rear end that would require moving the springs inboard. A headache, sure, but it meant the Dart could finally wear the big slicks Johnny had been dreaming about.

One night after a shift at Sears, Johnny found a folded scrap of paper on the kitchen table in his mother’s tidy handwriting: Call Milton Leadford.

The name hit like a jolt. Leadford ran a shop one town over, but more importantly, he was a fixture on the Dixie Pro Stock circuit—piloting a fire-breathing Pro Mod Dodge Daytona, the kind of car that lived on garage-wall posters. Whatever Leadford wanted, it wouldn’t be small potatoes.

Johnny stared at the note, the refrigerator hum suddenly loud in the quiet kitchen. He’d seen Leadford’s Daytona at Mid-Valley—flames at the headers, the sound punching you in the chest. Leadford wasn’t just fast; he was feared.

It was late, but Johnny picked up the wall phone and dialed.

“Leadford.”

“Uh… this is Johnny B. Whiskey. My mom—”

“I know who you are,” Leadford cut in. “Second at Great Lakes. Took Mid-Valley by the throat. I keep track.”

Johnny swallowed. “Yessir.”

“You working Christmas break?”

“Well… I’ve got the Dart apart—”

“Good. I’m not looking for someone with free time. I’m looking for someone who’ll make time. Need a hand in the shop, maybe at the track if you can hang. Pay’s decent. You’ll earn it.”

Johnny felt excitement and nerves churn together. “What kind of work?”

“You’ll find out. Bring coveralls you don’t like and boots that can take a beating. Nine sharp tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said before thinking.

“Good. One more thing—keep your ears open and your mouth shut. Folks want to know what goes on here. They don’t get to.”

The line went dead.

Johnny lowered the receiver slowly. Whatever Milton Leadford had planned, it was going to be a different kind of education than finals week could offer. He glanced toward the garage, where the Dart sat on jack stands. Between Sears, the car, and now Leadford, Christmas break had just gotten a lot busier.

The next morning’s December air was sharp and cold, the kind that made you grateful for a heavy coat and a hot thermos. Johnny’s old Power Wagon rattled down the two-lane toward Leadford’s shop, the rising sun turning frost on the fields into glitter.

From the road, Leadford’s place was just two steel buildings, a gravel lot, and a hand-painted sign: LEADFORD RACE CARS. But behind a half-open door sat the hulking silhouette of the Daytona, nose cone pointed toward daylight like it was ready to launch.

The smell hit first—burnt rubber, gear oil, the faint sweetness of race gas. Inside, an air compressor coughed to life, a parts washer sloshed, and a pneumatic gun rattled in bursts. Blocks and heads lined the walls; crankshafts hung from hooks like beef in a butcher shop.

Milton Leadford stood by a workbench, arms crossed under a worn black ball cap. Beside him was a stocky man in clean overalls with forearms like steel cable.

“Johnny,” Leadford said over the noise. “This is Red. Twenty years with me. He’ll keep you from killing yourself, maybe teach you something if you listen.”

Red gave Johnny a once-over. “Hope you ain’t afraid to get dirty.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I was,” Johnny shot back.

Leadford allowed the barest grin. “Good. We’re pulling the Daytona’s motor today. You’re on tear-down with Red. Bag and tag everything. Don’t ask why we’re pulling a motor that just ran six and a half seconds—you’ll figure it out.”

As they worked, Johnny saw this wasn’t just spinning wrenches. Leadford’s crew moved with pit-stop precision, and every so often Milton would step outside, voice low on the phone, eyes scanning like he didn’t want to be overheard. It made Johnny wonder—what else went on here besides racing?

During the break, Jennifer noticed the change right away.

It wasn’t that Johnny stopped calling or showing up—just that when he did, his head seemed somewhere else. Even over coffee at her apartment, he’d stare past her, replaying the feel of the Daytona’s valve covers in his hands or the way Leadford’s crew moved like clockwork.

The night after his first day, he brought takeout, smelling faintly of ATF and gasoline. Jennifer teased him about it, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

“You’re running pretty hard these days,” she said. “School, the Dart, Sears, now this Leadford thing… I just don’t want you to burn out.”

“I’m fine,” Johnny said, maybe too quickly. “This is a chance to learn from one of the best. You don’t say no to that.”

“I know,” she said, setting down her fork. “I just don’t want to be another thing you’re too busy for.”

The words landed harder than he expected. Jennifer had been there all season—through late nights, missed parties, half-eaten dinners because he was chasing some problem with the Dart. He reached across the table and took her hand.

“You’re not another thing,” he said. “You’re the thing. But this—Leadford—it’s just a couple weeks. It could be a step up.”

She squeezed his hand, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Johnny filed it away with all the other things he didn’t have time to fix.