I vote...

YES PLEASE.

i'll take both... and ummm rock the back roads as i watch 4x4s and AWDs ditch out...

please, please santa!!! (hey there layabout.... if you put in a good word for me i'll do you some sort of automotive favour.... get you something PCH-like that you couldn't find over there.... come on man... YOU MET HIM!!!!)

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Just think, you get it home, and quietly roll it into your garage under cover of darkness. There really is only one approach for this car, and that is to quietly -- and slowly -- work on it, bit by bit, in your garage. Alone. This is not a project car to invite over your buddies, and drink a few Kokanee while spinning some wrenches. Because you know, much as you might hate to admit it, that this is an ugly, ugly car. I have one memory of an Omni (I don't care if it's technically a "Charger". They stopped making Chargers in the '70s and never started again. No, that new one doesn't count either.), and that is of the fact that one belonged to my aunt. She was a nurse. And a nun. And she giggled like Marge Simpson. And it suited her perfectly.

You know, all too well, that it makes no difference if you boosted this engine to 500 horsepower, it still looks like an Omni. But it has Carroll By-God Shelby's name attached to it, and that's the ticket.

So you quietly go about your work, even going so far as to install deadbolts on the doors leading into your garage. You improve the lighting, and spraypaint all the windows black. When friends stop by to see your new project, you quickly run very loud powertools to cover up the sounds of their knocking. The next day, you can claim you had ear protection on.

Bit by bit, you restore and repair the Omni; not because you want it, not because you like it, but because you've seen what happens when anything with Shelby's name crosses the block at Barrett-Jackson. Sure, this car isn't even a little bit desirable now, but with enough time and effort, and in good enough condition, you know it'll pay off in spades. Every time you look at the car, all you can think of is bulging canvas sacks with dollar signs on them. And eventually, that's almost enough to convince you that it's really not as godawful ugly as you think it is. Almost.

Eventually, after years of work, it's nearing completion. You're torn on how to proceed. The body is now immaculate, the interior is just as tacky as it was from the factory, and for all intents and purposes, it's probably better than it was when it was new. At least you know how to tighten a screw properly, more than can be said for the assembly line workers back in the day.

But now you've stumbled upon the problem. The GLHS had a pretty decent powertrain for its day, if by "decent", you mean "powerful, unsophisticated, and action-packed with gobs of turbo-lag and torquesteer". But it's been decades since that technology was up-to-date. So what do you do? Do you restore the engine back to minty-fresh factory-spec goodness, or do you properly upgrade it, and make it a modern-day barnstormer, capable of whupping some ass on new torquesteer monsters like the Focus RS?

Decisions, decisions. In your indecision, you let it slip to some of your friends that you're almost finished building up a turbocharged Shelby, and the lust on their face is almost frightening. So as your research continues, they start wanting to join in. You're watching every Barrett-Jackson auction religiously, with whiteboards, flip-charts and a laptop set up around you. Each Shelby that crosses the block is documented in your files, including all details on whether it is bone stock, resto-mod, full modified, full custom or factory-spec over-restoration. You begin creating mathematical formulae to determine the potential cost effectiveness of each and every modification possible. Body kit? Deduct money. Mild cam-and-carb upgrade? Modest improvement. Bone stock, never restored, HUGE money.

Since bone stock isn't an option, you determine that the next best is an immaculate restoration with a modern-caliber engine. Your friends, by this point, are right into the research with you, and seem to be enjoying the mystery even more than actually seeing the car. You're letting their imaginations run wild, letting them come up with whatever creative fun they can... and you fail to notice that somewhere in the magic, you've kind of forgotten that you don't actually have a Cobra or a Mustang GT500KR. You have an Omni.

So you spend a small fortune, piecing together the best, most powerful GLHS engine you can come up with. Hours spent on the internet, searching for each bolt, each rocker, each piston ring; what's the best, what will get the most performance? You find a clever fellow in rural Montana who's come up with a variable-geometry turbo setup, and although it's expensive, it's worth it. The performance gains are astonishing, and the turbo lag is drastically reduced.

So it's done then. The day is finally here. You've watched Barrett-Jackson, and Shelby-branded car values are up 42% over last year. You submit your car, and the Barrett-Jackson adjudicators pay you a visit. They pour over your car, talking quietly with each other, obviously uncertain how to proceed. You watch them with intense anxiety; they're the first people, other than yourself, to see your car in over five years, and that was only the crazy neighbour lady who poked her head in one day when you forgot to deadbolt the door. Thankfully, nobody's reported her missing yet.

They decide to, as they put it, "take a chance" with your car; they commend you for your work, saying it's immaculate, but they have no idea how much the Shelby name will bring up the value.

You feel a bit miffed, a bit indignant, but agree.

In a whirlwind, the auction arrives, and you watch as your car rolls up onto the block. All you can think of is swimming in a room filled with all the dollar bills you'll be bringing home from this car. It rolls, up, the auctioneer announces it, and gives it a starting bid of $10,000. Good thinking, you say to yourself, start low, get the bidding moving faster, build some emotion.

And nothing happens. The auctioneer drops to $9000.

$7500.

$6000.

$5000.

$3500. Finally, on the other side of the hall, a disinterested fellow half-heartedly raises his hand. Someone near you reluctantly raises his. Good, you think, two bidders. A bidding war. Bidding goes back up a bit. $4000. $5000. No... wait... $4500. The fellow near you tells the bidder's assistant something, he makes a series of hand gestures. $4750. What? Seriously? The fellow on the other side looks disgusted and shakes his head. You feel panic begin to settle over you.

Going once. Going twice. Sold! The buyer doesn't even look happy about it, more irritated than anything else. You sink back into your chair, frightened. All those years. All that work. You order a drink from the bar. And another. Your Shelby, gone.

Finally, the Barrett-Jackson rep finds you and presents you with your cheque. $3600, after all the deductions are taken off. You feel an empty, sinking feeling in your stomach, which just gets worse when the rep smirks, and says, "Go easy on the drinks here. They're damn expensive!"

You ignore him, and toss back a few more. As you get up to settle your tab, reality smacks you in the face. You're in the VIP lounge, for high-rollers and multi-millionaires. Your tab? $3497.82 Leaving you $102.08.

Not even enough to cover the cost of your gas to get home.

Oh yes, my friends, that is Shelby's version of Project Car Hell.

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This Charger would really give you fits. It looks like it's missing its 11-slat rear louvers, along with the decals and probably any sense of pride in ownership should you purchase this ode to '80s coat-tail branding.

I'd bet that, should you show up to an event where Carroll Shelby is present, and ask him to sign your glovebox door, you'd get a quick fist to the adam's apple and an under-the-breath response of "I've never seen that piece of shit before, now get away from me before I call my Intellectual Property Attorneys and really f**k you up."

Some orphans are better off not meeting their biological parents. They might just eat their young.

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Of all the cars, my personal PCH-dream car. Ohyes. The 323 GTX.

Your dreams have always been about rallying, about hauling ass around corners, not going quick down the 1320-- which is why it could never be the Omni GLH. No, you needed 4wd. You needed a turbo. You needed that 323.

Cursing yourself since that RHD Nissan Pulsar GTiR slipped through your fingers on eBay a few months ago, you'd set your sights on realistic, cheap rally action.

You needed a car that was sold here. You ultimately settled on the 323 as your object of lust.

You'd been salivating over the thought of owning one of these ultra-rare contraptions for a number of years, visions of 4WD rally glory danced through your head. It had to be the 323. Nothing else would suffice. 4-wheel drive, 5-speed, low weight, turbocharged. A WRX from an era when the WRX didn't exist yet. What a monster. Oh, the joy of buying such a sleeper.

A thousand dollars.

Well, the seller says it needs tranny work-- how difficult could that be? You're just going to beef it up to go rallying, what do you care if the transfer case is blown? You offer him 800, and he jumps at it as if his Nigerian banker had finally come through with the repayment he'd been promised.

You buy the car, not realizing just what awaits you. You trailer the car home, already plotting how you're going to get it to the Northwest SCCA rallies (you loathe the fact you're stuck on this continent).

The busted tranny component is easy enough to find, but you need some real MEAT behind your engine. With the help of your very crude Japanese language skills and excellent Engrish, (thanks Highschool Japanese!) you're able to secure one of the beefed up gearboxes from a JDM 323 GT-R. That's right, your ugly econobox had a GT-R trim-level. You don't stop there-- nothing will stop you in your quest for Rally Superiority. You order all the correct parts to beef your 323 up to GT-R spec. As a finishing touch, you bestow the car with the appropriate GT-R badge, just to fuck with people. You grin. But you feel empty.

You fire up the car, and on your first trip down the street, you fry the piston rings on this puppy. No worries, though. You scrounge up a Miata engine, bolt up your transmission and manifolds, and you're off.

You begin using the 323 as your daily driver, and you notice that the car's stereo has inexplicably gotten stuck on the Mexican radio station. You weren't even aware there WAS an Argentinian radio station.

You've gotten the car running, it drives great! But god, if there's not something nagging at you.

As you listen in frustration (because the drone of the engine does stop being entertaining during your 75mph commute), it hits you.

THE RALLY OF MEXICO. OH YES.

You load up your 323 with everything you need. You strip the car's interior out and install a rollbar. You festidiously study the FIA rulebook. You have the car tuned to Group-B specifications. Loading the car with your passport and all you need for a road-trip, you head for the border.

You slam through the gears, joyfully rowing away as you zip through traffic in a bee-line for Laredo, Texas.

You sit annoyedly in the line to cross the border.

As you roll up to the booth, the border patrol agent eyes you suspisciously, but then notes there is NOWHERE for you to hide ANYTHING in your stripped out beater-cum-rally-machine.

"Purpose of your visit?" He asks.

"Racing." You reply, grinning.

"Fair enough, just do that shit on that side of the border, got it?"

You nod, and take off.

You roar through Mexico, managing to avoid cop after cop. It's okay, though. You're in such a piece of shit, noone would ever suspect it. You turn up at the FIA registration booth in Corona, Mexico, grinning from ear to ear. Your once white rally machine is now a nasty shade of brown. You've got all your spares with you. The registrar signs you up, and sends you over to tech inspection.

To your dismay, you FAIL tech inspection.

Your use of the GT-R gearbox has pushed you out of Group-B. Fuck.

Not to be denied after driving thousands of miles and spending hours in that fucking cramped little beater, you jump into your car and head off from tech.

You blip the throttle and chirp into 2nd gear as you roar towards the start of Special Stage I. You come up to the lights, clutch in, rev the car and let the clutch out again, the 323's tyres struggling for grip against the loose gravel. Oh, but you'd planned ahead. You had managed to score yourself a set of Pirelli ASG-Z gravel rally tires for a hundred bucks of the pennysaver. They were used but had tons of tread.

You come up to a corkscrew. You hit the e-brake and rotate the car around the corner, never stopping. The crowd has lined the course, leaning in to take photos of you as you race by-- you're on your own here. You've done amazingly well, the photographers haven't seen a driver as ballsy as you since the glory days of the 80s.

You roar around hairpin turn after hairpin turn, glorious roostertails of dust flying from your wheels.

You finally feel complete. It's exactly like the Rally videogames you'd played so obsessively before deciding to buy this contraption. You remembered there always being an annoying voice, telling you where to go.

In your hurry, you'd neglected bringing a navigator. No naviagtor meant no trail notes. No trail notes meant no idea what the hell was over the next hill.

Shit.

If you'd had a navigator, right now, he'd be telling you "JUMP, RIGHT 3."

But you won't hear that, because you don't have a navigator, you rally-crazed idiot.

You roar over the jump catching quantities of air to make Michael Jordan jealous. But while airborne, you've no steering, no brakes, no control whatsoever. You come down, just in time to see the upcoming turn, and roar off the embankment. Your GTX's gravel rally tires claw desperately grip against the loose hillside as you fight to keep the car upright. Your struggle is futile. The horizon shifts, and you roll, once, twice, three times, the car beginning to disintegrate as you roll over rock and tree, your windshield coming into the cabin as you're thrown about like a rag doll.

The 323 comes to a rest at the bottom of the hill, stuck between a bunch of trees.

You stagger free of the cockpit, your face blooded and your ribs bruised if not broken.

You stand up and grin, wiping the blood from your face, as you stagger up the hill to waiting rescuers. As you get about 50 feet away, your 323 explodes, burning all of your gear, including your passport with it.

You're broken, beaten, penniless, and lost in a foreign country with no way home. You've never felt so alive.

And the kicker is: you wanna do it all over again.

You've caught rally fever. The cycle of racing, breaking everything, and sometimes yourself, and getting back up to gleefully do it all over again.

Dante himself beckons and welcomes you into a very different kind of hell, from which only death can save you. Rally Addict hell.

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Oh, and that frickin' giant hornet? Jeebus! Another reason not to go to Asia.

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With the Dodge, it's a hopeless mess too, but at least some guys will be mildly impressed.

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