[plexitim]

Chapter one. Flash back to 1980 and I have nearly always driven hot Chevrolet cars. My wife at the time was indulging my madness in my quest for a solid 1970 Chevelle SS396. We saw a bunch that were supposed to be ‘numbers matching’, or ‘has potential’, or ‘nearly finished’.

You know the feeling when your heart sinks, when there is more plastic and fiberglass in the body panels than a Corvette is supposed to have, right? That was what it was like trying to find a good Chevelle. Long story short, some guy’s ad went into the wrong place, advertising a “Ram Air GTO” in the Chevelle section. Whatever that was. It was a 1969 model that had a 4-speed and rally gauges. It was supposed to be orange. Hmmm. The price was right, we went that same night but by the time we got there, another buyer had left a deposit. Dang. And so here I am, in the street, imprinted with all this bow tie stuff about how a car is supposed to be, looking at a 1969 GTO that is about ten shades louder than pumpkin orange....but just somehow captures something so very different than your garden variety Chevelle. Sadly, I get back into the family station wagon and leave, taking the long drive home. Starting to think though, that these GTO cars are really pretty cool, very different, and what was my obsession with Chevelles anyhow?

OK so a week later I get this call, and the orange GTO guy is saying the buyer who left the deposit never came back for the car, won’t return his phone calls and am I still interested?

You betcha, I say.

And so we drive an hour only to find the guy who left the deposit and his buddies climbing all over the car, mumbling amongst themselves, feeling the trunk surface and stuff. Seller does not know what to say or do. He is embarrassed. The three guys going over the car are serious. And I am kinda pissed. But the uncomfortable feeling vanishes when the deposit guy approaches the owner, says it needs more work than he thought and either the price comes down or he wants his deposit back. The owner gets a grin on his face, looks over at me, I grin back at him as he hands him back his envelope and hands me the keys. It was an amazing October evening, dusk was falling and the dried leaves got whipped up on the pavement of the roadway as the Ram Air rumbler shifted smoothly through the gears and off into the night. The car was not what I would call fast, but it had enough power to push you back in the seat. It cornered nicely, and stopped beautifully. It had this delicious whine of the 4-speed trans, and you knew the car was packing something big under the hood. Mostly, I loved the styling which was a lot more sleek than the ‘guppy’ look the 1970 Chevelle had. More like a Coke bottle, I suppose. I remember the test drive was long, maybe forever. When we got it was dark though, and the moon was rising in Oakland New Jersey. I did not debate over the price because the truth was far more simple than that. I wanted THIS car. I could identify with this car. This was MY car. My GTO. Period.

Chapter two. Seven years of enjoyment. Over the years, I would learn about PHS and send away for documentation, only to discover the car was originally a Judge model, whatever that was. But the ‘Judge ness’ did not matter so much to me, all I cared about was the way this thing drove, handled and looked. Over time, I had come to realize the reason the car had no spoiler was that an earlier rear end accident had required some pretty advanced bodywork to be done including replacement of trunk lid and one quarter panel. And where that work had been done, body rust had begun to get bad. So I had started to stockpile parts with intentions of doing a proper restoration. But by then our first daughter (now 17) was born, we needed money and I ended up abandoning the restoration effort midway, selling the car to a bodyman who promised he would not part the car out but restore it to its original glory. When my daughter was four years old, Tom (the guy who bought the car) invited me to his house. The car was mint. DEAD mint. He had shown it at a NJ meet and placed well, and my heart melted when he offered to let me drive it. God, with the fresh WS motor, what a total machine this thing had become.

Chapter three. Fast forward two more kids, and a few years later. Newly on the hunt again, but this time for a ’69 Judge. Not a Chevelle. In the forlorn corner of New York state, after seeing a few decent Judges for sale, was “the one”. A one-owner North Carolina car whose body was nice, but the interior was toast from the heat down there. A picture in my head of a station wagon with the little missus, and two daughters all of whom gave me the thumbs down on this car that needed so much work. Me? I liked the parchment interior. I loved the purple tinted windows which clashed so terribly with the carousel red paint it was cool. I loved the one owner status and GMAC paperwork that came with the car from 1969. And the 4-speed. And dear God that beautiful throaty rumble that only a Ram Air GTO with lumpy cam and mufflers about to fall off can make. Car needed a new everything? You bet. But I am, after all, old school. I am not a money guy or a speculator. I am not a dealer. I am a car guy. What matters to me is the car. I guess that getting a real Judge that deserves to be brought back from many years of tough service, and made back into what the General originally intended, is what this hobby is about for me.

This is not something that makes particular logical sense. And it sure does not make financial sense either. Restoring old cars is a matter of emotions. It is a matter of frustration and love for the cars. It is a journey of the heart.

That this particular Judge needed a new everything was not my concern. What was my concern was that this one was cool and unique, it was PHS documented. And even though we had seen some better Judges along the way, this one – for whatever reason – made my heart speed up when I sat behind the wheel. Some things you can’t explain. You just know.

Not long after that, I was given a gift of sorts. I have a picture in my head of my son who was then about a year old. He was in the Judge, in diapers, standing on the driver seat bouncing up and down, pretending to be driving the car. My son gets it, you know. Even to this day, my daughters feel the car is a heap and why could I not have started with something….well something that seems to be a little more like a car? But then the change happened. My oldest daughter helped me when it was time to cut out the bad metal from the trunk and mig in new sections. My son enjoys working with hand tools, and is helping with some interior work. Which I kind of figured one day he would when he took my then-mint ERTL die cast Judge that used to be mine, and it became his constant companion in the tub, on the bedroom floor, down the stairs. More than anyone of my kids, my son IDENTIFIES with the ’69 Judge. I cannot explain why.

All I know is that one day, if my plans work out, there will be yet another beautiful Judge that was brought back from the dead. It will be shiny carousel red with factory stripes down the sides, and a parchment interior. And a twist of the ignition key will rumble the ground behind it, with the authority of what a GTO – the original Legend – is about. If everything goes as planned, it won’t be my car though. It will be my son’s. Just as my one daughter fell in love with my old and crotchety Z/28 and one day perhaps it will be hers….my son gets it about ’69 Judges. And me? Probably as many of my kids as still want to be around this crazy old coot at that time, will pile into a car after we scour the want ads, looking for another ’69 Judge for dad to pick up and start the process all over again.

Something that needs a little work would be OK, you know.

Maybe something in blue next time.

But definitely a ’69 Judge.

Definitely 4-speed.

Definitely Ram Air.

Because now I know what the word ‘Judge’ means.

It means nothing else even comes close.