INTRODUCTION

This all started because of a story and a radio. In 1970, my father bought a new Hemi ‘Cuda. He told me stories about how he used to race it, and when he blew up the engine, he threw in another big-block, riveted the shaker bubble to the hood, and away he rumbled once more.

Thirty years later, I was driving a beat-up 1990 Ford Taurus station wagon as my first car. I wasn’t into cars then. But someone else was into my car—someone really wanted the radio and stole the tape deck. Afterward, Dad arranged for a friend to put a CD player into the car for cheap. At the shop where the wagon was getting the radio, I spied something between the two work bays. It was a car underneath a ton of general junk from around the shop—upholstery materials, tools, car parts, and more. I think there was even a hard top for a Corvette on it. Underneath it all, though, was something special, even now—a 1971 Plymouth ’Cuda.

Finding that car in that shape was the spark I needed. The car was cool, with the cheese grater grille, the gilled side fenders, the unique rear taillights. It looked like nothing on the road. That was the moment that changed my life. I was hooked on muscle cars.

I loved the thrill that something this cool could be tucked away, hidden like a lost Incan temple in the Amazon or a ship at rest at the bottom of the sea. And once I found one, I asked around and found more. And more. And more. It didn’t stop.

Eventually, I started going on expeditions to find as much American automotive memorabilia as possible. I would beat the ground and drive around aimlessly, no real destination in mind, but I’d usually find something—something cool, more often than not. A GTO, or maybe a C3 Corvette. You never know what you are going to uncover. Some of my best finds—like that first 1971 ‘Cuda—were completely by accident, and others I have been given leads to. But you just don’t know what is out there.

People always say, “There are no more hidden cars—they’ve all been found!”

I intend to prove them wrong.

Ryan Brutt