The heat above the track didn’t just rise—it shimmered. It was a midsummer night, long past midnight, and only the headlights of two powerful cars cut through the darkness as their V-8 engines rumbled. Beyond them stretched pitch-black emptiness and a sky crowded with stars.
Hector sat strapped into the stripped-down cockpit of the Lincoln, his chest pinned by the four-point harness. The air smelled of raw gasoline, hot oil, and the copper edge of adrenaline. He glanced at the rearview mirror, where his Tia’s wooden rosary swung in tight, frantic arcs against the metal bracket—a sharp contrast to the stillness of the staging lanes. She would be proud of what I turned her papa’s car into.
Outside, the track announcer’s voice crackled through a blown speaker, but Hector barely heard it. His eyes stayed fixed on his flag holding cousin down the strip.
To his left, a rich kid from the north side blipped the throttle of a brand-new 1980 Chevy Camaro Z28. The Camaro purred with expensive, sterile precision—the kind of car bought with a father’s signature at the dealership.
Hector looked at his dashboard—or what remained of it. The plush leather and faux-wood trim of the ’51 Cosmopolitan had been hacked away years ago with a Sawzall. In its place were raw sheet metal, a fuel-pump toggle switch, and a huge Autometer tachometer hose-clamped to the steering column. He had built this beast in the dirt lot behind his uncle’s salvage yard with scrap iron, swapped parts, and bleeding knuckles.
He tapped the gas pedal. Through the crude hole cut in the hood, the massive 460 V8 cleared its throat. White fender-well headers dumped exhaust directly onto the asphalt beneath his boots. The sound wasn’t a purr but a hard, metal-shaking chop that thudded in his chest. The entire 4,000-pound tank rocked on its leaf springs with every pulse.
The track marshal waved them forward.
Hector rolled the Lincoln into the water box, set the line-lock, dumped the clutch, and hammered the throttle. The massive Mickey Thompson slicks spun at once, exploding into a blinding cloud of white smoke that swallowed the car. Burning rubber flooded the cabin, intoxicating and violent. He released the button, and the Lincoln bit into the track and lunged into the staging box, spray-painted white by his cousin Roberto.
He crept forward. His cousin stood between the lanes, straddling the stripe with a yellow flag raised. A folded green flag hung in his left hand, and both drivers stared at it.
The Camaro crept up.
Hector exhaled, his hand resting on the white Hurst shifter ball. He nudged the Lincoln forward an inch. Roberto flicked the yellow flag. Hector staged. Sweat ran freely from beneath his helmet, tracing his jaw, and pooling on his gray V-shirt.
Beside him, the Camaro staged. His father a rich farmer owned an Avocado grove. He was Mi Padre’s favorite.
The world narrowed to two yellow flags Roberto held tightly in his right hand and one green in his left. Hector held the engine at a screaming 4,500 RPM. The Lincoln strained against the brakes, its straight axle high, nose tipped skyward like a weapon.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Green flag waved frantically side by side. Hector dumped the clutch, and the car lunged forward. He grabbed second, then third, eyes flicking from the tach past 2,000 RPM to the girl at the finish line waving the checkered flag—the girl he wanted, rushing closer in a blur of heat and speed.
The Camaro stayed with him, edging closer as if it was about to pass. Hector pressed the clutch one last time to shift into fourth when a horrible sound tore out from under the hood.
Black and gray smoke burst up, and Hector knew instantly he had lost—the race and the girl he wanted. The Camaro shot past as his Hot Rod Lincoln limped to the shoulder of the abandoned highway south of Tijuana.
Aftermath
The tow truck brought the rod into the wrecking yard where his uncle unlocked the gate and Roberto drove the truck passed the opened gate and into the yard where skeletons of every make and model resided in this vehicle graveyard.
Hector pulled himself from the truck’s passenger seat, slamming the door with rage and passion his uncle knew from his brother’s Hector’s deceased father.
“I take it the race did not go planned,” Alberto expressed soberly.
“I lost Uncle! That’s all I want to say right now.” He flung his helmet out to the yard, striking the hood of a Cadillac Seville. Dawn was breaking in the east the shepherds who guarded the salvage yard barked menacingly at Hector.
“Shut the hell up!” He yelled at them.
“Hector, at ease, and that’s an order!” Alberto commanded in his USMC Gunnery sergeant voice.
Hector looked at the car, still hooked up and steaming. The smell of burnt oil was heavy in the air. He began the process of lowering it to the ground and unhooking the chains from the Lincoln. Once he finished he, Roberto and Uncle Alberto pushed the car back inside the shop.
Overhead fluorescent tubes lit up the moderate sized garage where other old relics are in various forms of repair or cannibalism, from a Plymouth Belvedere, Ford Galaxy and Buick Electra. They used their combined strength to slow the Lincoln to a stop.
Hector raised the hood. The stench, a mechanical odor that reminded them of death. Hector began tearing into the engine grabbing his wrenches and sockets to begin the process of tearing the engine down to that point where the autopsy would reveal its cause of death on that quarter mile stretch of deserted highway.
“You can get into that after you’ve rested. You’ve been up all night, Hector,” Alberto told him.
“I’m not tired uncle,” Hector replied.
“I’m not asking Hector. You will go to your room and go to bed. In six hours, you can come back here and take the engine apart and discover what happened. Then you will replace, repair, adapt and overcome. Go to bed now. That’s an order.”
Hector wanted to throw the wrenches throughout the shop. His temper felt so intense that he needed to let off steam. But the only way he knew how was broke down and in need of repair, his Hotrod Lincoln.
Hector placed the wrench on the flat black fender and walked to the stairs and went up the steps one step at a time. His thoughts a whirl on conflict, wondering what if I’d done this or that.
He went into his room and laid on the mattress. He was fully clothed and he stared up at the ceiling. In due time his eyes grew heavy, and he fell asleep from exhaustion. The adrenaline of seven hours ago finally drained and sleep overtook him.
Cause
Hector awoke hungry at around 4:30 later that afternoon. An aroma of chorizo chopped onions and peppers wafted up to his room. He pulled himself out of bed, undressed and went to the bathroom where he took a shower to get his motor running. He continued thinking what went wrong, where he messed up at and what he needed to fix it.
“It’s not like I don’t have another engine that I can just throw in that car. The wrecking yard is full of engines. But that was so perfect and sounded so badass.” He finished rinsing and shut off the taps, stepping out from the tub and drying himself as he made his way back in his room.
After he dressed he went downstairs to the main part of the casa, a simply built structure that at one time was a barn that his uncle bought but converted into an adobe house. Tiled floors, cool to the touch of his bare feet greeted him. Tio Alberto spared no expense on the renovation adding modern appliances to the kitchen.
His focus at that moment wasn’t on how the rest of the house looked or how it aesthetics pleased his eyes, but on the skillet in front of his big-bone Tia, Rosa. She smiled warmly at her nephew. “Hector, it’s good to see you awake and refreshed. Alberto told me about the race last night. I’m very sorry for your misfortune. Will you be able to repair the problem?” she asked him in Spanish.
“Yes, Tia, I intend to go in and check the entire engine and hopefully I can fix it. But I can always find another motor though I love this one.”
“Of course you do. It’s your baby!” She scooped up the concoction with a side of rice and black beans onto a plate and handed it to him. “Eat well, Hector. There is more if you want.”
“Gracias, Tia Rosa,” Hector replied and went to a simple pine plank table, crossed himself, said a silent prayer of thanks to Our Lord and Savior, and began eating his breakfast lunch and supper. Heated tostados sat on another plate that he grabbed and rolled up, adding hot peppers and onion salsa with the beans and rice. Rosa set a cup of coffee next to his plate just as Alberto and his cousin Roberto walked in from a side door where the wrecked and broken-down cars sat.
“Are you ready to tackle that project now Hector?” Alberto asked.
“Yes, and I am sorry I was so upset this morning,” Hector replied to the large man as he sat at the table and waited on his wife to serve him his supper. Roberto sat next to Hector. Both he and Alberto crossed themselves and silently prayed Thanks then they proceeded to eat the meals in front of them. Rosa finally sat down and did the same.
After supper, the three men went into the shop and began removing the engine parts, one by one, inspecting each piece, determining if this or that was the culprit. Finally, after removing the head on the driver’s side, Hector discovered the cause, a bent push rod that once it fell to the shop’s cement floor broke in half.
“Roberto, go find another push rod that is this exact measurement,” Alberto told his son.
“Si, Papa.” Roberto went outside to where other engine parts laid about on a long table, taking with him another pushrod that was still good. He smiled good-naturedly at his cousin before disappearing outside.
Alberto looked at the head closely. “That isn’t the problem, Hector but a symptom of a larger problem. See here, this valve is still open as if the oil didn’t reach the spring to close properly in time. You ran at such a high RPM, it could have caused this to happen,” he explained to his nephew.
“Check this too: Rocker arms and rocker shaft — Look for worn pivots, broken springs, loose mounting hardware, or damaged rocker tips. Valve springs — Check for broken coils, weak tension, or collapsed springs. A weak or broken spring can allow valve float, which can bend a pushrod. Valve stems and guides — Ensure the valve moves freely and isn’t sticking; a stuck valve is a classic cause of pushrod bending.
“Other pushrods — If one bent, others may be worn, cracked, or beginning to deform.”
“This is going to take some time, Tio.”
“You don’t race again until it’s fixed, Hector. Be patient and treat this like a grandfather clock. It must be treated with the utmost respect and love.” He gave Hector a shoulder hug showing a big toothy grin beneath a heavy black mustache. Hector bore the same smile and returned the hug. “Check the timing chain and camshaft too, Hector.”
“I saw an F-250 came in the other day, Tio.”
“It’s has a 429, I know. If we have to we can swap out many of the components including the head.”
“But will it be race ready?” Hector asked more to himself than his uncle.
“That is up to you, Hector. Start tearing the engine down further and if it is part of a larger problem, which it undoubtedly is, then we can always swap out the engines and begin gearing it and timing it make it worthy for racing.”
“Yes, Tio, I will continue the process.”
“Sorry Cousin, no luck finding a match for this particular pushrod,” Roberto expressed with disappointment in his voice.
“That’s quite alright, Roberto. Hector is going to inspect the motor further. Go out to that truck we brought in the other day, the F-250 and start tearing it down.”
“Si, Papa,” Roberto said as he grabbed his personal toolbox and left them.
Throughout the majority of the night, the tedious process continued until Hector discovered the actual cause, which was: Valve float at high RPM — Valve stayed open too long, which caused the piston hit it, and the force buckled the pushrod, hydraulic lock (fuel in the cylinder) — Piston compressed fluid, pressure forced the valve open violently, bending the pushrod, and improper valve adjustment — Too-tight lash or aggressive cam profiles overloaded the pushrod.
Hector found similar issues with the seating and the valve springs set too tight. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“There are reasons, Hector why you read the manual and make the proper adjustments within its limits, or this can happen.”
Hector listened to his uncle but didn’t reply. A steely eyed determination set his face into a stone-cold sober expression. He left the shop and walked outside to get a breath of air. It wasn’t fresh by any stretch, but it was a way of him to cool his temper and not lash out at Uncle Alberto. “It’s not his fault I messed up, but mine. All Mine!”
New Attitude
All three men worked their normal jobs scavenging parts to sell to other motorheads in the southeastern portion of Tijuana area. The surrounding barrios gave them a lucrative business from outlaw street racers and dragsters to low riders to vaqueros with their beaten-up Ford or Chevy or Dodge pickups, sometimes with bales of hay on the bed.
At night after they ate their simple supper they went into the shop and set about rebuilding that engine. Hector learned his lesson by not overdoing the tolerances set forth by the Chilton catalog specs. He used the torque wrench and calibrated it to the absolute micrometer of tolerance.
Two weeks they methodically rebuilt that motor until it appeared ready. They set it on a stand, using a battery from another vehicle, an ignition button and a prayer, they did the first test start. It made a horrendous unmuffled explosive burst of power. The shop doors were opened to allow the exhaust to escape outside. The 429 was ready to be mated to the Lincoln’s four speed transmission.
The dogs outside started barking in a menacing tone warning them there was someone at the gate. Roberto grabbed his .32 revolver and investigated. Hector and Alberto moved the engine stand with the new engine to the Lincoln. Both heard the exchange of Roberto talking to whomever the stranger was.
“You are on private property esse,” Roberto told the person in Spanish.
“You don’t know who I am, amigo?”
“No, you tell and I won’t shoot you in the head and feed you to my dogs.”
“Where’s Hector? He’s the one I need to talk to,” the woman’s voice replied. As soon as Hector heard his name, he perked up and walked carefully to the shop’s entrance and looked outside at the gate where he spotted Sanchez’s girl Maria, the flag girl from nearly two weeks ago.
“I’m Hector. What do you want? This ain’t your territory! You should go back to the northside where you belong, among your rich farmer friends.”
“Carlos wants to challenge you again. He felt sorry for you for losing the way you did,” Maria told him haughtily. “He will be more generous this time.” Laughter was heard in the shadows obviously Carlos Sanchez was waiting in the car while she talked bravely to him and Roberto.
“Why don’t he come out of his dad’s fancy car and challenge me himself? Or is he too much a coward to face me like a man?”
Roberto glanced at Hector with a sense of nervous anticipation in his eyes. “Cousin?”
“Okay, asshole, here I am,” Carlos announced in a loud and obnoxious tone that matched his husky body type. Hector saw his face was concealed by the streetlight shadow off his white cowboy hat, obviously handmade and tailored for his large head. His jeans and button-down checkered shirt screamed Northern Tijuana where all the rich Mexicans lived in their orchards, groves and vineyards. “You got balls to take my challenge?”
“Yeah, I accept your challenge. Let’s raise the stakes a little higher this time.” He walked out to the closed gate where Carlos, a much bigger man than Hector stood looking down at him with a sneer on his mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, let me take your woman for a night. By the time I’m through with her, she’ll forget all about you!” Hector and Roberto laughed.
“You mother—”
A click of the pistol’s hammer coming back cocked, stopped Carlos in his tracks. He smiled ruthlessly at Hector. “Sure, why not. She won’t mess with your kind anyway.”
“Probably not your kind either,” Hector opined glancing at the indignant Maria. “Isn’t that right Maria?”
She gave both a pouty face expression and stormed to the Camaro, slamming the door behind her.
“God dammit! I told you no slamming the door!” Carlos yelled after her. “Same place Saturday night after midnight, Gonzales!” He backed himself up to his car, got inside and backed up, turning right and then peeled the rear tires on the asphalt road, heading back north.
“Looks like you got your work cut out for you, Hector.” Alberto stated as he came up beside him.
“Yeah, but I know I can beat him.”
A Visitor
Saturday morning, the dogs barked warning the Gonzales men someone was at the gate. They all finally finished with the final tuning of the Lincoln and had gone to bed well after midnight. It was a little passed seven, according to Hector’s old fashion alarm clock with a pair of bells on its top.
“Who could that be?” Alberto asked his wife his voice carrying throughout the casa. Hector quickly threw on his pants and grabbed his personal .38 revolver on the nightstand next to the clock and followed Alberto and Roberto downstairs. Rosa looked with concern at all three men as they passed her and went through the shop.
“Ola,” a familiar voice resounded while the three men greeted the morning with sun blinding them as they ventured cautiously toward the gate where a soldier of the Mexican Army stood at parade-rest waiting to be let in. He had the rank of Lieutenant on his collars, and aviator wings over his nametag over his right breast pocket.
“Geraldo, you stupid son of a bitch,” exclaimed Alberto who stopped, placed himself in the position of attention and saluted him. Geraldo returned the salute, grinning like a fool. He waited while Roberto gathered the two dogs, hell bent to have him for breakfast and Alberto opened the gate to let Hector’s brother inside. They both hugged the helicopter pilot then they went through the shop.
Geraldo admired the Lincoln parked inside before continuing into the main house where Rosa greeted him with a tearful hug. “How is everyone?” Geraldo asked with enthusiasm in his rich baritone voice.
Soon Roberto joined them and they all sat at the dining table, Alberto began, “What brings you to our humble casa?”
“I’m on leave before my final mission and hitch is up. I even have a job when I get out. I’m going to be a Federales Policia and flying helicopter for them,” he boasted to the cheers of the family.
“I’m so proud of you nephew,” Alberto stated with an emotional tug to his voice. Though Hector also felt pride for his older brother, he also felt a twinge of jealousy.
“I congratulate you brother,” Hector told him as he slapped his large shoulder.
Geraldo turned around and smiled at Hector. “You need to make something of yourself too, Hector.”
“I intend to,” he replied defensively.
“What? Build dragsters and hotrods? That is not planning for the future, brother.”
“I tell you what, I bet I will be as successful if not more so than you,” he half seriously jibed.
“Oh, really,” Geraldo laughed. “I doubt that very much.”
“Sounds like a family wager to me,” Alberto told the two. “How much?”
Hector looked right at Geraldo and replied, “I will wager five hundred pesos.”
“Let’s make it more interesting brother, sixteen hundred peso,” Geraldo upped the ante.
Hector showed no fear as he drew his hand out to shake with his brother. He quickly clasped his big hand over Hector’s, and they shook on the deal.
The family laughed at the exchange. “By the way, I too have news to share,” Hector told his family after releasing his grip from his brother’s. “I was going to surprise everyone at the end of the month but, I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps, just like Tio Alberto.”
The place seemed deathly quiet, as if he mentioned something forbidden. Everyone stared at him as if he was kidding, but Hector’s straight-lined mouth and sober expression revealed that he was serious.
“When did you do this?” Alberto demanded.
“Last month, I decided I needed to plan on my future as well. Geraldo’s right, I need to show myself to the world and building hotrods and street racers is not going to do that. Unless of course I emigrate to America and be lucky enough to get hired by a drag race team, and what are the odds of that happening to someone like me?”
Everyone looked to Alberto for his blessing. He slowly sat down, ruminating on this news. He finally looked at Hector and smiled, “God bless you and our family. You both have made me very proud. I just wish your parents could see this joyful moment.” They all crossed themselves reverently.
After breakfast, Hector and Geraldo took the Lincoln out for a brief spin in the hills overlooking the Tijuana skyline and its panorama views of Northwestern Mexico and in the distance a hazy view of San Diego. They put the Lincoln through its paces, though it was nothing compared to later tonight. Hector tried not to think about that while they both leaned against the hood and saw the boundary of the north and south by the quality of the homes each side lived on.
“You made Uncle Alberto proud, Hector. I think he wanted Roberto to follow in his shoes, but you beat him to it.”
“Roberto tried talking me out of it,” Hector replied. “I think maybe he did want to enlist. I don’t know, I think up here,” Hector pointed at his head, “Roberto may not have what it takes to be a good Marine. I don’t know if I have that either, but I have to do something other than sell automobile parts to make a living. Roberto is a natural at what he’s doing now. I can’t do that.”
“What about after? Are you going to go into something else related to the military?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead, Geraldo.”
“Law enforcement is always a good option. It’s what I’m doing, abet as a helo pilot.”
“Just be careful, brother. I want to collect on that bet,” Hector punched him in the shoulder. Geraldo punched back nearly knocking him to the ground.
“I intend to, brother because I too intend to collect on that wager, so you best be careful as well.”
The Race
High winds kicked up lose sand granules flinging them into the faces of the lines of bystanders along each embankment of the same abandoned highway as two weeks ago.
Hector drove his Lincoln to the sprayed painted white starting line. The Camaro was already in position. He wore his helmet with goggles to help keep the blowing sand out of his eyes. He looked across at the newer car and noticed Maria sitting in the front passenger seat next to her beau Carlos.
“Who’s going to be the flagger?” Hector yelled across at Carlos amid the ground shaking rumble of the two powerful motors.
“Roberto will flag!” Carlos yelled back at him.
Geraldo came up to Hector’s driver side. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, that bitch over there in Carlos’ car isn’t flagging tonight,” Hector replied dismayed.
“It’s all good. I will wave the checkered flag. Is Roberto going to wave the yellow and green flag?”
“Yes, that was the idea until this came up,” Hector told him with building frustration in his eighteen-year-old voice.
“Chill man,” Geraldo tried soothing his brother’s emotion. “I’ll grab the flag and run down there. Is there a finish line?”
“Yes, it too is spray painted white. You can’t miss it.”
“Senors and Señoritas, tonight we have the rematch of the century!” The MC announced through his bullhorn. “Inside the brand new 1980 Camaro, CARLOS SANCHEZ!” Carlos revved the small block V-8, though muffled still sounded impressive amid cheers from the northside crowd.
“And in the 1951 Lincoln Cosmopolitan, give it up for HECTOR GONZALEZ AND HOTROD LINCOLN!!!” It was his turn to rev the new 429 V-8 big block that sounded like the demons from hell unleashing their fury on mortal man. The ground vibrated with a sinister sound not heard in years. The southside barrio crowds roared as loud if not louder than the Lincoln’s rumble.
Both cars heated their tires, peeling out and stopping before backing up. Hector felt the adrenaline firing off inside his body as much as each spark plug fired off on his rod. He did his best not to show the anticipation, trying to just focus on Geraldo, who he barely made out in the darkness. Two men on each side of the highway shined their flashlights along the same finish line. Roberto got his cue from a man in black coat and bow tie. He wore a top hat. Roberto raised the yellow flag to signal stage one. Both cars moved slowly to the starting line.
Roberto then waved the yellow a second time, and both cars revved their engines loud, LOUDER, LOUDER.”
Roberto then waved the green flag, and both were off at the same time. A rush of climax hit Hector as though someone hit him between the eyes as he shifted rapidly while the tachometer needle hit 2,000 at each upshift, finally reaching fourth gear and screaming to the finish line.
He barely noticed the Camaro as it just passed him at the finish line and saw his taillights. “Damn, I lost,” Hector exclaimed in disappointment when the unimaginable occurred. Hector couldn’t believe his eyes as the car in front of him abruptly went sideways then end over end and exploded in an orange ball of flame. Hector quickly skidded to a stop and shut off the car. He pulled himself from the opened window and ran as fast as he could to the burning wreckage.
Geraldo passed him by and got there first. He pulled Maria out from there and laid her along the embankment. Hector got there just in time to see Carlos inside trying to escape the flames that quickly engulfed him.
Hector tried pulling him out, but his harness prevented that and the nightmare continued as he heard Carlos’ screams of pain and agony until deathly quiet flooded the night with its zephyr-like winds. The flames continued unabated until a firetruck arrived and the firefighters put out the flames.
They left Carlos’ body inside and local alguacil dispersed the crowd, all of whom were shocked beyond measure at the horror they witnessed.
Dawn broke and Hector sat inside his car. An ambulance took Maria to the hospital. He had no idea how serious her injuries were, though she was conscious and asking, pleading for Carlos. Roberto and Geraldo stood next to Hector, leaning on the flat black painted car with her name stenciled along its side.
“Let’s take her home,” Hector told the two.
End
Jerry Schellhammer 