Bathtub Nashes have become legendary for their prowess at street racing, at least at CC. The first and most famous encounter was by Nigel Tate, when he caught one passing on the freeway in the right lane, no less. When I saw the unmistakable rear end of a bathtub Nash up ahead in traffic, I was determined to put it it in its rightful spot—behind me. Given that he had 115 hp on tap and I had all of 103, that was going to be easier said than done.
I downshifted and put the spurs to my poor old xB. We made noticeable progress, but he was putting up a good fight.
I’m definitely gaining on him now.
I could see the determination of its driver’s expression; he was giving it all he had. But that long nose of the Ambassador Super was coming into view.
I gloated as I finally passed him and put him in his rightful place.
But then I heard the distinct sound of a downshift from its Hydramatic transmission, and he shot by me again. I could hear the wicked snarl of its mighty 234.8 cubic inch ohv inline six from the exhaust as it passed my open window.
I caught up with him at the next light. We exchanged knowing glances, and then locked eyes on the lights. He hole-shot me, thanks to that ultra-low first gear in the Hydramatic. Or maybe I’m not as good as a drag racer as I thought I was.
My forte has always been high speed racing, and once we got close to the century mark, I started gaining on him again.
Almost there!
Victory! But now it looks like someone else is challenging us both. Maybe it’s time to peel off.
An entertaining and amusing entry.
Thanks, Paul, for my first pre-caffeinated smile of the morning.
I agree with Mark! I also have not gone downstairs for my coffee. This is funny. The vehicle weighed at least 3200 pounds to boot. So, “shut-em-down” Paul, wishing you success next time. Yours in mirth (and my girth), Tom
Poor Nash. Victim of the dreaded ASSDO (Acceleration Shaming Simultaneous Double Overtake). A classic should get more respect. Luckily you ASSDO’d an Ambassador instead of a Classic.
(copied many years ago from the early interwebs)
I took a ride in my venerable old ’83 Mercedes 240D last night!
I took a ride in my venerable old ’83 Mercedes 240D last night. Two point four litres of raw power, 4 cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror with 67 rompin stompin horse power at my beck and call. It’s stock, all right, nothing done to it, but it pushes the 3200 pounds of German engineering around with AUTHORITY. I’m always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise…
I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte cappuccino blast (“No Cinnamon, ma’am, I take it BLACK”), when I stopped at a streetlight. As the “D” rattled its throaty idle around me, I sipped my bold beverage and wiped the white froth my stiff upper lip. I was minding my own business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane.
I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the competition. Geo Metro — a late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod, for sure.
The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the driver’s eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle (Rattle Rattle!!). As I tugged on my driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be fast, and I am *damn* cool, hence…), the night was split with the sound of seven screaming cylinders…
Then the light turned… I almost had him out of the hole, my four pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat, as smoke pouring from exhaust pipe… I’d let it sit and idle too long! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his three cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his gasoline powered 1.1 liters of motor stretched its legs. I turned off my AC to gain 10% more power and kept my foot gamely in it. Then I saw a glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth…
He was running a custom exhaust — probably a 1.5-into-1 dual exhaust… maybe even cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction… Yet still I persisted, with my four pumping pistons singing a steady, deep, diesel song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of seconds had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the intersection, and I heard the note of his engine change as he made his shift to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed the shift! I rocketed by! Not ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost* chirp as he finally found second and dropped the clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed us, but intent on the race as we were, neither of us batted an eye.
I was waiting for the first dot on the speedometer to tell me to shift (no tachometer here!). Shifting, I nursed the clutch gently to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke, no that’s diesel exhaust again…
He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, I shifted into third at 38 MPH – a little early, but better safe than sorry. The scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 42 miles an hour, then eased in front of me, taunting, as he shifted into fourth. I decided to keep my car in third, counting on the ability to pump out the power at higher speeds and lower gears. I was staring up the dual 6″ chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a little to take the next corner.
I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried in carpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my German Diesel roll slowly to the left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I felt the front start to push a little, so I added more power only to realize that was all I had! But, I saw the right rear wheel lift on the Metro and realized he had reached his limit! Slowly I gained on him through the outside of the turn passing him with ease!!!
The Metro driver beat his wheel in rage as my car eased past him on the outside, my P175/R14’s screaming in protest, as we raced to the next light. We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the red light. I tightened my driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right. MB superiority reigns!!!
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility, looking for other unwitting targets…. Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a Volkswagon Van!
Courtesy of Mark Shilling
Pure automotive porn. It even sounds like it could have been a prelude to an encounter in the “Penthouse Forum”.
Well Written, HBEAN.
You lost to a legend!
Upside down or right-side up, they sure got a lot of mileage out of those tail lights over the years!
Beep beep! Beep Beep! HIs horn went “Beep beep beep”.
I was waiting to read the Nash driver shout, “Hey, buddy! How do I get this car out of second gear?”.
For an xB to pass an Ambassador would be a big disgrace!
I wonder how a same year, straight 8 Packard would do against this Nash?
Mark, here’s a photo of the [sort of] famous 1949 Packard Eight “Flintstone Flyer” drag strip racer. This car is still being raced in historic class. Driven by National F/G class record Holder Dave Koffel of Michigan.
Doubtlessly the Nash driver thought to himself: “Foike that Crap-Jap box, trying to drag race ME!” as he bottomed out his right foot onto the front bumper of his Nash.
🙂
My own epic battle of the “slows” was between my ’61 Comet 170ci, automatic against my high school buddy’s ’63 Rambler Classic 6cyl. auto.
We met, after dark, in the loading dock area of the nearby shopping center.
I was confident that the Comet would be victorious!
After all, it was a crummy Rambler fercryingoutloud!
He proceeded to stomp the pee juice out the Comet, not only once but twice after I accused him of Brake Torquing his car.
We laughed like hell about racing those turds for some years afterward.
I could have predicted that outcome. The Rambler had more power and a three-speed automatic. The odds were stacked against you!
You should have looked for a flathead Rambler American.
Gotta agree with Paul here.
The power zapping 2 speed Ford-O-Matic automatic transmission was smooth but slow.
When I had the 2005 Vulcan Taurus a co-worker and I would race on the empty highway after midnight shifts. He had a 2005 Yaris with a stick. We were almost dead even. He’d have more from a dead stop, then Id pass at 55 or so, then he’d catch up, etc. Fun slow car racing. But once I had E85 in the tank and whatever one’s opinion is on that fuel, the Taurus had the edge on the Yaris at any speed. That’s how I found out it was quicker with the E85. Of course it got 14mpg on it compared to 20 on average.
I was bummed when a second-gen Prius passed me and I was floored trying to keep pace with him.
Sometimes a race us fun even when only one of you knows a race is occurring!
Ah yes traffic light drags and turning up underpowered or as my day goes too bloody heavy a 500hp turbocharged V8 diesel is horrendously slow @ 48000kg (105,600 lbs) and in the 4am drag race over the Bombay hill in the mornings it just doesnt have the guts to compete.
’twasn’t for naught that Superman’s Metropolis Police used the mighty Ambassador. Faster than a speeding Isetta, able to leap low buildings if the speed bump is hit right, it’s flashing fins disappear into the distance.
Ever try racing anything with a 2CV, other than another 2CV, bought a well worn version cheap, painted it. It got slower.
My high school buddy had a ’65 Mustang ‘boxtop’ with a 302 (car was on its third engine), and I had my ’71 Vega with its original 2300. We lived the same direction going home and would race each other down the country roads until he had to pull off down his street.
If he exited the parking lot first, he’d run away from me in the straight parts of the road, but I’d be right back on his bumper in the curves.
If I exited first, all I had to do was floor it, as the Vega was laying down a pretty thick oil smokescreen by that point.
You remind me of a high school friend and I. He had a mail Jeep and I was driving the 77 Civic wagon with the HondaMatic we got as a loaner after I fishtailed my mother’s Luxury LeMans into a fire hydrant. The Jeep’s Chevy II four would thrash me on the straight line but I always had him at the first turn.
Hot Rod Scion doesn’t have the same ring as Hot Rod Lincoln, but it kind of works.
“All of a sudden like the flick of an eye,
an Ambassador sedan passed me by.
The remark was made that’s the car for me,
but by then the taillights was all you could see.”
I could imagine the episode ending with Stephanie saying “Paul you’re gonna drive me to cryin’ if you don’t stop drivin’ that hot rod Scion.” 🙂
Yikes! I had, in the late 70s early 80s a 1972 Mercedes 220D. I had to go up a steep parking garage and barely could make it; much less get into a drag race with anything faster than a Shwinn bike.
Good stuff, that Nash is a beauty. When the 240D was more prevalent on the road I would routinely blow by them on the freeway. Uphill. Driving a school bus. Pretty sad when big yellow breezes by.
Gorgeous capture of an all too rare encounter. Well done, Paul!
Driving slow cars fast is always great fun .
My buddy has one of these Nash’s up in Wa. state and he gave me a spare grille I hang in my back yard, it’s lightly pitted and beautiful .
The Mercedes 240D is certainly a slug, more so with the four speed automatic, I love mine and use it on road rallies and long distance touring but trying to merge into freeway traffic at 40 ~ 45 MPH is maddening .
FWIW, “Bee- Beep” was written about the Nash Metropolitan….
-Nate