DOING THE TON

My father always wondered what it would be like to travel at 100 miles per hour. When quizzed about that in his later years, he never could zero it down to when that idea popped into his head. It might have been after watching a newsreel covering the latest Indy 500 at the local theater or just seeing a modern speed demon flash past the family conveyance while out for a Sunday drive.

Dad was born in 1925 and was seven years old by the time Ford released its spectacular new V8 in 1932. In fact, Dad's oldest brother bought one of those marvels, and since he and his family still lived at home, Dad had almost complete access to that new beauty. The sleek lines and that powerful engine were like a fix from a powerful drug. Well, Dad was also fascinated by the electric cigarette lighter and couldn't seem to leave that alone either. During the early thirties, the stories of John Dillinger, and Bonnie And Clyde got the adrenaline pumping, especially about the high speed chases with police so just maybe that's where Dad thought it would be fun to drive that fast.

Grandpa was an extremely busy man and needed reliable transportation. Consequently, he bought a new car every year. He'd put roughly 25,000 miles on one in a year then it was time for another. He seemed to gravitate toward Fords, mostly because they had an uncanny ability to stay together on those gravel and dirt roads. He tried other makes but always came back. There was one independent brand that kept breaking something in the front end. Grandpa took it back in time and time again to get it welded up. The salesman was an aggressive type that declared: "We know what to do this time and if it breaks again, I'll eat it." I believe Dad said it was less than a week later when Grandpa drove up and asked the salesman if he would like a little salt on it. It seems to me that during that time Grandpa did try a Chevy, which was said to attain that ghastly speed of 70 mph. The neighbor had one of those and even claimed to have achieved that speed, except that he conveniently left out the part about the engine blowing up 20 mph ago.

So Grandpa stuck it out with Fords. In the spring of 1941, Grandpa drove home his latest beauty, a Super Deluxe 4-door sedan, complete with that flathead V8 that some people claimed could attain 100 mph right out of the box. Of course, Dad was all over and under that shiny new chariot. He heard something about more horsepower and got to wondering if this would be the car that would break that almost unattainable ton. It went without saying that Dad had recently turned 16 and, for only a dollar, received his driver's license shortly after.

It was interesting in those days. If you wanted to drive and had reached the age of 16, all you had to do was show proof of age, then hand over a dollar. They filled out a form then handed you a temporary license which would be replaced within a month or so. I doubt if a person even needed an eye exam back then. Of course, I would imagine that if a person came into the office brandishing a white cane, and having to use it to navigate his way to the wicket, the officials might question his actual driving capabilities.

Dad's best friend, Alan, was almost as daring as Dad was. At least he was close behind. He seemed to be able to get into almost as much trouble as Dad did so maybe he was up to the task when Dad told him that Grandpa's new car could reach 100 mph. He just had to be there for that monumental achievement.

The highway west of the city was described by many as 'The Old Goat Trail.' For many years it was a two-lane blacktop, sans shoulders, and almost sans full-width lanes. A lot of people who worked in the city lived outside and commuted every day. It was actually quite comical to watch them all lineup and drive to work with the line getting longer and seemingly slower the more cars joined in. Until the war ended it was only paved for the first and last ten miles along the 27 mile stretch from Lethbridge to Fort Macleod. But there were a couple of straight stretches: once you crested the hill west of the city the road ran fairly straight for about three miles past the communities of Coalhurst and Kipp, then the road bent more toward the west and there was a straight stretch that ran for another four miles.

One warm evening in the late spring, Dad managed to obtain permission to take the car over to Alan's place where he would pick Alan up and go for a drive. There might have been something about attending a movie over on the north side, which was quite a hike, even in a small city with a population of only 11,000 back then.

A little bit of trivia for that time period: Lethbridge was a main location for a POW camp, and when it was at full capacity (around 1944) it had 15,000 prisoners.

Like he promised, Dad drove over to Alan's place. After Alan was in and the door secured, the two boys made their way up 12th Street, left at 6th Avenue then over to 1st Street which would connect with the Old Goat Trail. The new flathead V8 was purring away as they drove under the railroad viaduct that spanned the river. They continued down into the river bottom where they crossed the bridge before the road made its way up the other side, past the Number Eight Coal Mine where it swung north and then west toward Coalhurst.

Well, the highway was virtually deserted. As far as the eye could see, the only lights were from the buildings in Coalhurst and Kipp, a mile further. Dad carefully checked around him and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Sixty-five was no problem. It didn't even seem to take long to reach 75; maybe a little longer to reach 80. They passed Coalhurst on their right as the speedometer crossed 85.

Things started to happen rather quickly now. Dad decided that he'd best keep his eyes on the road while Alan slid over to watch the speedometer more closely.

They passed Kipp with the speedometer approaching 90. The car started to shake and twitch but it seemed like it still had some left to give. Alan watched the needle as it passed 90. He began to call the numbers out, having to shout them over the wind noise from outside.

"Ninety-four, Ninety-five!" Alan shouted excitedly. "Ninety-six!" They could hear the roar of the engine and the whine of the rear end, even over the roar of the wind.

"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine!" The adrenaline was really pumping by now. The car felt as if it would fly away at any second. Alan continued to watch the speedo but that needle didn't seem to budge. It even acted like it was slowing down.

The curve to the west was coming up fast. Just before the curve was a slight dip. The '41 Ford Super Deluxe flew down that highway as if every law enforcement officer was in hot pursuit. Dad kept his now sweaty hands on the steering wheel; his knuckles so white they rivaled the moon in the sky. "Come on!" Dad shouted.

'Ninety-nine!" Alan shouted again. "Come on, come on!" both boys shouted.

"One-hundred!" Alan finally exclaimed. Actually,

if the truth were known, he sounded more relieved than anything else. Who knows? Maybe it didn't actually reach that speed but Alan decided that it was close enough.

Dad took his foot off the gas and allowed the car to coast. They were probably still going past 80 when they entered the curve to the west but that newly christened family race car had no problem whatsoever.

Well, they pulled into Monarch, where they treated themselves to a soda at the local gas station. When Dad told the story, years later, he even hinted that they had to stop to use the facilities as well.

Unofficially Dad drove a car at 100 miles per hour. It was a story that he did his best to keep a lid on, lest he lose all driving privileges for an extended period of time.

That '41 Ford ended up being the family chariot for the duration of the war. In February of 1942 civilian car production ended as the factories converted to war production. Dad was mildly surprised that the engine in Grandpa's car held together remarkably well for all those years, considering that high-speed run when the paint on the engine was still curing. Uncle Woody, who had actually started a Plymouth-Chrysler dealership in 1942 finally managed to have new vehicles to sell in the fall of '45 and Grandpa took delivery of his first Chrysler product, a Chrysler Windsor in 1946. It would be nice to know what happened to that '41 Ford but it no doubt went from one family to another until it was used up like so many others.

I might add that Dad never wanted to drive that fast again...