Four-Speed transmissions were a rite of passage

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DRIVER'S SIDE DIATRIBE
By Al Vinikour       
 
I’ve written previously of my disdain for those who have a high-performance car like a Corvette or a Mustang GT and equip it with an automatic transmission. I can’t stress enough the necessity of taking those people to a blacksmith’s shop, tying their hands to an anvil and giving a ball-peen hammer a workout until it becomes too bloody to maintain traction.

It’s not as if the person was using his or her hands to shift gears. A performance car without a manual transmission is like a buffet without Jell-O. What a waste!
 
People wax nostalgic about the halcyon days of muscle cars. Oh, if only they could have been lucky enough to grow up during that era. Well I did and I can tell you that automobile-wise they were wonderful years. Few things sound sweeter than a big-block Chevy V8 winding through all four gears of a Muncie T-10 transmission.
 
Even at stoplights, if you have an automatic transmission the only way you can rev up your engine to impress those around you is if you put the car in neutral, and even then, if you put it back into “drive” too quickly the awkward lurch forward isn’t the only jerk one will see at that intersection.
 
Granted, there were several automatic transmissions that earned their keep – especially at the drag strips. In many, if not most cases, a Dodge/Plymouth 426 Hemi had faster quarter-mile times with a 727 torqueflite automatic than with the heralded four-speed manual. But except for maybe the legendary Ford C5, those are the only two automatics I can recall that carried the water. And it should be noted those were at the drag strips, under controlled conditions.
 
One of the great magazines to read is Hemmings Motor News. Its premise is to sell cars of all ages and genres. I subscribe to it and play a little game whenever I receive my monthly copy. I pretend I’m going to buy one vehicle that’s listed for sale in the book. I usually only consider the high-performance vehicles from the good-old days. I have one major criterion; I will not consider nor look twice at a vehicle that has an automatic transmission. Let’s just say on Page 117 there’s a 1967 Dodge R/T two-door hardtop with a 440 cu.in.V8 and tri-power (or as it was called by Chrysler, a “Six-Pak.”). Neat car, I must say. But let the word “auto,” or “727” or anything similar rear its ugly head and before you can say “I’m out of here” I’m already on Page 121. However, if it would have said, “Four-speed w/pistol grip” or something that connotes a manual transmission it would be in my wish list before you could say “Cool.”
 
Some newer vehicles have automatic transmissions but to appease the “performance” crowd the manufacturers have added steering-wheel mounted paddle-shifters so you can zip along and “shift” gears like you’re a born-again Mario Andretti. Get a life, if you want to shift gears so badly you should buy a manual transmission in the first place, and to show its appreciation, the manufacturer will throw in a free clutch.
 
Full disclosure - in 1960, when I was in high school my grandfather bought my grandmother a 1960 Chevrolet Impala two-door hardtop so she would have a car to drive around when she needed it. I’m sure he went to the local Chevy dealer and saw it sitting on the showroom floor and said, “I’ll take that one.” Why else would he buy my aging Grandmother a new car with a high-performance 348 cu.in.V8 with 300 horsepower?
 
When my grandmother decided she didn’t like the car — which came about a few minutes after she saw it — I probably could have conned my grandfather into either giving it to me or selling it to me on a long-term payment plan (probably until his will would be read). But the fact it was an automatic transmission instead of a stick shift – even a three-speed column shifter would have been better – my lips were sealed. Granted, it would have been an acid trip’s dream sequence if my grandfather had bought her a car like this with a four-speed manual gear box.
 
Even in a rum-induced coma I couldn’t fathom my beloved grandmother speed-shifting a four-on-the-floor shifter from second-gear to third. I don’t remember what finally became of that Impala as I seldom think of it - because it was an automatic!
 
I haven’t owned a car with a manual transmission since my ’85 Ford Mustang GT. I’ve out-lived the dinosaurs, several world wars, a number of skirmishes and police actions and even the death of Walt Disney. I’m into comfort, which means I’m not about to take my left leg and give it a job. There’s a lovely “D” on my gear indicator that does a nice job for me and my family.
 
However, just because the Ice Age and I have reached parity doesn’t mean I don’t long for the good-old days when I could look down at my gear shifter and see a nice, white ball with 1, 2, 3, 4 and R written on it.