Does A Weekend + a Four Speed Transmission = A Real Hotrod(er)

As I mentioned in a previous post, my first car was a ‘66 Nova. I bought it in May 1973, shortly after graduating from high school. I found it in a want ad and couldn’t believe someone else hadn’t already bought it. How could such a rare opportunity befall me, I wondered. A fortuity such as this normally happens to others, not to me.

I paid $700 for the cleanest and prettiest ‘66 Nova in all of southern Illinois. Rust-free and light blue, it was a hotrodder’s dream car. Oh, how I wish I still had that car in its original condition. What would it be worth now, I wonder. Granted, not as much as, say, an all-original ‘69 Z/28, but I bet I could get more than what I paid for it.

It was the perfect car for a 17-year-old wanna-be hotrodder. Modifications came quickly. First, the single exhaust system went bye-bye in favor of a dual system with Big Daddy glass packs and no tail pipes. Next came the transmission swap.

I found a Muncie 4-speed trans with the factory shifter from a ‘65 Chevelle. I forked over a hundred bucks, loaded it in my trunk, and drove it home.

When my dad heard about my intentions, he asked, “Mike, who’s going to change that transmission for you?” I’d never been so insulted.

I told him, “I am.”

“Are you sure you can do that?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, certain I could do it, only to realize later, as an adult, just how much I didn’t know in the summer of ‘73.

You see, my dad has never had an interest in anything automotive. He’s all thumbs concerning tools. I suppose he thought that since I was only 17 years old, I couldn’t do something as complicated as change a transmission. Maybe he thought he would have to bail me out and hire a “real” mechanic to do it. Little did he know…

Dad grew up in what I consider the “Golden Years” of cars, especially of Chevrolet: the 1950s. How could a guy not be interested in the all-new 265 V-8? How could a guy not be interested in what we now call the Tri-5 Chevys? Or even the more expensive Corvettes, for that matter. Some guys like hotrods; some love them. And some couldn’t care less–that’s my dad…enough digression, however. Back to the Nova.

I jacked it up and set it on stands on Friday night and tore into it the next day. On my back. In the grass. No garage. Out came the drive shaft, then the crossmember, then the three speed trans. While I was under there I decided to replace the clutch. So next came the bell housing, pressure plate, and clutch disc. It’s silly now, but the key reason for changing the clutch in addition to the transmission was for more bragging rights that only a 17-year-old would think were impressive.

After installing the new clutch and bell housing, I bolted up the 4-speed, the crossmember, and the drive shaft. Next came cutting a hole in the floor, the only part that was much of a challenge. I removed the sill plates and tugged on the carpet until I was worn out. That carpet was tough.

I pulled it up just enough to drill four holes and jigsaw out the square of metal needed for access. Fortunately, the shifter fit perfectly on the first attempt, requiring no more drilling or cutting. Was I ever glad! The trans and clutch changes themselves weren’t as difficult as cutting that hole in the floor.

Next came the defining moment. I tapped out the roll pin and removed the column shifter. There was that hole in the steering column that all the other hotrods in town had. I had finally made it, in my own finite mind. My car was loud and had four-on-the-floor. I had arrived, and only 17. I thought I was something.

When I tried to start the engine, something was terribly amiss. It sounded like three or four plug wires had been crossed. What in the world, I thought, has happened. It turned out to be the typical problem of engines with rear-mounted distributors. The engine fell against the firewall when I removed the crossmember, unseating the distributor cap and cocking it sideways. I reinstalled it, turned the key, and the engine fired with no other problems.

I turned it off, dropped the car off the jackstands and removed the shifter linkage from the lower steering column. I closed the hood and went for a test drive. It went without a hitch; everything worked as it was supposed to. I stopped at a filling station and had the trans filled with gear lube.

My first experience at changing transmissions took a whole weekend, but was worth it. I proved to myself and to my parents that I could do it.

In my metamorphosis, I became a true hotrodder.

(See my post “Automotive High Performance: An Addiction or a Disease?” as a prequel to this post.)

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