Five stars for the 1950 YA equivalent of a finger-wagging ABC Afterschool Special? Absolutely, because HOT ROD is the definitive, the triumphant granddaddy, of all future “Behold what tragedy awaits you youngsters, ‘less you smarten up and do right!” tales.
I first found it in my teenage uncle’s bedroom at Grandma and Grandpa Barnash’s house. Uncle Bob was never there, because he WAS a hot rodder, who probably spent 24/7 at whatever garage he tinkered in, and went on to make his name competing in speed trials at Watkins Glen. Did I know this at the time? No, because no one in the family talked about it. It was his private world, and probably looked down upon to some extent. By the time I put it together that this quiet dude was kind of a local hero, he’d sold his race car and retired. I’m also willing to bet HOT ROD is the only novel he ever read.
He likely saw himself in Bud Crayne, the loner hero who’s meticulously assembled his hop up, bolt by bolt, out of spare parts. As the novel opens, Bud is speeding between his rural town and the next, not like a maniac, but calm and confident as he jots down engineering and performance data on the notepad strapped to his leg, the perfect fusion of man and machine, what Tom Wolfe later called The Right Stuff.
I've never known or cared much about cars, but that opening was forever seared in my brain. When I got into movies, scenes of men in quiet control of their skills always impressed me: John Wayne facing down outlaws, Michael Mann’s cops and robbers, Tom Cruise flying an F-14, shooting pool, coming down a wire, or tending bar. Bud Crayne perhaps inspired the weary hot rodder John Millner in AMERICAN GRAFITTI, as well as the giddy exuberance of Burt Reynolds’ seventies icon Bandit.
HOT ROD’s opening scene is later topped by Bud’s “speed run,” his bet that he can get to the big town fifty miles away in under thirty minutes, the ultimate test of his baby, and prowess, against the hapless regular drivers he blows past at a hundred and ten, as well as all the cops giving chase. Oh, and he’s got the prettiest girl in school by his side. And no seat belts.
The problem, you see, is all the other kids in town look up to this guy. They want to be cool too, only it’s 1950. There’s no rock ‘n roll on the jukebox yet, no drive-in, roller rink, video arcade, or skate park in this nowhere town, so the boys are all Luke Skywalkers tearing around in crusty land speeders as they dream of Getting Out, or Han Solo in his hop up making the Kessel Run and outrunning Imperial starships. Maybe HOT ROD was the only novel George Lucas read back in Modesto.
Is author Henry Gregor Felson some unheralded giant of American letters? He'll sometimes write three sentences too many, his characters are stock, and the dialogue wooden, but it’s an absolute diamond of dramatic structure, fully embraces the allure of the automobile, and he nails that small town anomie as well as the young Larry McMurtry.
I loved HOT ROD so much as a kid, I swiped it from Uncle Bob’s room, re-read it as a teenager, and just re-read it out loud to my thirteen-year-old daughter over breakfast. It kind of completes a classic YA trilogy of WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS (1962) and BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA (1977), only here the sensitive young fellow enjoys a special bond with his car instead of a couple coon hounds, or an imaginative girl chum.
Uncle Bob turned seventy last month, so I thought it would be fun to give him his book back. Then I remembered the old, yellowing library sleeve pasted on the inside back cover. See, Bob had checked HOT ROD out of the Ridgewood Junior High School Library. The stamp shows it was due back March 13th, 1968, but it was still up in his room six, seven years later. So, really, the two of us should take it back next time I'm in town, and, y’know, ask the librarian what the fine is.
Googled the school, and nope, RJHS is long gone. There’s a Wegmans there now.
So, yeah, I stole HOT ROD, from an actual hot rodder, who stole it himself. And I’m keepin' it.