October 22, 2022, was on everyone’s lips in Wildwood earlier in the month. As The Race of Gentlemen wasn’t unfolding, folks with hopped-up Model As and other sorts of traditional hot rods (that is, the kind that look like they did in the ‘50s and before) were looking for one more place to go fast before weather brought the driving season to a near-complete halt. For those who lived in or near New England, Campton, New Hampshire, was that place.

Held on private land and advertised almost exclusively by word of mouth, the Jalopy Hill Climb started in 2021 more or less on a whim, when Alan Johnston decided to try and get his ’39 Ford pickup to the top of his brother’s mountain/sand-and-gravel pit, which happens to include a steep dirt road and spectacular views of the White Mountains. The flathead-powered ’39 made it and spawned the idea of inviting other cool old (pre-’62) cars to attempt the feat themselves.

There are no clocks and it’s not side-by-side racing, but it’s enough of a challenge to make for a very satisfying accomplishment once you get to the top. Plus, once you’re there, you get to circulate among awesome cars and cool people, while watching other participants roll in. Folks who came without cars could get to the top via an Army-surplus 6×6 truck that periodically went up and down.

Everyone wants their hot rod to be low, but roads like these along with steep inclines gave an advantage to the earlier-style cars with better ground clearance and more cart-like suspension. It looked like a blast, and I’m determined to go back with something from the Hemmings fleet to attempt the mountain itself!

To build his 1939 Ford pickup, which was the first “jalopy” to climb the hill and the impetus for the whole event, Alan Johnston started with a 1935 Ford frame and a 1942 Ford cab. The truck did double-duty as the event sign, too.

When this 1931 Ford roadster was hot rodded in 1951, it received a 331-cu.in. Cadillac V-8 for power—quite the high-end touch in those days.

This Model T roadster is the handbuilt creation of talented panel-beater Steve Pugner, who took his first shaping class under Gene Winfield at the tender age of 17.

Rob Hanser’s 1930 Ford Model A/V-8 coupe was built with a self-imposed rule of no-post-1950 parts, for a true period experience.

Word was that this Ford Model A pickup truck had been converted to tractor duty by means of a commercial “Doodlebug” kit, back when it was just a used-up old Ford. The Jalopy Hill Climb was a good place to stretch its legs.

Okay, so the hill wasn’t that steep or slippery. Driving a 1950s-vintage Jeep CJ-3B up the hill almost seemed like cheating, what with the tall stance and 4×4 drivetrain.

Bill, Leah, and Axel Neergaard almost never stopped moving, as young Axel was a huge fan of racing Dad’s 1930 Ford Model A roadster up the hill. The A/V-8 was originally assembled over six days and has another two days invested in post-shakedown revisions.

Lisa English’s 1929 Ford roadster with its distinctive 1935 Ford pickup grille is another veteran of The Race of Gentlemen. It looks good from every angle and sounds equally great.

Shaina “Mrs. Pugs” Pugner is Steve’s wife, and he built the body for her Model A speedster himself as an engagement gift. She’s had it at TROG, on the roads, and now up the mountain—mechanical brakes and all.

It doesn’t take much to put together a proper period hot rod and start having fun. This fenderless ’30-’31 Ford roadster with a V-8 engine was on loan to the driver, and she never seemed to stop smiling while wheeling it up and down the hill.

Gabby Goodwin’s 1929 Ford roadster is deceptively simple. The dropped-and-chopped Model A still features four-cylinder power, but with some mild hop ups. She says the gow is a sweet and satisfying machine to drive.

The legend “MERCURY 255CI” on the hood lets the world know that this 1934 Ford cabriolet (long ago relieved of its door windows and folding top) has the vaunted four-inch-stroke crankshaft in its flathead V-8.

Alden and Isaac English are the sons of Lisa and Eric English. The whole English family is well-known throughout the northeast for Eli’s shop, Traditional Speed & Kustom. The teenaged boys built this pickup, the Home School Hot Rod, entirely by themselves with only guidance from Dad.

A V-8 was still a year in the future when this 1954 Plymouth convertible was built, but the six-cylinder flathead proved up to the task of motorvating a full load of passengers to the top of the mountain.

“Exuberant” is the only way to describe the way this ’32 Ford five-window coupe went up and down the hill. You could tell the driver was trying to wring every bit of speed out on each run.

This butter-yellow Model A coupe with later wheels and headlamps looked a lot like well-kept, inexpensive transportation, circa the late 1940s. It ate up the hill climb like it was a drive in the country—probably because a lot more roads looked like this back then.

Combining the cowl and windshield of a slant-window Fordor sedan with a set of coupe quarters permitted the creation of a rather convincing 1931 Ford Model A three-window coupe, a styling idea Ford toyed with but never produced.

Who says four-door sedans can’t be cool? This 1934 Ford, built in an early ‘60s style, looked every bit as impressive as its two-door equivalent might have and in some ways it was better. Imagine rolling up with in this filled with friends.

Although it looks like a survivor from the 1950s, this is actually a fiberglass-bodied car built on a budget and with a lot of ingenuity and an eye for period detail. Power comes from a 283-cu.in. Chevrolet small-block V-8 backed up by a Camaro T-5 transmission using a custom shifter echoing an old Hurst Indy unit.

Hill climbs were a bit old fashioned by the time the mid-‘60s rolled around, so this ’34 Ford coupe done in that era’s style seemed foreign on the dirt road, but nevertheless performed admirably.

Brian Lundgren is a high-school history teacher by day, and in his leisure time he’s built this Model A coupe in a way that makes it look straight out of the postwar ‘40s.

Even customs got into the act, like this taildragging ’50 Ford with fender skirts.

Technically the Jalopy Hill Climb is for 1962-and-earlier cars, but this ’66 Pontiac Tempest slipped in and nobody was complaining about it.

Leaving the splash aprons on yet removing the fenders and running boards was commonly done to Ford Model A’s like this in the era right around World War II. Properly removing the aprons involved lifting the body off the frame—not something everyone wanted to tackle back then.

Bob Berggren brought his Model T pickup gow job to last year’s Hill Climb, then went home and built this Model T speedster from a discarded 1926 coupe chassis, some century-old barn wood, and a lot of things he already had laying around.

Ghosted Mobilgas Flying Red Horse signs on the doors hint at this Model A roadster’s past as a service-station support vehicle.

Although it looks like a refugee from the ‘50s, this 1929 Ford roadster was actually constructed by owner Ron Wheeler from parts. The flathead V-8-powered car is another TROG veteran out looking for more of that type of fun.

The U.S. Army didn’t keep many of the 45-cu.in. Harley-Davidson WLA “Liberator” motorcycles constructed for World War II. The surplus bikes hit the civilian market, and many became bobbers like Alan Raymond’s.

An entire contingent of essentially stock Model A’s showed up at some point and reminded everyone that all that was required for them to get up the hill was second gear. They weren’t the fastest, but they didn’t struggle, either.

Denis Finnerty of Finn’s Garage has this Whippet-nosed 1930 Ford speedster for sale in the Hemmings Classifieds [https://www.hemmings.com/classifieds/dealer/ford/model-a/2606360.html]. It sports a 223-cu.in. Ford six-cylinder and a Mustang five-speed, plus a rarely seen parallel-leaf-spring chassis.

For those without a vintage car to pilot up the mountain, period ferry trips via Army-surplus 6×6 took folks to the top and back.

Date: circa 1980s

Location: Cincinnati, Ohio

Source: via Cincinnati State Archives

What do you see here?

From its inception more than 130 years ago, France’s automotive industry has stood apart from all others. Sometimes it set precedents that all others followed, like establishing the front-engine/transmission/rear-wheel-drive layout (“Le Système Panhard“) circa 1892. Other times, it stood alone with unique requirements that no other country with an automotive industry has adopted. France’s vehicular use of selective yellow forward lighting between 1937 and 1992 was a key example of the latter, and the reason for it might seem as murky as the darkness it was designed to penetrate.

In the first couple decades of global automotive production, forward-facing road illumination was largely the same around the world: kerosene-fueled oil lamps (more useful as signals to others than actually lighting the path of travel) were followed by those lit using acetylene gas, and both were ultimately replaced by electric-powered light bulbs. As headlamps grew more powerful, regulations were introduced that mandated how much light could be thrown and where in an attempt to limit glare for oncoming traffic.

What was wrong with regular lights?

The ongoing development of lighting output and beam patterns soon began to differ between American and European automakers, as David W. Moore discussed in his June 1998 thesis for The University of Michigan Transportation Research Institute, titled Headlamp History and Harmonization:

The early developments regarding vehicle headlamps were similar for the U.S. and Europe. Bulbs, lighting components, and beam patterns were essentially the same (Devaux, 1970; Meese, 1972; Maurer, 1980). However, in the 1920s two different approaches to automotive lighting began to appear. Much of this can be attributed to the more rapid increase in the vehicle population in the U.S. than in Europe. There were also differences in the use of the automobile. Americans more quickly adapted to mobility provided by the automobile, cities expanded, people began moving to the suburbs, and industry developed outside of the center of the downtown area. Americans drove their cars more on the open roads and did more night driving. Europeans retained more of the focus on the center city area and daytime driving. It is generally acknowledged that these factors contributed to the two different approaches (Nelson, 1954; deBoer, 1955; Meese, 1972; Olson, 1977). The two approaches can be summarized as follows:

(1) Primary emphasis: Develop as much light as possible to maximize seeing ahead of the vehicle. Secondary emphasis: Consider the other driver and try to do something to minimize glare. (U.S. philosophy)

(2) Primary emphasis: Do whatever is necessary to minimize glare in the other driver’s eyes. Secondary emphasis: Try to make sure there is available light to drive. (European philosophy)

When did France mandate yellow headlamps?

By the mid-1930s, automotive headlamp performance had stabilized and advanced to the point that French legislators were moved to create a law that favored oncoming traffic over the vehicle operator. According to some sources, this decree was made in early November 1936, and it made yellow headlamps mandatory on new cars beginning April 1937; all roadgoing vehicles would need to be retrofitted with the new lighting by January 1939.

Moore explained this further in his paper:

In 1937 France legislated that headlamps emit (selective) yellow light (Jehu, 1954; Nelson, 1954). The French gave the following reasons for requiring yellow light: improvements in visibility under conditions of glare, and, even more important, reductions in fatigue under glare conditions. The yellow headlamp color was obtained by several different methods: a glass bulb with a different chemical composition, coatings on the glass bulb, a yellow headlamp lens, or a yellow filter. Because the yellow glass for bulbs reduced the emitted light intensity by about 18% (Jehu, 1954), this may have contributed to the perception of reduced glare from yellow headlamps. Many tests were run in different countries which failed to show any significant advantage in favor of yellow headlamps (Schreuder, 1976). However, within France, the mandatory use of yellow headlamps continued until the early 1990s.

What is selective yellow light?

The Daniel Stern Lighting website provides a clear explanation of what selective yellow light is, and why France mandated it: “By removing (filtering) the blue, indigo, and violet out of white light, we get selective yellow light.”

Stern goes on to explain the reason for this adoption: “This legislation was based on advice from the French Central Commission for Automobiles and Traffic, which in turn was based on experiments done by the French Academy of Sciences, concluding that selective yellow light is less glaring than white.”

The method by which this light was achieved varied depending on the prevailing technology of the day: Colored bulbs behind clear glass lenses gave way to halogen bulbs wearing yellow sleeves. An alternative was using a clear halogen bulb behind a Cadmium yellow glass lens. Motoring tourists visiting France from other countries in this period would cover their white headlamps with yellow filters or even paint the lenses yellow, lest they raise the ire of French road users and authorities.

What about the wartime theory?

Various sources posit this regulation was engineered to make native French civilian cars readily identifiable at night out of military concerns. Keeping in mind that it went into effect well before the outbreak of World War II, and that during the conflict automotive lighting was typically restricted at night to make vehicles less visible (and less of potential targets) to enemy aircraft, this seems a bit of a stretch.

When and why did France change its lighting law?

France maintained its yellow lighting requirement until the beginning of 1993, when it changed to “white” lighting in agreement with other European national vehicle regulation standards. It seems that, like those glare-reducing night-driving glasses you see advertised on TV, the benefits of selective yellow headlamps no longer outweighed the drawbacks.

As Valeo Lighting spokesperson Francois Paillusseau explained in this 1990 Top Gear clip, “A recent survey told us more than 50 percent of the French people are ready to go to white.”

In a reversal of what happened in January 1939, cars already using yellow headlamps were permitted to retain them, although new one cars built from that point on had to feature white headlamps; new auxiliary fog lamps were legally allowed to remain yellow.

The car had to stop right that instant. On the way back from an afternoon of pumpkin picking, I spied something unexpected, something that should not have made me as giddy as it did, something that required fuller examination than a quick glimpse out the window at 45 miles-per-hour would have offered. Most people wouldn’t have given a second thought to a Jeep FC-150 in multiple hues of paint and rust, sitting on four flats, seen in passing on the back row of a used car lot. Me, I had to act like I’d just seen Sasquatch handing out $100 bills and cake.

Getting up close to the FC-150, I found exactly what I’d expected to find: a truck that looked like it just got pulled from somebody’s woods where it spent the last 40 years after being worked to death as a plow truck for the prior 20. Likely it sat in the way of a logger harvesting in the nearby forests. It had the smell of old upholstery that had molded and mildewed then been forgotten even by the mold and mildew. If it rolled on its four wheels it would have been a miracle, and I’m certain not a single nut or bolt on it would have come loose without using every blue word and a torch. Probably the only salvageable things left on it were the Jeep Forward Control badges behind each door. I did not offer to buy it, largely because it was a Sunday afternoon and nobody was around for me to offer to buy it from.

Photo by Daniel Strohl

I walked back to the car not exactly disappointed, but wondering what it is about rusty heaps that puts such a spell over people like me and the guy who rescued it and the dozen of you readers who want to know exactly where I spotted it so you can try to buy it off the guy. I should know better—y’all begging me for that location should know better—after a lifetime of having rust flakes bigger than Corn Flakes fall in our eyes, of spending more time loosening bolts than there are daylight hours, and of all the various setbacks that come with trying to coax a little more life out of cars and trucks most other people would consider too far gone.

This isn’t just another lamentation about living in a part of the world where cars are prone to rust. Even the largely rust-free 1993 Silverado I recently bought fought me every step of the way when I removed the plow, thanks to a combination of 30 years of semi-neglect, the galaxy-brain engineers at Fisher who decided every bolt needed to be paired with an inaccessible nut, and the tire shop employee who didn’t bother reading the installation instructions and just winged it with whatever bent and raggedy old tetanus-infused scrap metal he had on hand.

Now plowless, the Silverado drives much nicerPhoto by Daniel Strohl

Yes, I’d be miles ahead if I just stopped bothering with anything showing a speck of rust and instead started out with projects from warmer and drier climates. Or I could just join the rest of the consumer legions and take out wallet-draining loans on new cars that I just trade in every three to six years on an even more costly new car. If I didn’t have to go 10 rounds with everything I own, I’d either have way more builds under my belt or way more free time on my weekends. I’d feel infinitely more accomplished. But that’s not in my—in our—nature.

Part of it likely has to do with economics; a Rockefeller I ain’t. Part of it has to do with growing up in a Rust Belt state where we knew nothing beyond beaters with heaters. But then there’s also the sense of accomplishment when I finally get that bolt unstuck or when I replace the boogered-up repairs with the right parts. After a long afternoon of struggle, I can yell at that rusty heap one more time to finally say that I won, I beat it, and that I can overcome even the most belligerent pile of junk using the logic, patience, and tools earned from a lifetime of wrasslin’ with other clunkers one step away from the scrapyard.

At least, I can until I have to slam on the brakes at the sight of the next rotbox.

That said, what attracts you to cars and trucks that no Californian would touch with a 10-foot pole? And, to provide inspiration to all the rest of us perpetually smelling of PB Blaster, share your recent victories over your rusty, crusty, and frustrating project cars.