For me, each build becomes an intimate relationship. I start with the body of a car, and I begin my dance. I bob and weave to see her body lines reflect in different lighting and shadows. I often close my eyes and gently run my fingers over areas that I want to focus my attention on. I shut out the world and feel for small dents and ripples over her curves. Once I've found all her imperfections, I remove her paint, stripping her down slowly so I can see the blank canvas that my hands get to work with. She may need more work, and if that's the case, I play surgeon and aid in removing her heart and exposing her skeletons in the closet.
This is my passion. I want to know all her secrets. I want to know every detail that needs my attention so I can fix her from the inside out. She's worth it! They're all worth it!
Most people go out and buy a finished hot rod, classic or muscle car, or race vehicle. I've had that option too, but the appreciation isn't there for me. I have to be part of her build, and owning a hot rod shop enables me to live my dream. The same applies for the drag car I'm building. My hands have touched every centimeter of her very existence. They know all her lines, her curves, where her trouble problems may be and where her strength lies.
When all the hard work for the body is finished, the creative process for paint plays the next role. I want her the deepest black with pearl overlays. I choose black because there is no imperfection you can hide with this color. She will be flawless to the eye with her racing stripes laid with custom lacing, the dash smoked and singed with a trade that was passed down to me. Custom pinstripes above the drivers door will read, "Kandi Blaze", with a little skull and cross bone to accompany it.
Horsepower comes next. This is where my heart beats faster, my mouth gets a little dry, my palms sweat, and my knees become weak. Of course she can't be anything underpowered. Great thing about horsepower, there are always more ways to increase, and increase, and increase some more. Some would say there is no such thing as too much horsepower. I like those kind of people!
There's something that gets me excited about a high horsepower motor and loud exhaust. I'm an open header fan to say the least. The sound and rumble makes me quiver with an overwhelming sensation that tingles through my body. The smell of high octane racing fuel tops it off and I'm putty. Melting at her every rev and begging to ride her.
What is it about the torque during a launch at the drag tree that's so exciting? Perhaps it's the ripple and fold in the rear tires that grip the pavement to catch her so she can come back to earth and soar down the track. Maybe it's the lift of the front end or the slight flex of the body. For some it could be the nitrous tease that the driver hopes intimidates the racer in the other lane. Then 'POW!', it happens! You reach the ground and before she shoots off down the track, there is this microsecond where time stands still and then like a bat out of hell you're battling for the win. Before you know it, you're off the throttle and heading back to the pit. It's all over. You either won or lost. There's no 2nd place. Doesn't matter what the race or overall competition is. During those few seconds the only win you care about is the one you are beside. Then you focus on the next one and the next one. Making sure your sweet ride is still performing her best in between.
It's late evenings in the garage. Long weekends, never ending nights at the track, and missed meals. Things break. All the time. Then more things break. Language and tempers rise over complications or schedules. Finances are always an issue. Yet none of that ever makes you consider quitting. Aggravated, annoyed, down right pissed off? Yes! This is drag racing at the finest. It's a sport that tests your every nerve and requires a large amount of patience, especially from those that love you and accept this addiction to speed and horsepower.
I blame it on my parents. Not in any negative way though! In the summer of 79' I was conceived at Dragway 42 in West Salem, OH. I was a gear head at conception. My destiny returns me Dragway 42 upon the opening in the 2016 season. Perhaps my smart ass attitude enables me to be a bit sarcastic on that last statement, but in all seriousness, I'm enthusiastic beyond belief that this is where I got my start. Life began at this track for me and I've been down it before. The reopening of it makes me smile and in some weird way, I feel complete and whole. My dad passed in 2009, but I have no doubt he'll be sitting beside me when I'm lining up at that tree and getting ready to make my past at the new track. I like to think he's proud of his baby girl and all the things I do.
I owe much of my automotive roots to my dad, Ken Cooper (1942-2009). There isn't a time I can't remember helping him in the garage or his paint store. I remember him calling me his gofer and asking me to help him get his wrenches, sockets, vise grips, and other stuff when I was a very young girl. I asked him one day why he called me his little gofer. He responded by telling me that he taught me the tools so he could have me 'go for' this and 'go for' that. It hit me all at once! I wasn't his little gofer girl, I was his little 'go for' girl. I laughed incredibly hard and was thankful he didn't think i resembled a gofer...
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