Welcome to our first cars news article, where we’ll talk about cool cars while photographing hot babes with them. Beth and I take my Trans Am to a lot of car shows around the midwest, we both love the car, has a lot of sentimental value.
Ah, the 1978 Pontiac Trans Am. A car so gloriously excessive it looked like it was designed by Evel Knievel’s personal stylist. Mine was a shimmering metallic blue with a light blue interior that made it feel like you were driving around inside a cloud made of vinyl. And smack dab on the hood? The most righteous firebird decal this side of the Smokey and the Bandit box set. You didn’t drive this car so much as announce yourself with it. Quiet entrance? Not an option.
Under the hood was a 6.6L 400-cubic-inch V8—a hulking, carbureted beast that roared like it had a vendetta against fuel economy. And it had a factory Positraction rear end, which meant you could leave two beautiful black lines of regret on any road in America. It was the kind of car that made you feel like a hero… or at least a very loud extra in a Burt Reynolds movie.
I tried to take this majestic machine to prom. Tried. I was stoked. The T-tops were popped, the paint was shining like the inside of a disco ball, and I had lovingly Armor All’d the light blue seats to a level of slickness that probably qualified as a safety hazard. I pulled up to my date’s house, engine rumbling, looking like a rock star… and she stepped outside, looked at the car, and said:
“Why does it have a big bird on its hood?”
I blinked. I mean—THE bird. The Screaming Chicken! The fiery phoenix of freedom! Clearly, she was not worthy. But I was still young and tragically under the influence of teenage hormones, so when she insisted we not take the Trans Am and instead go in her dad’s 1999 Dodge Intrepid, I caved.
The Intrepid. A car that looked like a melted bar of soap and drove like a soggy couch. Beige paint, beige interior, and the emotional thrill of eating plain oatmeal. I could almost hear my Pontiac crying in the driveway.
Growing up, I never really took sides in the Chevy vs. Ford vs. Mopar tribal warfare. My buddies would bicker like divorced parents about who had the better quarter-mile times, while I just appreciated a good car, regardless of the badge. I always thought some old Mopars were cool, but after spending too much time driving their later offerings, I began to think maybe Chrysler’s quality control team had gone on a decades-long lunch break.
Which brings me to my confession. My shame. My betrayal of my own roots: I drive a Toyota truck now.
I know, I know—after all that muscle car love, the T-top tales, the high-octane nostalgia… I commute in a truck that sips gas like it’s made of gold and whispers down the road like it’s apologizing for existing. It’s reliable. It’s practical. It has Bluetooth.
But I still dream of that ’78 Trans Am. Sure, it drank fuel like a V8-powered sailor and scared away prom dates, but it had soul. It had presence. It had a big bird on its hood, and it made absolutely no apologies for being loud, proud, and totally over-the-top.
So if you want a car that makes no sense and all the noise—buy the Trans Am. Just… maybe don’t take it to prom.