It was a blast from the past at the Benicia Vintage Car Show Sunday as 300 car lovers showed off their rides on the First St. Green.
I encountered two fellows who were enjoying the day, lounging in camp chairs and drinking Modelos behind a shimmering red 1963 Chevy Impala convertible. Owner Joel Hayward, Benicia, has owned it for 15 years, restoring most of it himself.
“It’s a whole classic thing that is dying out, and we’ve got to keep it alive. Hopefully, younger folks will keep it going,” he said. I noticed that the car was resting on the ground with no wheels in sight. “Is this a lowrider? Does it dance?” I asked. “It’s not extravagant and just goes up and down and doesn’t have the full fancy paint job of some of them,” he said. “But it’s definitely a lowrider.
Two young men were listening. “As a younger man, what kind of cars are you into?” I asked one of them. “He ain’t a younger man, he’s 41,” said Joel erupting in laughter. “Most of the young like modern hot rods like late 1990s cars.”
“What are your favorite lowrider makes, Robert, Joel’s friend from Fremont asked me. “I’m no aficianado but I love the ’57 Chevy. You know the one without the bar between the side windows and East LA culture — La Bamba, Rosie and the Originals, and Cheech and Chong,” I said. They laughed. The younger guys looked blank. ”You do go way back,” Joel said. It was then I realized that we represented four generations of vintage car lovers and none of us were on our phones.
The next row up I spied a black and red sports car that reminded me of Autopia at Disneyland. “Is this the kind of car James Bond drove?” I asked Bill Putnam of Walnut Creek who was here for the first time. “He would if he could have afforded it. That was an Aston Martin; this is an Austin Healey. This 1956 model won several speed titles at Le Mans” he said. Aston, Austin; I was showing my ignorance.
“What makes it so fast?” “It’s extremely light weight — almost all aluminum versus the usual steel. A rare model, it has no door handles, roll-up windows, or radio and can get up to 120 mph.
“Have you done that?” “No way! You’re sitting on the floor. I do take it on the freeway, though.” “What’s your next car? “They’re gonna bury me in this one if they can dig a big enough hole.”
What was that charming toy-like car, parked on the embarcadero. The color of turquoise sea glass, it had a straw picnic hamper strapped to the trunk. It looked like it belonged on the French Riviera with Grace Kelly in a Hermes scarf and dark glasses at the wheel and Cary Grant without a hair out of place. Owned by Brandon Brewster of Benicia, the 1991 Nissan Figaro limited edition retro-styled convertible debuted at the 1989 Tokyo Motor Show. To buy one you entered a lottery. The license plate read “Fig Bum.” I wanted it.
You couldn’t miss Steve Padoni’s 1946 Chrysler Traveler. The substantial two-tone brown and cream four-door sedan was in near pristine condition, never having been restored. It supported a Chris-Craft luggage rack on top and a vintage surfboard. His father bought it in 1948. I peeked inside and was transported to Steve’s childhood. There was an antique bakelite purse in the backseat, one of his mother’s, and a baby car seat in the front with an ivory plastic steering wheel, a rattle dangling from it, and two sashes that tied for a seat belt.
“It’s where I used to sit,” he said. “Why is that brandy flask on the baby’s car seat?” I asked. “It’s what my parents used to give me to shut me up.”
“I bet you haven’t seen one of these?” He opened a drawer on the dashboard with an ashtray and a gizmo that rolled cigarets and even lit them. “Original?” I asked. “Yes, all original.” Steve’s baby shoes were hanging from the rear-view mirror. There was an antique GPS near the steering wheel, a compass which looked like a small twirling globe.
“What did your dad pay for it?”
“At the time, the going rate for cars was around $1300. Homes were around $4000. He paid $2100.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what did he do for a living?” There was a pregnant pause and then, “He was Mafia.” It was my turn to pause. “That’s why I became a cop — FBI,” he smiled.
I spotted Benicia City Councilman Terry Scott checking out cars on the fishing pier. “What’s your favorite?” I asked.
“There’s a red Ford two-plus two Mustang fastback over there. He made a roaring sound like a lion — “RAWR!! I love the power,” he growled. “It makes the testosterone flow,” all but pounding his chest. “Indeed, it fits with your macho image,” I said. “I played bocce this morning and worked up quite a sweat,” he said, flexing. “But we lost, so I sweated for nothing.
“I’ve been in two or three of the shows here with my Shelby (high performance Mustang muscle car) designed for me in Las Vegas. “How was that?” I asked.
“The problem with being in the show is that you just sit there anxiously watching people and hoping nobody touches your car. I’ve got a small electric car at home and have looked in the front and the back, and I can’t find the engine,” he sighed. “See that four barrel carburetor over there?” he said pointing under an open hood. That, I could figure out and could work on, but not an EV.” In addition to gas, it saves on testosterone.
My favorite part is always at the end — the mass migration of cars up First St at 3 pm. Missed it because I was attending the Sun. evening Insight Meditation group at St. Paul’s. We could hear the drivers gunning their engines at every opportunity as we tried to follow our breath. Our teacher gave us instructions on how to work with the noise. “Don’t try to block the sound or let go of it; let go into the sound.” Film at eleven.
As I drove home, one last car headed up First. A red Corvette blinked at me to go ahead and make a left turn. Little doors opened and closed exposing each headlight on the Vet. I imagined a big cat winking at me. I waved and gunned my 2011 Corolla engine, laying rubber as I entered E. B St.
Letters From Benicia 