’Murica, hell yeah. Or so I used to think, growing up in the ’80s and ’90s as a Gen X run-out model. Like so many impressionable kids, I absorbed hours of American TV shows and films, and thus was exposed to endless footage showing pillowy soft damped big sedans trying to under or oversteer their whitewall tyres off the rims during car chases. The A-Team nailed the hidden ramp behind hedge barrel roll (as well as the custom van), Knight Rider bossed the sped-up footage (Turbo boooooost) and wet-look blacked Trans Ams. I think you can decide for yourself what The Dukes of Hazzard brought to the party.
I’m now classed as a middle-aged bloke, yet I still own two American cars I’ve had for many years. I’ll come to those shortly. The point is I think there are a lot of car enthusiasts in Britain who turn their nose up at ‘yank tanks’ (I actually hate that term – it’s like calling holidays holibobs. What kind of a flute does that?) because, I suspect, they think they are cheesy, dynamically appalling or badly made. And possibly all of the above.
When I suggested to the Ti demigods I should write about my lifelong aspiration to own an American classic, I tried to remember the key inspirations beside the obvious ones like Smokey and the Bandit, Ghostbusters, Beverly Hills Cop and The Blues Brothers. But before I do, let’s just discuss a few matters I think worth mentioning.
