How to Build Affordable Hot Rods

CHAPTER 1

BACKGROUND

I discovered hot rods while on my paper route in England in the early 1960s. Somebody on my route had Hot Rod magazine. While I wasn’t smart enough to ever find out who it was or why they subscribed, I was smart enough to sit on the curb under gray skies, surrounded by gray and brown cars, and read about red and yellow cars under blue California skies.

It was while on my paper route that I learned that the unlikely named duo of Dean Moon and Dante Deuce were bringing the Mooneyes dragster to England. Dad, can we go? Can we? As it turned out, the 1963 Brighton Speed Trials was an epiphany moment when my life was laid out in front of me like red carpet. I just didn’t know it at the time. When that Mooneyes dragster with its bright yellow paint, front-mounted blower, and those eyes came to the line at Brighton, I was in heaven. The sight, the sound, and the smoke sucked me in like a drug—a habit that I have to this day, and I’m okay with it.

Eventually, I worked my way into a magazine job, and by 1985, I was the editor of the UK’s Custom Car magazine. That same year, ZZ Top was booked to play the Monsters of Rock concert at Donington Park, England. To promote the show, Warner Brothers shipped Billy F Gibbons’s Eliminator and hot rod builder Jim Jake Jacobs to England, where he built a steel platform so that the car could be flown by helicopter over the crowd. I remember spending many hours with Jake while he tried to calculate if the helicopter could even lift the car—let alone fly it—but fly it they did. There were no safety regulations back then.

In 1985, Jim Jake Jacobs was sent to England to help engineer the flying of Billy F Gibbons’s 1933 Eliminator Coupe over the crowd at the Donington Monsters of Rock concert. There were no safety codes back then.

The editor’s chair also gave me the opportunity to build my own hot rod, and the trigger was Roy the Deuce Factory Fjastad’s bright orange 1932 highboy. Like a kid in a candy store, its bright orange paint hooked me. I wanted a car just like that, and as is often the case, a couple planets collided to cause a bang.

Roy Fjastad of The Deuce Factory was the first to develop brand-new chassis rails for the 1932 Ford. His orange 1980s-style highboy roadster inspired me to build my own version. Roy’s daughter Kathy is behind the wheel. (Photo Courtesy Kathy Olson)

While I contemplated building my own roadster, I was offered this original-steel, chopped Tudor sedan. It wasn’t in this restored condition, but it was a running, driving hot rod. It was a big mistake not to buy it.

First, a company called American Street Rod Parts (ASRP) began producing a reasonably priced, faithful replica 1932 roadster body in England. Also, about that time my ex-boss, Ian Penberthy, sold me a pair of original 1932 Ford rails and a few Deuce parts. It was a good start.

What I now understand is that the impetus to finish came from having that photograph of Fjastad’s roadster. I knew where I was going, and Roy showed me the way. Since then, I have spoken to numerous hot rod builders, not the least of whom is Jake, who always has a picture of what he is going to build, usually from an old magazine. A picture is worth a thousand words.

At this time, I was also offered a genuine American 1932 Ford Tudor that was already rodded with a good chop, a great stance, nice paint, and a small-block Chevy mated to a 1939 transmission. It was about $9,000 at the time, and I stupidly turned it down thinking, I want to build my own car, not buy somebody else’s. Big mistake. I would have owned a real steel 1932 Tudor sedan that was instantly on the road and always worth money because it was Henry’s tin and not some piece of fiberglass. Here’s the moral of the story: go for the real deal when you can.

The real steel car also had a title, as did my pair of rails, and it’s very important these days to have a title because it makes registration so much simpler. Yes, cars built from the ground up can be registered, and we’ll get into that, but an original title is always best.

They say that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and I would say that I’m a man of little knowledge. Building what I called the Orange Whip was a trial of determination because while the UK has a great reputation in the roundy-round motorsports world (particularly F1), it was rank amateur when it came to building hot rods. Of course, my own inexperience didn’t help, but I have to say that by the end of the process I knew what I’d done right and what I’d done wrong. I should have bought the Tudor.

To begin, I’d bitten off a little more than I could chew in choosing to build such a detailed, modern-style rod. Had I chosen (as my friend Ian Gibson did) to build a more traditional rod, even taking into account the fiberglass body, then I could have been up and running faster, cheaper, and with many fewer headaches.

With original Deuce rails bobbed front and rear, the chassis for my Deuce roadster was well constructed by ASRP. Its Ford V-6 lacked two mandatory cylinders and should have been a Chevy V-8. It was, nevertheless, clean and tidy.

My friend Ian Gibson and I began building our Deuce roadsters around the same time and used ASRP fiberglass bodies. Ian kept it simple and finished a year ahead of me, and I think he built a better car. Eventually it went to Olle Larsson in Sweden.

The chassis was really no big deal. ASRP did the basic fabrication of welding in square-tube crossmembers. Because of the weather in England, I chose to use a lot of stainless steel that would have been good had I known about anti-seize. Up front, there was a buggy-sprung stainless axle located on Pete & Jake’s–style stainless four-bar links. The steering was a Chevy Vega, and even though I was in the UK, the car had left-hand drive. I figured that someday I’d get it to the US. Out back, I used a Mark II Jaguar live axle because they were cheap, plentiful, the correct width, and had a Chevy bolt pattern. However, the disc brakes meant that a parking brake, which is compulsory in the UK, necessitated a brake on the driveshaft that never did work worth a damn and certainly not enough to pass the test.

For power, I chose a readily available Ford Essex V-6. We were still smarting from the fuel crisis, so an economical V-6 seemed like a good idea. Besides, Fjastad’s roadster had been powered by a blown Buick V-6. If a V-6 was good enough for Roy, it was good enough for me.

The ASRP fiberglass body was excellent and complete with a molded-in floor and firewall. However, I did not anticipate all the fabrication necessary to impart strength and rigidity and all the horrible fiberglass work I would have to do to make it right. Instead of living with Henry Ford’s lumps and bumps and factory misalignment (as did Ian Gibson), I went down the long and tedious road to not only make sure that it all fit and had new-car door gaps but also customizing it to suit the prevailing fashion. Duh!

Thankfully, my good friend Keith Baker of Prestige Coachworks stepped up to help me with the extensive body and paint. The UK had a fender law, so I got fenders, but rather than be content with them, I punched fake louvers in the back and finished the beading around the edges. I recessed Pontiac taillights into the lower rear cowl similar to Fjastad’s instead of just using traditional 1939 Ford taillights. The work in making those Poncho lights fit and making brackets and bulb holders went on and on.

My Orange Whip was a typical car of the 1980s and a little confused, with its hot rod louvers and five-spoke Ferrari-style Compomotive wheels. Friend Phill Ritchie spent hours helping me make the 3-window top fit the roadster body. I’m not sure it was worth it.

I purchased a three-piece Rootlieb aluminum hood. It was nicely made, but making it fit like a Boyd Coddington hood took forever because I’d shaved the cowl bead and the bead on the radiator shell for that smooth look. My biggest mistake came with the windshield and top. Instead of using Henry’s tried-and-true bolt-on windshield (as Gibson did), I made a three-piece, spilt windshield with the help of Chris Glover at Brasscraft. To compound the fracture, I also made a fiberglass lift-off top because it rains a lot in the UK. After a great deal of help from Phill Ritchie, the top (when finished) took three people to lift. It seemed that I only ever put it on when it was sunny; if I left home without it, it rained. I ended up making a simple collapsible, fold-up top that could be easily stowed in the trunk.

All of this is to say that I over-thought it and spent far too much. It was a hot rod; by definition, it should have been simple. Instead, I made it way too complicated for an amateur. So, here’s my advice: keep it simple, especially if you are new to this.

Despite all my mistakes and unnecessary work, I had a lot of fun in that car. It wasn’t super reliable, but I drove it all over England and took it to France for the 24 Hours of Le Mans where the French wondered, Wot is it?

Topless on my way to Le Mans for the 24-hour race, the roadster was great fun. However, it was just too complicated to be reliable, and therefore it was not as much fun as it should have been.

Done with the UK’s weather, I moved to Los Angeles, where I rented a room from my friend Jake. It was a revelation, and I learned so much about building hot rods. I’d stand for hours and watch him grind and file, shape and form scrap metal into hot rod art. Meanwhile, I shipped the Whip to the US, where it became a frat bike with everybody using and abusing it. Unfortunately, it proved to be too unreliable on the freeway; ultimately, it left home without me and I never missed it.

Bandanaed and beanied against the sun, Pete Chapouris and SO-CAL founder Alex Xydias hammer the then-new SO-CAL roadster across Colorado en route to the first-ever Rod & Custom Americruise. As you would expect, the roadster was flawless.

A very early version of the Thacker and Shine (T&S) roadster is shown making a run at El Mirage. Buying a running, driving rod that you can put your own stamp on is, in my opinion, a good way to go. Shine drove, but I usually got to drive it home down old Route 66.

After a good career at SEMA, I received another call from my friend and mentor Pete Chapouris. Pete was struggling with his new business PC3g and needed some public relations and marketing help to resurrect Alex Xydias’s So-Cal Speed Shop. I was all over it. These were my kind of guys building my kind of hot rods, and I really felt that we could do something special because people seemed tired of the smooth look—read expensive—and desired something more traditional that Pete tagged New Traditionalist.

In November 1997, we launched the new, uppercase SO-CAL Speed Shop, to differentiate it from the old, lowercase So-Cal Speed Shop that had closed in 1963, and it worked. It was the right stuff at the right time. There’s no doubt that Pete and his team (comprised of his old partner Jim Jake Jacobs, Pete P-Wood Eastwood, and others) knew how to build traditional hot rods that you could jump in, drive clear across the country, and get out like you’d just gone to the grocery store.

Everything was simple and straightforward. Basic tech with no fancy parts machined on a lathe that you couldn’t buy in a NAPA store in Iowa. Everything was just where it needed to be. Jake developed the step-boxed frame that pushed the boxing plates inside the frame rails to give the strength of an un-ground weld as well as increased space for fuel and brake lines. It was a revolution. Pete, meanwhile, pushed the adjustable Glide seat under the rear cowl to provide extra leg room and increased comfort. Outside the company, Paul Carroll of Fake Brakes engineered a way to slide a disc brake assembly inside a fake Buick drum. It completed the package: a traditional-looking hot rod (warts ‘n’ all) with the drivability and convenience of a modern-ish car.

The early history of SO-CAL was steeped in land speed racing. Alex cannily saw that a win on Sunday could mean a sale on Monday. He therefore raced consistently at the lakes, Bonneville, and the drags to promote his speed shop. It worked then, so why not now? Somehow, I heard that a friend, Kiwi Steve Davies, was selling his lakes roadster: a fiberglass A-Body atop an original Deuce frame. Steve’s modus operandi was to drive the car from Los Angeles, race it at speeds around 165 mph at Muroc or El Mirage, and drive home. Meanwhile, he’d let family and friends enjoy the driving experience.

Driving the T&S roadster to Bonneville was all part of the fun, but the work needed to get it race ready, such as installing the blower, once we arrived got in the way of the goal. We eventually gave it up. It was fun though.

McLaren F1 designer Peter Stevens, an avid hot rodder, helped pre-shape cardboard at Colin Jones’s Dove Company and enabled us to maximize our time in the MIRA wind tunnel. Theoretically, we gained almost 50 hp. We hoped that would be enough to get a record.

The car had good bones, appeared to fit my needs, and the price was right. It was $16,000 if I remember correctly. I talked to Chapouris about it, and he was enthusiastic, so I approached my coworker Jimmy Shine to see if he would partner with me on the car—me as the wallet and him as the wrench and driver. Shine was down for it, so I forked over my hard-earned money.

At this point, I should say that buying a running, driving car like this is a very good option, especially if you’re an inexperienced builder and just want to get a rod on the road. The major work is done, and all you have to do is make it your own. And, because of our aging population, there are many bargains to be found.

Peter Stevens, Custom Car editor Kev Elliott, and I took turns wheeling the heavyweight Thacker and Shine roadster up the Duke of Richmond’s Goodwood driveway. It might not have been fast, but it was loud and fun.

It’s a far cry from my original $16,000 purchase and was no longer stree-table, but what fun we had with this car and what a learning experience. Soon after its record run, the car was sold to Steve Van Blarcom, who continued to push it to 225 mph.

Shine and I went to El Mirage in November for the final meet of 2001. We loved the car and took possession of it a few weeks later. To begin with, I drove the car on the street to and from work just to get the feel for it, see how I liked it, and see if there was anything we needed to do. As it happened, it didn’t need much and I loved it. It was an easy, simple, affordable hot rod.

Our first foray to Bonneville was in 2002, and I think we ran about 170 mph. It was obvious that the car had potential. In 2003, we became involved with David Freiburger, then editor of Hot Rod magazine. David hooked us up with Bill Mitchell at World Products, who supplied a carbureted 427-ci small-block. We drove the car to Bonneville, and I went 177.965 mph, which is not bad with a Turbo 350 transmission. Soon after, Shine bumped the terminal speed to 181.386 mph, and with it came the realization that maybe this could be a 200-mph car … you can always hope. The record in our B/Street Roadster class was only 203 mph.

After a few years of struggle, thanks to a blown small-block from World Products, we managed 201 mph. I remember calling my wife to tell her we ran over 200. Did you get a record? she asked. No, I replied. Then you ain’t done yet are you? she responded as she put the phone down.

She was right. We weren’t done. Fortuitously, my hot-rodding friend Peter Stevens, designer of the McLaren F1, was there and declared, That Pro Stock scoop is no good. You’d be better off turning it around—or better still, throwing it away. I suggested this to Shine, who was having none of it. He responded, It looks cool.

Yeah, but do you want to look cool or go fast? I asked.

Both, replied Shine.

Well, I want to go fast and get that record.

For that season, Shine installed a lot of SO-CAL products that weren’t originally on the car: the front axle, complete with SO-CAL New Traditionalist batwings, radius rods, shocks, headlights, etc. We even developed a bolt-in roll cage that was SCTA-legal. Using these products on our race car enabled SO-CAL to market this phrase: Traditional hot rod parts tested at 200 mph. There were not many other shops that could legitimately use that tagline.

My problem was that I had a family, and money was tight. I couldn’t really afford to buy horsepower, but what Peter Stevens showed me was that I could obtain performance for next to nothing if I just made the Model A more aerodynamic—within the rules, of course.

I still occasionally drove the car on the street, and it was great to pull into a gas station and have somebody ask, How fast? To which, I would reply with a straight face, 200 mph. Well, you know they thought you were a jerk because there was no way that POS would go 200. But, of course, I knew differently, and there was more to come.

At the time, there really wasn’t a wind tunnel in the US that was open to the public, so I finagled a way to get my car to the UK, where Peter helped me improve the aero using the Motor Industry Research Association (MIRA) tunnel. We spent a few days at Colin Jones’s Dove Company doing origami and folding bits of cardboard to prepare for the tunnel. Back then, tunnel time was about $15 a minute, which proves that there is no such thing as free speed.

I had enough sponsorship and