(presented by The Drake and Beattie Outdoor Productions)
The year was ’74. It was classic. Disco fever strutted its sequined jumpsuits and platform shoes. CCR’s “Proud Mary” was rolling on the river. And it marked my transition from steel slabs in Ford Motor’s trenches to a shimmering masterpiece of the open road—right in time for Nixon to nix highway speeds to 55 mph.
He’d get his, but Watergate wouldn’t sink this boat. I entered the world in battleship form: 22.5 feet long, and weighing 4,500 pounds. And I was christened on week two, when I hosted an epic make-out session on the ample bosom of my plush backseat.
As a black two-door, with a big-block V8 libido, I ran with the best full-size cars in America. Cadillacs. Olds LSs. Buicks. Preferred choices for a generation intent on making waves.
But today things ain’t the same.
Last summer I ran into Shaggin’ Wagon. He was bummed about the state of politics, bad gas, and environmental oxidization. His once impressive paintline had receded badly, replaced with the rust of so many years of corrosive living.
He asked me, “How’s it hangin?” And I told him straight up, “It’s casual, man. But my sides are chafed and my miles are forever bogarted by these new chicken-legged Subarus and prissy-ass Prius’s.”
These big wheels need to keep on turning. So last week I blew out of the city and boogied toward the mountains. With a trunk full of illicit stories, I picked up some fresh Drake stickers, a couple handles of 10W-30, and some rod-toting fiends. And I’m about to light up to a fly town near you.
Catch you on the flip side.
[Ed. Note: Last spotted in the Roaring Fork Valley, follow Clyde’s cross-country mission in the Spring 2012 issue and at drakemag.com. If you happen to see Clyde in glide mode, he’s currently accepting AAA coupons, gas money, and jalapeño jerky donations. Next stop, SLC.]