Putting a pair of seemingly detuned racing cars in Chrysler showrooms did wonders for the company's enthusiast credibility, but in the eyes of the cars' creators, the AAR 'Cuda and the Challenger T/A were little more than a nuisance. "They didn't do the production version of these cars because of the marketplace," Tom Gale, a former vice president of design at Chrysler, once said. "They did them because they had to for homologation. [Those cars were] a huge pain in the ass in the eyes of most people in the corporation." It was a telling approach, and one that echoed the mentality behind the entire program.
Following the October announcement, Gurney's team got to work. Thanks to minimal help from Chrysler, it wasn't the most rapid of undertakings. Former Chrysler engineer Bob Tarozzi was hired as team manager and race engineer by AAR in December of '69, and he vividly recalls his first day: "I moved out to California for the job, and after I got off the flight from Detroit, they showed me a surface plate [for the chassis] and said, 'This is what we've got so far. Whaddaya think?' "
In spite of the relatively late start, AAR produced a testable racing car in a matter of months. Former Weslake powerplant man Dick Lyndhurst, a veteran of the Gurney/Weslake Formula 1 V-12 program, was charged with sorting the control-arm-and-live-axle suspension. Crankshafts and other key engine components were sourced from famed drag-racer Keith Black (who at the time was building en-gines for Posey's Challenger), and engines were built in-house by AAR mechanic Johnny Miller.
Like most first-season race cars, the 'Cudas experienced their share of teething problems. Converting any street car for racing duty tends to require complete and total reengineering, and the Plymouths were no exception. Chrysler's arrogance compounded problems. "We had all kinds of issues," says Tarozzi. "In the beginning, it was transmission failures; Chrysler sent us an aluminum NASCAR transmission - which we then painted with ferrous paint so it'd pass the SCCA's magnet test and look like the cast-iron one - and they kept telling us over and over that it was bulletproof. Then we had synchro trouble, and they barely believed us. Also, the brakes never held up. The front knuckles and bearings weren't heavy enough. Hell, even the oil pan was a nightmare from day one."
As if that laundry list weren't enough, engine durability became a problem, too. Even after Gurney left the series two races into the season - ostensibly to focus on his Can-Am efforts but largely because Chrysler's budget cuts required that AAR eliminate one driver - giving the team one fewer car to focus on, DNFs remained an issue. Of the eleven races that Savage started in 1970, he finished only five. The car's log is a litany of engine failures, dead differentials, and dying gearboxes - in other words, much of what befalls many first-year racing cars. The clincher lay in the fact that, unlike most factory Trans-Am teams, AAR didn't have the money or the time to properly fix problems when they arose.
Still, when the 'Cudas held together they did well, in spite of a noticeable lack of power compared with the front-running cars. Savage nabbed three pole positions over the course of the season and even finished as high as second at Road America - a notoriously high-horsepower track. It seemed like the potential was there, but sadly, the 'Cuda would never get a chance to truly prove itself: Just before the last race of the season at Riverside, Chrysler canceled its Trans-Am program altogether. The following spring, the series was a wasteland; almost every top-level team and manufacturer had skipped town in the middle of winter on cost grounds. The glory days had ended.
The air is quiet again, but this time, I'm not kneeling by the 'Cuda's exhaust. This time, I'm sitting behind the wheel, finger on a toggle switch, being instructed in the fine art of making Savage's old car spit out hellacious noise. Starting: Ignition on, fan on, no throttle. Reaching to my right, I push the heavy button on the transmission tunnel, and boom! the engine lights off, already warm. I dip the surprisingly light, long-travel clutch and head onto the track. Even though I'm wearing earplugs, I can hear every crack and roar punching out the exhaust. I can also barely hear myself think. Fantastic.
My mind briefly flashes back to the words of the car's current owner, Texas-based vintage racer Andy Boone: "It's a gas to drive. You just sort of have to have your captain's hat on, you know?" He's right. The 'Cuda at first feels a block long and more seaworthy than the Queen Mary, but throttle response is instantaneous, and the car quickly shrinks around you. The nose leaps skyward with every stab of the throttle - gearing may be deep-into-triple-digits long, but the 'Cuda is still thunderously quick - and the foam-covered steering wheel, a mere three inches from the dash, changes the car's direction with little effort but huge strokes of arm motion. You crank into corners all elbows and steering lock, sweat pouring off your brow.
I pull back into the pits after a couple of laps, wait a moment, and then shut off the car. Quiet. After five minutes on the track, the sheer lack of noise is almost stupefying. The 'Cuda is asleep, and echoing through my head is the glorious, bellowing, fantastic roar of a success that almost was.
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