Noted artist David Snyder created this symbolic view of the legendary Woodward Sunoco garage during the era of the Silver Bullet Plymouth, seen parked outside. The passion for performance is what spearheaded the work that led to the Motown Missile on a more national scale. Jimmy Addison owned the service center at this time. (Photo Courtesy www.davidsnydercarart.com)

      Chapter OnePreflight Check in Autumn 1969:Origins of the Motown Missile

      Dusk began to fall as Jimmy Addison worked to get the nondescript Dodge ready for the night, his work-worn hands up underneath it inside the lit garage bay. Outside the Sunoco station, automobiles in bright shades of paint cruised by, some drivers looking over briefly at the car hoisted up on the lift, others more intent on getting to Ted’s drive-in restaurant, to the next stoplight, or beside the next wise guy. There was a rumble outside and the ring of the service station bell as a rich green Corvette roadster with factory side-pipes rolled up to the pumps. Any 435-hp L71 Tri-Power out on Woodward wanted what was needed, and what was needed was gallons of Sunoco 260. After a quick glance from Jimmy, one of the young guys in the garage bay wiped off his hands and walked out to see a young executive (maybe right from GM) and his lady friend sitting inside the brand-new car. He saw the $20 bill hanging out the window, heard him say “Fill ’er up!,” and started the pump. Jimmy went back to work underneath the rough-looking 1962, getting the Max Wedge Mopar ready to win some Saturday chump change.

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      Addison became one of the legends of Woodward Avenue in its heyday. Muscle cars and marketing were the going thing in the bedroom-community suburbs of Detroit, and this long stretch of four-lane pavement running northwest from the center of the city to the town of Pontiac was considered by many to be ground zero for the cause. Indeed, so much so that Pontiac, the car brand, originator of the GTO, had run a national advertisement showing a new version of its tiger with a Woodward Avenue street sign prominently displayed that was clearly intended to show everyone which way was up.

      For the cruisers and the crazies, up was someplace close to 19 Mile Road (near where the popular local eatery Ted’s drive-in was located), and then it began a circuit southeast toward Ferndale or to 9 Mile Road. Each of these east-west numbered “Mile” streets was named for the number of miles from the center of the city of Detroit. On a busy night, most participants would turn around and make the circuit a few times, perhaps stopping at Addison’s Woodward Sunoco fuel depot for a tank of hi-test fuel if the ride required it. The respectable ones all did.

      Addison was a short, stocky guy noted for a somewhat gruff demeanor and a fearless driving style. A former line mechanic for an Oldsmobile dealership, he had been at the Sunoco station at 14 Mile since 1968 and would soon own it himself.

      Thanks to Ted Spehar’s meticulous engine building skills and the car’s unkempt outward appearance, the stroked Max Wedge 1962 Dodge was something of an unknown terror on the street—which was good for business if your business was street racing and dudes such as that guy in the ’Vette were looking to impress a member of the other sex. They had money. You wanted to take it. Let the best man win.

      At any rate, while the Woodward Dream Cruise has now become a part of yearly American automotive culture, in 1969 it was simply a thrill for the participants, a pain for the police, and a legend across the nation. This was a place where you might see something new from the factory before everyone else, show off the latest mods to your street machine, meet friends and friendly foes, and maybe find out who the king of the hill was for the night. If a stoplight-to-stoplight joust wasn’t enough, you could chase more serious competitors to top-end honors into the triple digits (MPH) on the under-construction I-696 (basically the former location of 10 Mile Road) or on a temporarily measured quarter-mile on a more deserted side street after midnight. When that happened, there was a deal, there was money, and there was the danger of arrest or worse. It was a unique moment, perhaps a semi-requiem from the madness of Vietnam, politics, labor unrest, and the like. “Papa’s got a brand-new bag, and it was street racing,” as one magazine scribe explained it. The machine spoke, and it had a reputation to uphold. Perhaps this passion is where the Motown Missile truly had its roots.

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      Mr. Hoover looked over his glasses at the needle on the dyno as the roar increased and the RPM level climbed again. Built into the basement of the company research building in Highland Park, the dynamometer cells were normally tasked with more pedestrian projects these days, but Tom could get special dyno use for his projects when needed, especially since he had friends who were the actual operators. Today, it was another potential idea—this time just a simple change to a new race camshaft that might show some improvement to airflow and a little more horsepower. It wasn’t much, but it had already proven to be worthwhile in real-world conditions over at Detroit Dragway the previous week in a test car.

      With the right carb adjusting complete, the needle showed there had been about a 7-hp improvement over the previous-best version of that cam. The numbers were denoted by a slightly higher bump on the top of the hand-drawn arch when plotted on a subsequent graph. Now proven to be truly beneficial, a notice was forwarded to the chosen Chrysler racers across the nation, announcing the exact part number to order from the manufacturer. Tom Hoover smiled to himself.

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