A Man and his Project: 1969 Chevelle 300 Deluxe

The first thing that caught my attention was not the sleek, muscular coke-bottle lines of the body. It was the not the luscious emerald/mint hue of the paint. It was not the gleaming chrome trimmings that adorned the classically beautiful grille. No, what immediately captured my attention was the extraordinarily large puddle of fluids residing under the engine bay, accompanied by a thin trail of oil curving down the length of my apartment parking lot.

Oh, dear.

More on that, later. For the extent of this week, my roommate decided to upstage my status as the resident classic car eccentric in my apartment complex when he brought up his 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle 300 Deluxe Sedan. Since we were introduced, I was aware of his Chevelle ownership. Until he provided me with photographic evidence, however, I was unaware that a Chevelle was available in a sedan configuration. My mind fretted over the seemingly sacrilegious idea that a “Heavy Chevy” could be anything but a coupe. When he informed me of his intentions of bringing it up from Edmund, I was nervous. How would I react? Would I accept this faux-muscle? Can I see past the addition of two doors on the body of muscle-car royalty?

Heck yes. The car is gorgeous.

First off, it is worlds smaller than I imagined. Chevelle Coupes are portly fellows, to be sure. With rotund haunches, abyssal wheel-wells, and a freightliner sized width, these bruisers dwarf anything short of a truck.  The Deluxe sedan, however, fits into its bulk perfectly. The doors are gracefully sculpted into the smoothly aggressive roofline, and from a side view, the profile is decidedly progressive. It seems as though the advent of a “four-door coupe” was birthed long before the Mercedes CLS claimed originality.

Returning to the disturbing fluid leak, my roommate assured me that he keeps the levels topped off. Upon further inspection, I believe it to be a mostly harmless leaky gasket, so I put aside my initial anxieties as I popped open the industrial-sized door and slid behind the pencil-thin steering wheel. I was immediately assaulted by a rush of brilliant period switches and gauges that heralded a simpler and outrageously chic era when style trumped substance. Now, the majority of my “classic” automotive experiences have been had in mid-70’s economy boxes and early ‘80s Euro luxury coupes that rivaled public libraries in their austerity. To me, all of the beautifully scripted paraphernalia adorning the dash was a breath of fresh air. The doors closed with a surprisingly Porsche-like thunk, sealing me in a spacious vault of vinyl bench seats and metal touchpoints.

A tired Turbo-Thrift 250 inline-6 resided under the capacious hood, mated to a delightfully interesting column-mounted three speed. The interior wore its patina with pride, having most of the trim still sealed in place with as much care GM could muster from the factory. Tanner was understandably hesitant to permit anyone but himself to pilot the Chevelle, so I gleefully accepted the position of Co-pilot. After some heavy starter whine, the car spun to life with a few prodigious stabs of the throttle, emitting a low, guttural burble from the dripping sixer. After maneuvering the boat out of the complex, we encountered the first corner of the test drive.

My initial impressions of cornering capabilities were tinged with slight concern. Body roll, followed by a not-so-subtle jostling from the trampoline-like seats exemplified '60s American land-yacht handling. The chassis heaved to and fro, straining against itself as it pushed its way out of the sweeping left corner. Honestly, even my 1974 Baja Bug feels more planted and stable than the Chevelle. This, however, is not necessarily a bad thing, and can be easily rectified with the addition of wider tires and replacement struts. I found his braking to be adequate, never causing me any worry. He claims that it pulls violently to the left under braking, but I thankfully was not privy to this as we trundled down the road.

The old Turbo-Thrift 250 offered up surprisingly adequate acceleration. It pulled its hefty bulk along at a very reasonable pace, to my dismay. There is no doubt in my mind that the MudBug would be embarrassed come a stoplight race.

Riding along with Tanner, and hearing him cheerfully inform me of the various issues and bugs his “Rosie” had, perfectly illustrated the kinship that unites “car guys”. My '74 Baja Bug, lovingly nicknamed MudBug, is a complete heap. It is unreliable, spits oil, reeks of gasoline, rusts when it gets muggy, has no creature comforts, and is consistently noisy, busted, and abused.  I am aware of all of these issues, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Girls think it is adorable, right up to the point when they sit inside. My fraternity brothers refer to it as scrap metal. My own mother refuses to touch it, for fear of tetanus. All this being said, their opinions on the subject of my MudBug really don’t matter at all. In fact, in this age, it is expected that the MudBug is rejected as a relic of the ugly past. If you don’t “get it”, you never will. There is no forcing yourself to be a “car guy”. It comes naturally. Sitting in Tanner’s leaking Chevelle, the relationship between the gearhead and his project car became readily apparent. No matter the money and struggle you put into “the damn thing”, as long as you can find inane and desperate reasons for continued ownership, it is a beautiful thing.

To this, Tanner, I give your “Rosie”, my complete adoration. Keep driving, and top off that oil!