Kevin Harris looks over from the passenger seat of his 1979 Toyota Corona wagon and shouts.
"It'll rev to eight grand."
The words are half dare. It's not fear that keeps me from sending that tach spinning. It's the thoughtless hardwiring of self-preservation. An onramp just spat us out onto a wide and empty four lane. There's a turbocharged 1JZ-GTE inline-six stuffed in the engine bay, and it should be at full wail, my right foot planted to the firewall.
I just can't bring myself to push past 5,000 rpm. The car scrapes and rubs over every dip in the pavement. The exhaust howls, the noise tearing at the inside the little Japanese box like a hornet in a snuff can. I grab the wooden shift knob and make the long throw from fourth to fifth.
We're doing 87 mph. It's never felt faster.
Harris is a big, amiable guy, always half a breath from a laugh and a smile. He doesn't seem like the type to build a car with the express purpose of killing you, but I guess that just goes to show you never can tell with people.
Earlier today, he drove while I rode shotgun, asking questions about his mental wagon. The concept started simply enough.
"I wanted a fast car I could afford," he said, "and I couldn't afford a Porsche."
He was also hooked on the Wangan Midnight anime series at the time.
"I wanted a Devil Z."
He's referring to the protagonist's supernaturally fast, seemingly possessed Fairlady Z. But old Datsun coupes don't do too well as family haulers, and 510 wagons were hard to come by. What he found was a derelict Corona. The original plan was to scrap the cast-iron four-cylinder in the nose in favor of an LS V8, but when he found a full 1JZ-GTE swap out of a JDM Supra for a grand, he got started. When he was done, he had somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 horsepower in a 2,500-pound wagon.
The 1JZ is bolted to a Toyota R154 five-speed transmission from that Supra. If there's a weak link in the system, it's the rear end. It's a disc-brake 8.8 out of a Ford Explorer, and Harris has gone through three of them in the past five years. The set up also chews ECUs, burning up capacitors with a regularity. The Corona's on its third so far.
Harris is comfortable in the coffin he's built, saucing it through intersections like a pro. His confidence is bred from the familiarity that comes from having twisted every last bolt on a machine. He names off the culprits behind the rattles and scrapes as we drive, each one cataloged and tagged with an appropriate threat level.
His degree is in sculpture, which explains the wild art in the engine bay and the hilarious details spread over the car. Harris says the look of the thing is always in flux, changing from month to month with his attitude and inspirations. Today: stickers on the back glass and a hula girl on the dash. Tomorrow? Who knows.
I get behind the wheel after a few photos. The driver's door is thin and delicate, but shuts with a precise click. The big inline-six comes to life with exactly zero drama, buzzing like a bastard not six inches from my shins. The clutch is light, the throttle's stiff, and getting underway requires more than a little finesse. I'm shocked that first gear is useable at all, but there's enough turbo lag to keep the rear tires planted. When the boost does come around, it's not a hammer blow. It's a big, lush swell.
The power's beautiful, but out of place. I imagine this is what a big-block Chevelle feels like: undersprung with only the faintest suggestion of steering or brakes. Harris hasn't gotten to those bits yet, and the Corona feels like a very fast bulldozer as a result. Imagine a Cat D9 with a couple of JATOs strapped to the tail, and you get the picture.
We pop off the interstate and onto some familiar back roads. There's grip out there somewhere, past the body roll and the million-turn-to-lock steering, but it would take a lifetime to get cozy with the set up. It's terrifying and manic in that perfect hot rod way. The car is worth more in pieces than it ever will be assembled, and if you can drive it without grinning from ear to ear, you're probably dead. Or an asshole. Either way, you're not the kind of goon I'd want to have a beer with.
