The automobile takes many forms. For example, there's the family sedan, the minivan and the econo-box. Then, chained to the floor like a rabid Tyrannosaurus Rex, there is something altogether different. Enter, the muscle car. It's the family coupe run amok. Who could do such a thing?

Well, thankfully, a small band of automotive engineers in the early 1960s Detroit. They took a last look at Grandpa's two-door, and did some serious parts-swapping. Out came the wimpy six-banger and in went a dual-quad, big-cube high-compression V8 monster with equal-length exhaust headers and side pipes. In went a four-speed manual transmission with a cue ball shift knob. In went traction bars to hold the posi-traction rear axle. In went specially-designed drive wheels. In went raised white letter tires.

The fuddy-duddy exterior was transformed with vivid colors and accenting front-to-rear racing stripes. Monikers like "GT" and "SuperSport" appeared on the grilles, fenders and deck lids. Spoiler were added, and served no real purpose other than to look really cool.

It's suddenly the baddest car in town. So hop in. Slide behind the wheel. The car doesn't really look that much different than Grandpa's version, but you know it is different where it counts. Hit the key, goose the throttle and the beast awakens. Holy crap! Nudge it to first gear, plant your right foot to the floor and pop the clutch. The exhaust roars, like an enraged T-Rex. Smoke pours from the rear wheel-wells like a four alarm fire, creating a tear-inducing screen of smoldering rubber and flaming asphalt that shrouds entire neighborhoods. You feel the raw horsepower course through your body, and your ear-to-ear grin can be seen 40 feet away.

The tires finally grab the road you launch like an ICBM from an underground silo somewhere in Iowa. Too bad the steering stinks and the brakes are even worse, but who really cares?

You find yourself at a stoplight with the engine idling with that throaty rumble. Even that makes you smile. Suddenly, a car pulls up next to you. You grip the steering wheel and your other hand finds the gearshift. The guy next to you guns his engine. The light turns green and you nail it.

You easily blow away the Prius! Your day is great until, at the next stoplight, he lowers the windows and says, "Hey! I'm gettin' 79 miles-to-the gallon!"

Learn more about this author, James Campbell.
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