I say "Aston DB5," and you probably think "shaken, not stirred."
I say "1970 Corvette," and you probably think "Dale Earnhardt back tattoo."
Clayton Seams isn't part of the denim shorts brigade, however. He's 28 and works as the Online Editor for National Post's motoring division, Driving.ca.
More importantly, he also happens to be one half of YouTube's 'Reidus & Cletus,’ a channel dedicated to a specific enthusiasm for driving tired classics well beyond what anyone should think them capable of. And at the heart of much of this mechanical silliness, video editing and inhalation of mouse detritus is Seams’ dream car: a chrome-bumpered 1970 Chevrolet Corvette.
"In my younger days I had a big hardcover book of [cars], and the chrome bumper Stingray really just spoke to me," he says.
I'm not a Corvette guy, but it takes no stretching of the imagination to understand why Seams heard the Stingray’s voice in particular. The 1970 Stingray just looks nice. Unadulterated by the impact bumpers and aero bits that soon followed, this is arguably the classiest Corvette of its era. The undulating lines of the early 'Coke Bottle' shape spread and taper as the designers originally intended, with chrome brightwork drawing attention to the nose and framing the tailpipes. And practicality be damned, cargo goes in from behind the seats to maintain seamless rear contours. It's a car that starts nicely and ends just as tidily.
It's easy to forget after so many years and ever more cracked, faded, and poorly modified C3s, but GM's third-generation sports car was truly a classy sight in its day. If one can overlook the crudeness of the single transverse leaf that springs the whole width of the solid rear axle, the early C3 could almost be mistaken for something European.
There are reasons why this elegant form isn't the first you might envision at the mention of the third-gen, however. Pushed back by a corporate shift of model years and again by backlogs lingering from a 1969 labour dispute, the 1970 Stingray had a model run spanning just eight months. Factoring in another two-month strike in 1970, just seventeen thousand 1970 C3s squeezed through a six-month window.
Owing in equal parts to this rarity, desirability and the limited budget of a recent graduate, finding Seams’ dream Corvette wasn't going to come easily. But by 2016, he had finally found a candidate. It was listed on eBay for $6,500 and looked pretty rough, but Seams committed to the car on a mechanic's word that it was "ugly, but good." A few weeks later and the car had completed its journey from California, even starting and running well enough to satisfy customs that it was entering as more than just a pile of salvage parts.
As promising as this was, the dream Corvette was far from ready. An operational engine only provided a starting point: the car arrived with the driver's seat mounting bolts in a loose plastic baggy, no lights, a heap of parts in the rear storage compartment, and several more missing. Unencumbered exhaust hangers suggested where pipes and mufflers ought to have been, but instead the L46 V8's open headers simply poured thunder from beside each cylinder bank - a detail which made for quite a spectacle under the customs pavilion.
This may sound like a nightmare to some, for Seams this simply meant a blank (indeed, literally unpainted) canvas on which to affordably craft his dream car. For starters, there could be no accusations of the violation or corruption of originality on a car that had already been repainted. The weathered finish meant that tools (and beers) could rest on the fenders as work got underway without fear of scratches. The car's ravaged seats permitted friends to hop in Hazzard-style, and the missing door lock reduced the risk of smash & grabs. Most importantly, the absence of any exhaust piping meant the way was already clear for the installation of his dream-Vette's must-have: loud, free-breathing side pipes.
I ask about the side pipes. Clayton shrugs, then turns with open hands toward the car.
"Because they're cool."
The man has a point. The smooth black barrels fit neatly within the inward taper of the centre section, contrasting subtly with the flat grey of the doors above. The flare of the tips leads the eye on to the chrome wheel covers and up and away to the rear arches. They're big, but they don't look shouty.
Any such subtlety goes out the window on startup, of course. The closed choke spits a hearty cloud of black smoke from either side before settling into the familiar idle thrum of an American V8.
"Brrrrr-potato, potato, potato," Seams mimics in a deep voice. I couldn't think of a more suitably agricultural sound for a car built like a hay wagon.
Riding in the 'Cletus 'Vette' makes my Lada feel comfortable, but I enjoy every second. From the rasping of dirty shoes against the bare steel floorpan to the resonance of the starter within uninsulated footwells, you are at once threatened and reassured that this machine might be a death trap, but at least it's been built with a sense of purpose.
As much as I prefer the tame, civilized hum of a German inline four, I am brought to realize that this ratty old American scratches my itch for purity and mechanical joy. I came to be offended by the Corvette's brashness and tease my friend for needing an ashtray full of earplugs, but it's as though the vibrations coming through the Corvette's emaciated bucket seat have sent cracks down into the deep foundations of my European motoring elitism. I almost... want one?
This brute rattles, vibrates, and drones like few I've experienced, but Seams’ passion and commitment to the car's upkeep have nevertheless seen it through many long-distance road trips. Its surprisingly small footprint even allows us to squeeze through gaps in Toronto traffic for some glorious pulls beneath the city's TTC overpasses. His side pipes project against the concrete walls and directly back into our open windows, and all is right with the world – or at least it is within in our little fibreglass capsule.
To be sure, the leaf sprung body-on-frame construction still more closely resembles a pickup truck than a contemporary European sports car. Certain unsynchronized shifts still require double-clutching, and the gearbox itself is heavy enough for a truck. Cletus-'Vette indeed.
At the same time, however, that heavy Muncie four-speed has proven its strength and durability through fifty years of playful slap-shifts. The frame was able to go on a rack for a degree of stretching that would've condemned a unibody car to a wrecking yard. The Delco radio in the dash is guaranteed never to fail. This car has led a rough life, yet it still manages to serve as a daily driver and – when asked – a 1,700-mile road-tripper.
It's not just old-fashioned hardiness that impresses either. To maintain the car's lines and reduce drag, the wipers are (or were) concealed beneath a dual-hinged fairing that popped forward like an air dam when in use. From a placard indicating the build configuration and vital statistics to the smattering of gauges in the centre of the dash (theatrical at the time but helpful as a car ages), the driver is kept informed of everything they could care to know. The centre console has small jewelled indicators for the rear plate and marker lights: superfluous perhaps, but that they are illuminated by the lights themselves via early fibre optics is pretty exciting. It even has directional signal blinkers!
One of the biggest questions this car raises is how has such a rare and desirable model wound up looking like an extra from Mad Max?
As alluded to earlier, Seams’ car is a recovered wreck. It started yellow, then was painted grey and was crashed shortly thereafter. Owing to its rarity, however, this 1970 was straightened and a rebuild started, yet never got as far as final finishing, paint, interior or accessory installation.
Corvette bodies are fibreglass. Although they don't rust, they are quite vulnerable to cracking if stricken or otherwise deformed. Further complications become apparent once you notice the absence of panel gaps: there are no tidy quarter-panel swaps like on your Subaru. Replacing a whole clamshell involves cutting glued sections from the frame, meaning that one bumped corner usually means taking on the incredibly tricky art of cutting out a damaged area and forming a patch from new, wet fibreglass.
It's intimidating stuff, even for the pros. The California body man who replaced the front cowling did an excellent job, but there is still fine repair work to be done all around. Until then, the car will remain gray at one end and primer brown at the other, with one mismatched yellow side vent hearkening back to its younger days.
This suits Seams just fine. On one hand, nice paint is tricky to apply and trying to maintain on a driver like this; as he says, "the paint's crap, but at least it's not my fault!" On the other, the Cletus 'Vette is a unique standout among the droves of immaculate Sunday drivers. The discoloured ring on the rear deck isn't pretty for instance, but it got us chatting about our friend Alex ('Reidus') and how he casually placed objects on that spot for months after setting a hot mug there. Scars are memories, and as far as he was concerned, his car was done the day he got to start enjoying it.
As my film counter creeps toward the 36th frame, I ask Seams whether there are any final details that he's especially fond of. He points inside: keeping to the original specification of the car, he found a new-old-stock plastic rimmed steering wheel. It was a promise to himself for when he 'finished' the car, and it's a good reminder of all the little unseen moments and motivators that go into keeping a car alive. But enough sentimentality – we have film to drop off and cheap beers to drink.
Clayton with his 'carbuerator calibration kit’
There's just one last question before we pack up: with the Corvette out of the way, what's left to purchase for the eventual midlife crisis?
"I've already got it."
Sure thing. Stay tuned, folks.
