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The following story was originally published May 12, 2010 in issue #45 of The New Vulgate, a web journal self-described as "a new low in topical enlightenment." It appears here in a slightly edited version. Significantly, February, 2012 marked the 50th anniversary of the creation of Carroll Shelby's original Cobra. Had I not been distracted by other writing endeavors, I would have made a better timed effort to get this article published in a much more visible journal to commemorate that automotive event. In lieu of that, I have posted it here—SPOT

Tale of the White Snake — part I
 
Once upon a time… when automobiles in America had big, muscular engines and gasoline was cheap, cheap and plentiful, I had entered my teen years and, in typical fashion, had discovered hot rod magazines and custom cars. It was the early 1960s and, at the risk of alienating most readers I’ll say now that I came from a Ford family. Even though there were tales of my dad once owning a Buick, all I remember is having Fords back in the day when that marque had the distinctive red, white and blue, tri-lion crest.
 
The first family Ford was the blue ’52, of which I have limited memories, but I’ll never forget that the front bench-style seat had an ashtray installed in the center of its rear face for the benefit of smoking backseat passengers. Which is evidence it was a four-door model. I’m pretty sure it also had one of those pull-ropes hanging in a shallow arc from left to right. But I don’t know if it had a 6- or 8-cylinder engine and, at this late date, since both my parents have gone to the great drive-in in the sky, there’s no way of finding out. (I would imagine it was an 8-cylinder, if I know anything at all about my dad’s preferences.)
 
I definitely remember the white ’56 Victoria coupe. There was much keen anticipation my sister and I shared the night of its arrival. Perhaps my first memory of large material acquisition, we knelt on the couch gazing out the living room window, peering into the darkness awaiting the bright headlights that pulled into the driveway the evening my dad traded in the ’52 for the brand new family coach. Let’s go for a ride!! And a cool, classic ride it was! With that smart looking front end, sexy hooded single beam headlamps, chrome jet-styled hood ornament and similarly sculptured side adornment that swept back to those round cat-like taillight lenses, this was a vehicle that stylistically outdistanced Chevrolet’s offering that year. Not exactly a hot rod, the ’56 Vicky was a sporty two door hardtop model with a turquoise interior, padded dash and a 292 Y-block V-8 under the hood. And it was in the back seat of this car where I met one of my first musical epiphanies. On a Sunday drive, whilst passing beneath some high power electrical lines, the AM radio played Toni Fisher’s hit “The Big Hurt”—perhaps the first commercial recording featuring the flanging effect. And there was an otherworldly static induced by those power lines. A memory I’ll never forget.
 
Also I think this was the car my mom learned to drive in. It was an era when women in general were coming to terms with being somewhat equal citizens and 1950s Rock & Roll was musically tearing down the traditional sexual and automotive barriers. Heady times for popular American culture. Being that there were now two drivers in the family there would eventually have to be two cars. So after some ado, we became the classic two-car family. And though we only had a one-car garage at the time we quickly added the classic carport for the second vehicle.
 
We jumped into two-car familydom with a sky blue ’58 Fairlane 500. This was one of the two odd years between 1952 and 1964 when Ford’s full-sized model was designed without their then trademark round taillights (the other year was 1960). The ’58 had two pairs of oval-shaped tail lamps horizontally arranged within a sculpted nacelle. This perhaps a design concession to that year being the first to offer twin headlamps up front—an evolutionary standard most carmakers adopted that year. But there were fins! Very much the same style and proportion as those on the ’57 model year but yes, there were fins! The front end, with a faux hood scoop and "gunsight" ornaments on the fenders above its dual beam eyes, had that classic forward gazing look. We were chasing that damned Sputnik and, though we hadn’t realized it yet, the success of Explorer I would blaze the path that would eventually take us to the moon. And soon all the Russkies would see were this car’s four taillights blazing away from them under the power of its big block 352 V-8. YeeFuckingHaw!
 
But this particular automobile was not just any F500. Ours was one of the prized hardtop convertibles, the model that was also referred to as the “retractable.” Via a well designed system of electric motors, gears and geometry, this baby could dramatically flip its rooftop up, up, rearward and down into its awaiting trunk cavity whose lid had just as dramatically raised itself like a space age clamshell. Then the lid would lower itself and batten down to conceal its robotic pearl. With a minimum of muss and fuss but with a maximum of ooohs and aaahs, the driver of this vehicle could then carry onward into the promising sunlight or moonlight of open air touring! These were the days when a good AM radio was all the average person needed for his or her motoring soundtrack (unless you happened to be one of those damned 1950s intellectuals who liked either classical music or post-bebop jazz; then you got the AM/FM option).
 
Despite Chevrolet’s grand pioneering of the small block V8 concept, it was this model’s 352cid powerplant that ultimately became the high-performance charger that set the stage for Ford's near domination of NASCAR racing in the early 60s.* In other words, this sucker could get up and move if it needed to. I learned this on an otherwise uneventful nighttime family excursion. My father, upon hearing a wronged woman scream “HE STOLE MY PURSE!” and immediately seeing the crook running between cars and heading for the darkness of the next side street, jammed the pedal to the metal and gave chase, screeching around the corner and flying into the face of uncertainty. An ex-WWII pursuit pilot, something snapped in him and he once again had a powerful P-51 Mustang strapped to his ass. I’m sure late 1950s family life could make a warrior feel unsatisfied but, damn!, the bogey ducked between houses and got away. I’m sure my mom later gave him a domestic piece of her mind about “needlessly” endangering the family. Ouch!
 
At least, as attested to by a couple of decades worth of motoring songs, American manufacturers were fully capable of building steeds that a man could depend on. Witness the longevity of Ford’s classic flathead V8 as both a motor for the modern Everyman and as a platform for pure hot rodding pleasure. And without belittling Chevy’s aforementioned OHV effort, there’s just too much high performance history to sniff at there. It was another 352 that purred underneath the hood of the next family coach, a classy, white 1964 Galaxie 500XL “fastback” hardtop with front bucket seats and the sporty center console languishing between them. Yep, by this time Ford was fully into proving its mettle through racing (whereas, notwithstanding some otherwise awesome powerplants, GM wasn’t**) and this year’s model was once again outrunning the Pontiacs and Chevys on the oval tracks of NASCAR. But wait… by this time the Dearborn firm had created a more than worthy competitor to Chevy’s iconic pony V8.
 
In 1962—following extensive development in the late 1950s—and within a newly mid-sized chassis, Ford introduced the legendary Fairlane V8. Originally all of 221 cubic inches, this well engineered short stroke animal was fleshed out to 260cid in ’63 and also thrown beneath the hood of the Falcon’s Sprint model, a successful transplant which formed the basis of 1964’s landmark Mustang. The rest would be history, and perhaps the cry in Detroit was “Let the pony parade begin!”*** Regardless, the cry in Indianapolis the previous year was “Gentlemen, start your engines!” when a couple of highly modified and maxxed out (albeit slightly debored) 260s were dropped into a pair of Colin Chapman’s lightweight Lotus 29 chassis—behind the driver! god forbid!—to dramatically kick USAC racing into the future (an action-packed story in itself!).
 
It was this stalwart 260 which powered the ’64 Falcon Futura which my dad drove home within weeks of purchasing the above-mentioned Galaxie. Two car family, remember? And this gun metal grey “fastback” with the red interior and full bench seat was the perfect car for my mom and, I think, both parental units had taken this into consideration since my sister had just come of driving age and I would quickly follow. Yes, this was the car in which I learned to drive. Cleverly considered an economy car, the Falcon could have been potent. Even with an automatic transmission and stock tuned 2-barrel engine, this was a vehicle that really wanted to giddy up and join the rest of the ponies out on the range. Listening to the musical throb of its single exhaust was enough to make one want to put on their driving gloves and grab the reins. Too bad it was eventually rear-ended whilst parked in front of the house. Hit and run. In broad daylight. A brutal, insulting end. Drat! Otherwise I’m certain that it would have been bequeathed to me. 
 
Then, of course, there was Carroll Shelby and the Cobra—the real story for which these ruminations are written. Perhaps the finest example of Ford small block muscle flexing, this was the car that put all bets off. Mr. Shelby, retired from race driving, had a dream. He wanted to kick Ferrari’s ass. At that time the Italian team pretty much had top end grand prix, sports and GT racing sown up and the Texan couldn’t stand to see the polite English racers their only serious competition. Sure, there were Corvettes you could put on the track but, even with a great engine, they were heavily unsophisticated in the handling department and no match for a well bred sports racing machine. And, as mentioned earlier, GM was not a supporter of racing (we can only imagine if they had been†). As yet, there was no viable American alternative to take the field so Shelby knew he’d need to build one somehow. In a nutshell, certain elements of fate would intervene:
 
Element #1— the Ford Motor Company had made an unsuccessful attempt to purchase Ferrari in early 1963; they wanted a coveted piece of the "world domination via racing" pie. But in a classic example of tempermental Italian middle-fingered arrogance, Signore Enzo pulled out of the deal. 
 
Element #2— in 1962 the new Fairlane V8 had shown a lot of promise as a high performance platform.
 
Element #3— there was the matter of AC Cars, a British concern that built a roadster called the Ace, a beautiful, lightweight sports car. It had great handling characteristics but had suddenly lost its supply of engines.
 
Element #4— did I mention that Shelby had a dream?
 
Kindred conspiracies, perhaps, but at this point the FoMoCo crew was about to get snubbed by the prancing horsemen of Maranello and good ol’ American Pride was at stake. Soooo a good ol’ American combination of ingenuity, speculation and sheer bluster took over and in walked Lady Luck singing a chorus of “Hey, Big Spender!” and the payoff was big time. One story suggests that, without either company knowing the other hadn’t been spoken to about it, Shelby “conned” both Ford and AC into believing his dream was a done deal. Another story insists that negotiations were on a much more “above board” order. Either way, the guys in Dearborn shipped him a couple of small blocks and the blokes in Thames Ditton shipped him a chassis and body. Sweet! And much can be written about how the fledgling company then created, tested and promoted this first prototype but here it’s prudent to consider it as a dramatic math lesson. Shelby simply added one and one and came up with way, WAY more than two. The Cobra proved to be a winner in no uncertain terms.
 
The first production version was powered by a high performance 260—cam, solid lifters, headers, 4-barrel—pumping out an even 260 horses that, in street tune, easily pulled about 5 seconds†† in 0-60 acceleration tests. STREET tune, mind you. Its minimal spaceframe construction and aluminum body allowed it to tip the scales at slightly more than 2000 pounds dripping wet (a Corvette weighed in at about 3200 lbs). Underneath its skin was a unique suspension system which featured lower A-arms and, serving double duty as the upper member, a hefty transverse mounted leaf spring. Aside from the requisite shock absorbers and sway bars, that’s all there was. Primitive, simple and effectively giving the car a handling characteristic not unlike a mega-Flexy Flyer. Some drivers more eloquently described how it “handled like a ballet dancer.” By late ’63 Ford had punched out their engine to 289 inches… and that’s when things really got interesting.
 
By this time the Cobra was tearing up the tracks in SCCA racing, dominating A Production and consistently showing it’s taillights to Sting Rays, E-type Jaguars and all manner of Porsches. This is not to mention one of these animals, in ’63, taking first in class and an impressive seventh overall in the 24 hours of Le Mans. It’s easy to conjecture that Ferrari was already feeling the virtual bruises on its haughty Italian behind. Cutting to the chase, Shelby-American had created a monster. And, by 1964, had upped the ante by building both the highly successful Cobra Daytona Coupe for GT competitions (which , in 1965, clinched the FIA Manufacturers' World Championship for Shelby-American and Ford) and the King Cobra, a rear-engined, Cooper-bodied Sports/Racer that solidified the legend. And, wouldn’t ya know it, this is not to mention Shelby’s invaluable help in creating the first Ford GT-40 which, by 1966, pretty much beat the pants off any other GT racing machine on the European circuit.
 
I’d say that the Texan had achieved his dream. But I digress.
 
As I stated early on, hot rod fare was de riguer for the average teenager in the early 60’s and this beautiful little American hot rod happened to be manufactured within mere miles of where my family lived at the time. The Shelby-American plant was located on some undeveloped acreage in the middle of what was once swampland in Venice, California; not very far at all from the old Hughes Aircraft plant where Howard had built the legendary Spruce Goose. For some reason SoCal's post-WWII landscape not only invited real estate developers but also, and perhaps more significantly, encouraged Oddballs and Beat-Gennies to erect their "freak flags" ala coffeehouse cool, pinstriped ethical, flamed surfboard, the Dodgers have left Brooklyn and come here! Ecstasy! WOW! So why shouldn’t a rabid Texan establish a foothold in the middle of a cultural hotbed of ideas that was already infecting the rest of the nation’s sensibilities? It couldn’t have been a better time and California was full of both dreamers and doers.
 
I lived in a second-story bedroom on the northwest back corner of our house. This room had two windows, one that unceremoniously faced the house next door and the other that faced rearward to the low hills that separated my immediate world from my world of dreams. Beyond those hills was a hazy lowland that stretched westward to the Pacific Ocean and southward to what was becoming LA International Airport. The Red Line, LA's fabled light rail transit system, was gone but there were a few wide, open roads left over from the 1930s and '40s before automobiles were mandatory for 20th-century Angelenos. These asphalt ribbons plied through the then sparsely populated landscape which led to a magnificently undervalued—unless you were a surfer—shore break. At the age of thirteen it was impossible for me to break out and go easily to this world but on cool nights I would lay in bed and be bathed by the breezes which found their way inland and through that rear portal. Like any teenager worth his salt, I ran down many batteries listening to the clandestine transistor radio that wirelessly connected me to the outside. Tunes like Nelson Riddle's "Route 66" and Chuck Berry's "No Particular Place To Go" were already magical anthems but in the dark, midnight hours both the moving air and the moving airwaves made those tunes and those moments priceless. If only it were me motoring around in the moonlight, engine thrumming, wind in my face and hair, driving toward the heart of this or any other Life!
 
Whether or not social analysis matters in defining an era, there are always those events which cast indelible colors and shadings upon, at least, how we perceive the movement of the times we live in. And, perhaps, our place in them. The early 60s were a heady time; the Historical Jury is definitely not out on that. The race to the moon was in full orbital swing and guys like Ed Roth and Darryl Starbyrd were boldly reshaping our automotive fantasies. Under the auspices of heavyweight boxing, Muhammad Ali’s one-two punch knocked the bejeezus out of one nation’s sensibilities and the Nation of Islam came along to chant the mandatory 8-count. Then there were those damned Beatles and all those screaming little girls making the average American boy skip his normal Saturday afternoon at the barber shop. And, as a word, “Woodie” had earned at least two meanings. In short, our country had passed colorfully through puberty and, having successfully smacked down the bullies of the Second World War, was now boldly dancing at the bandstand of its teenage years. The era had birthed itself into the pure philosophy of Rock & Roll as a way of Life, it had a good beat, and the West Coast was strongly calling the tunes and pointing the cameras. So why not an ultra cool California sports car that redefined the very essence of the term “hot rod?”
 
Why not indeed?
 
(cont'd; part II)

©2010, 2012 SPOT/No Auditions

A few footnotes:
*In 1960 the 352 pumped out a solid 360 horsepower with a high-rise manifold/hot cam configuration making it a more than formidable competitor on the NASCAR circuit. It was this FE-series engine that evolved into the potent 390, 406 and legendary 427 powerplants.
 
**In 1957 the Automobile Manufacturers Association imposed a ban on factory involvement in motor racing. For the most part, GM honored it and, thus, Chevy was officially out of such activities. The exception was the Pontiac division which “leaked” their 389 and 421 “Tri-Power” big blocks to independent teams who cleaned up on NASCAR tracks in 1961 and 1962. Ford simply ignored the ban in 1962. Chrysler Corp. was soon to follow Ford’s lead.
 
***The muscle parade had already amped up with (yes, once again) Pontiac’s infamous grand theft of Ferrari’s GTO designation. And mention should be made of GM's classic 215cid BOP (Buick-Oldsmobile-Pontiac) V-8 which, though not generally considered a high-performance engine, did find its way into the chassis of a 1962 Indy 500 entry. 
 
†A little known fact is that Shelby did approach GM seeking engines but Chevrolet balked at the idea of creating competition against its own Corvette.
 
††Acceleration times of the 260/289 Cobra are controversial at best. I have seen published 0-60 figures ranging from 4.2 to 6.8 seconds. It’s worth taking into consideration that early tests with leaded gasoline would be noticeably faster.

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