Pick Up The Pace, Bumblebee

My stint in the yellow Camaro – that harbinger of doom whose race-built engine had survived the constant 240-km pace of Germany’s superhighways with aplomb where the red car’s street mill had failed – was to take place through California’s Death Valley. One of the lowest points on Earth, the stretch of desert that I was scheduled to guide the Chevrolet through regularly saw temperatures that would cook an egg right in your hand, with no need to crack open the shell. In fact, as we departed Stovepipe Wells, our last stop before the finish line in Vegas, the temperature reading in our support van showed 45.5 degrees Celsius. Did I mention that in addition to lacking power brakes, the yellow coupe also failed to offer anything that resembled air conditioning?

Again, at my side was the venerable, although by now exhausted Mr. Elstins, who counselled me to plan my stop as far ahead as I could and avoid over-revving the engine. I kept my eyes on the flat plain that lay before us, one that gradually rose out of the valley on its way towards Sin City; he kept his gaze fixed steadily on the temperature gauge, which began to creep up slowly but surely during an ill-advised creep at 35-mph intended to irritate the local constabulary. Plugs near fowling, the yellow car was given a rest when both myself and the replacement Camaro ahead of us, piloted by Mr. Volpe, was pulled over for “driving too slowly,” no doubt setting a dubious record amongst Gumball participants.

Although not as precise as the red Camaro (rest in peace), the yellow Z/28’s more authentic muscle car experience still put a smile on my face. Pitch and roll were evident when cornering through Death Valley’s passes, and emergency stops would have been out of the question with the hardware outfitted at each of the car’s four corners, but the Sprint-car V8 was more than happy to pull long and hard from down low, and I honestly enjoyed the tiller-esque feel of the Camaro’s big wooden steering wheel. This was no resto-rod – this was the real deal – and the honesty and authenticity of the Chevy’s demeanour kept a smile plastered on my face well past the Rally’s finish line.

Time Machines Over Dream Machines

I learned some important lessons driving these two 1969 Chevrolet Camaros in the Gumball 3000. First, never assume that someone understands the difference between metric system and the imperial system at a fuel stop. Second, when you park a classic muscle car beside a McLaren P1, no one is looking at the Brit. Every time our team rolled into a gas station or a checkpoint we were instant heroes, with the Camaros cutting through the multimillion dollar noise surrounding the Rally to an astonishing degree.

Third, and finally, you’re never too old to switch allegiances. Yeah, maybe I’ll always be a Mopar guy in my heart, but after spending so much time within a Camaro’s metal womb, I would be lying if I said I hadn’t carved out a tiny, Z/28-sized parking spot in my dream garage. Call it Stockholm Syndrome.

For more about Ben’s extraordinary adventure and the rolling circus that is the Gumball 3000 Rally, see our full event story over at autoTRADER.ca.

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