De Deuce, You Say!

Ahhhhh, the heavy, Dior-esque perfume of leaded gasoline. The rib-quaking rumble of a chrome-plated V-8. The leonine roar of that same engine. The affronted bellow of a lesser model, revving to crest the top of the slope as it awaits the traffic flag’s all-clear. People clapping, horns hooting. A pair of old guys parked on the tailgate of a vintage Dodge pickup, providing Muppet-like commentary as the parade flows past.

And the colours! Candy apple red, basic black, pearl white, sunshine yellow, Tang orange, deep purple, sky blue, mint green, burnished copper. The occasional two-tones: black and white, black and red, red and orange, orange and yellow, buff and wood-grain. The detailing: flickering flames, grinning skulls, swooshes and swirlies in complimentary shades of turquoise and magenta. BC plates and US plates on exotic roadsters and hulking sedans. White wall tires, sparkling spoke hubcaps, rag tops and hardtops, white-haired seniors and tattoed twenty-somethings behind steering wheels as big as manhole covers.

The deuce coupes come to town every couple of years. When they do, they bring out the automotive afficianados among the locals and jam up the neighbourhood for the better part of a Saturday morning. I was sitting in the Ocean Room last weekend, reading while the world passed by my window. Normally, I hear the nondescript drone of ordinary traffic punctuated by a diesel tour bus, but when I heard something with a carburetor, I looked up to see a fluorescent orange hotrod zipping along Dallas Road. It was followed in quick succession by a bright yellow deuce, a black gangster-mobile from the 1930s and a purple-and-azure 50’s Plymouth. The event is called for the deuce, but anyone with a classic car is welcome to the party—even if you’re driving Grandpa’s rusted Olds because you can’t afford anything newer. They converge on Clover Point after breakfast on Saturday and cruise from there along Dallas Road to wherever lunch is scheduled.

After twenty minutes of gumball colour streaming, I couldn’t stand it. “I’m going down to see the cars,” I called to Ter. “I’ll be back in a half-hour.”

Except I forgot to bring my phone to remind me of the time. I brought the Canon instead, managing to snap maybe twenty pictures before the batteries died (I haven’t used it much lately), then finding a spot simply from which to enjoy the show. I’d have stayed to the last of the estimated 1200 cars, but Ter had an appointment and I was going along for lunch afterward.

I love my 2010 Tiguan. I loved my 1996 Camaro, too, but Blue Thunder was my first and Blue Silver was my baby. I love cars in general, so much that I wish I’d thought to take auto shop in high school except that it wasn’t offered to girls and among the countless other clues I’d not had at the time was my ability to comprehend the workings of an engine. Learning how to tinker under the hood never occurred to me, though I think I would have enjoyed it. Nowadays, with vehicles run by computers, designed from the same template and only available in five shades of grey, it’s disheartening to think that the art of the car may be dying out … until the deuces come to town.

Long live the classics.