A Dyno Day is a spectacle of noise and numbers that mesmerizes the male mind; An altar to turnpike dominance. We respect that which moves mass. This beast is valuable to the tribe, yes; The Male Gaze turned in on itself. I appreciate the male form, mechanical or organic. Might transcends sexuality. We stare at skyscrapers, sequoias, and anything with an "SS" badge. Witness! Here is The Alpha...The Better...The Champion.

Going to a dyno day is always an interesting experience. But when you go to one run by a group known as the "Sloppy Mechanics," you know that it's going to be more unusual than expected. Let me set the scene.

White smoke and black soot from a Dodge Ram diesel block out the Autumn Sun.

Matt Happel, the leader of the "Sloppy Mechanics" that threw this dyno day is in charge of running everything on the dyno. He is a calm leader and moves slowly. Anxious bodily movements cause limb-loss when cars are running full bore and bucking under straps while turbos spool only inches away. Matt holds a well-worn red and green dyno switch at the end of a heavy black cable. He presses the green button and floors it. 542 wheel horsepower from a Ram 2500 Cummins that could barely fit on the dyno is the result.

Nearly every car that exited the dyno did a burnout on the access road in front of the shop. The access road was, on paper, considered a private road for about 100 yards. There is a weird law in Pennsylvania, and other states, called "Common Access." The gist of the law states that if multiple properties can only be accessed by a road or path, all persons shall be able to use the road, even if said road is on private land. The dyno shop owns the access road, but there are no signs saying the road is private. Furthermore, the BJ's has a back entrance to their parking lot that connects to the access road. That means families, thinking they are "taking the shortcut," drive past the paving and dyno shop which is dead on most days, but not this day. This day is madness.

A volunteer steps out of the garage bay and points an electric white bullhorn at the spectating crowd.

"Anyone who left their truck and trailer in BJ's parking lot, you need to move it. They called in a complaint!"

I left the shop and the crowd to walk over to BJ's Wholesale to see what the volunteer was shouting about. In the parking lot was a GMC Sierra and a Chevy Silverado. Both had trailers. The trucks and trailers were parked sideways across twenty parking spaces.

I return to see black smoke bleeding from every shop door.

I return to see black smoke bleeding from every shop door. An International-truck-based hotrod was climaxing a diesel cloud. A father is walking toward the parking lot with a telescoping GoPro stick in one hand and a his crying son in the other.

1980's Camaro. Saws-all hood. Twin Turbos feed a carbureted V8 with duel side-dump pipes. 430whp.

Chevy Caviler LS. Ecotec 2.2. Turbo Swap. Interesting sleeper. No badges apart from stock. Dull silver rental car paint. 299whp.

Two Pennsylvania State Troopers arrived. The crowd thinned a bit at their arrival. Attendees looked at their shoes. The sleeper Caviler had to stay put because one of the State Trooper's Ford Explorers blocked the entrance to the shop. State Police involvement was inevitable.

The problem was attendees kept standing in the street to watch the burnouts. They didn't mean to, it just sort of happened. See, when a car started showing off, people safely on the curb would turn their heads to watch. People in the back of the crowd couldn't see. The blocked spectators would move to the sides of the crowd to see and step out onto the street just a little bit. Now, the people behind them couldn't see, so they stepped out around them a little more. What formed was a sideways "V" of people that spilled out into the street.

All the State Troopers wanted was for the spectators to stay out of the street. The officers understood that this section of the roadway was technically private and there was nothing they could do about the burnouts—for now.

Minutes after the police left, a twenty-nothing in a green knit cap slithered indifferently down the center of the road.

Lookie-loos were arriving. These are people who had no car to bring, and who didn't really have an interest in cars. They were drawn by noise and action. They are societies' moths to lightbulbs and decibels. Dyno Day had reached a self-sustaining mass; the critical moment when a crowd attracts a crowd.

"What's going on over there?" Thinks a Lookie-Loo, "I have to see. Bring the kids! Something is happening! I wanna see!"

Dyno day had transcended cars at this point. It was the place to be, revving its announcement thought the Lehigh Valley. Police presence had only validated its existence. "Dude, it's 3pm and already the cops showed up! I'm so there!"

A hoodie-couple hugged and rocked back-and-forth in the road. Conversations about parked cars spilled out in the street, not moving for passing cars. For driving cars, the road had become a one-lane passage way, there were so many people milling around.

One of the volunteers marches out of the dyno shop with the electric bullhorn again.

"You've got to get...out...of...the...street! The cops will come back!"

I had to get out of there for a moment. I felt guilty. I felt the ghost of Bad Luck watch me from miles away. I had to put distance between myself and the guilty. I wasn't causing any trouble but that wouldn't matter. I was associated with trouble. That was bad enough. I went to a chain restaurant to get away.

Nerves calmed, and belly full of salad and beer, I return for more.

A man in his mid 30's wore a synthetic motorcycle jacket and held a Guy Fawkes mask by the elastic head-strap. He talked with others but his eyes searched the edges of the crowed as if he expected something.

BMW Z3 Roadster. 151Whp.

A girlfriend in a fur-hooded jacket stood up on her tip-toes and gave her home-haircut boyfriend a kiss on the cheek. Boyfriend didn't react. He pointed at a supercharged Caviler on the dyno. It was lowered with back-of-the-magazine wheels. Many gauges. "Exiled Tuners" window vinyl. 259whp.

Guy Fawkes Motorcycle Jacket-Guy put his mask on his head but not all the way. He wore it like a sun visor. Was he waiting for the right moment to pull it down?

Military Haircut Boyfriend and Blank-Stare Girlfriend pushed through the crowd to see a Dodge Hellcat on the dyno. The Boyfriend wore a hoodie that said, in big letters: "Nobody cares about your Cummins, bro."

Dodge Hellcat: 635whp.

A figure moved squirrel-like though the crowed. A male with stringy and sandy blonde hair spilling onto the collars of two jackets. He carried a translucent white plastic garbage bag half-full of clothes over one shoulder. One of his jacket pockets was full of beef jerky pouches: Jack Links. The man wore black food-service sneakers and tan slacks with no belt. His free hand was opening and closing as if he was squeezing an invisible tennis ball. Where did he come from? I didn't see him arrive, he just appeared. As he moved though the crowd, he hid his intended path with head-jerks, as if everything around him was new and he's just "checking things out." He put his garbage bag of clothes down and snatched a cigarette from the breast pocket of his green shirt. He looked at the cigarette as if he never saw one before. He shrugged and lit it. No one talked to him. Other attendees glanced at this vagrant and took two steps away.

I'm following him, curious to find out if he will stay at this dyno day. There's no free food, no drinks, not even drinkable water at this shop. Yet, the drifter stays. I looked to see if anyone else is as intrigued by his presence as I was. When I looked back to where the wanderer was standing, he was gone. I spun 360 degrees and saw nothing buy the hoodie brigade. How did the vagrant disappear like that? I walked out to the front parking lot; the only way out of the lot. The rest of the property was fenced off. Gone. Surely he knows visual judo. They have powers that only come to those who wander and dodge the eyes of anyone with a teaspoon of authority. Divine.

Turbo Foxbody drag-car with a parachute and water-to-air intercooler: 1,013hp.

Hyundai hatchback with a "Daily Driver" sticker on the windshield: 106hp.

Eagle Summit sedan. Sun faded paint. Sneak-attack blow-off-valve. 300whp!

An unmarked blueish-gray Crown Vic rolled up and parked in front of the crowd. Local Police. The same volunteer strolls out to take lumps for all of us. He suffers authority's punishing gaze so we don't have to. While the volunteer talked to the local cop, a semi-circle of hoodie spectators formed behind the volunteer, eager to hear the conversation but not eager enough to get near the officer.

Yes, there were still too many people in the street but the burnouts were getting out of control.

The rap was different than before. Yes, there were still too many people in the street but the burnouts were getting out of control. Ecstatic dyno participants weren't happy with standing burnouts. They stepped-up to rolling burnouts which stretched beyond the shop's private road and intruded to the side entrance to BJ's Wholesale. I predicted this would happen the moment the crowed reached self-sustaining levels and some burnouts failed. You know, the rebound, the face-save, the emasculating moment when a beta-tuner's car fails to spin its tires. The motors were too weak or the tires were too sticky or the gear ratio was too high. The cars hooked up prematurely and shot forward. The drivers, in an effort to show that "I meant to do that" floored their pedals and feathered their clutches so maybe, just maybe, they could get some redemption smoke. Before they knew it, they were 150 yards away and terrorizing Oldsmobile Silhouettes full of bulk pasta and apple juice concentrate.

The local police officer didn't leave. He stayed out front. No more burnouts.

PT Cruiser GT 2.4L Turbo. Thule snowboard rack. 229hp.

Lotus Elise with unknown forced induction. 273hp.

The Police Crown Vic left. Heads turned to watch him go and make sure he was really leaving and not driving around the corner to hide—or worse, circle the neighbored just long enough to give someone the temptation to spin their wheels only to materialize at the perfect moment to write a "reckless driving" ticket.

The sun was setting and the Pennsylvanian fall air was slipping back near the frost point. It was time for the sacrifice. At the end of every Sloppy Mechanics' Dyno Day, the crew tries to break a junkyard car with horsepower. Don't feel bad for the cars. They are destined for the junkyard, never to drive again. All have tired old motors that can barely get out of their own way.

Up for sacrifice is a Buick Regal GS. This is a factory supercharged four door AARP card that, in its day, made 240hp. Not bad. The gang welded up a turbocharger and mounted it to the top of the engine with a used crankshaft—very Mad Max. The dump pipe shot up at an angle. There was no way to run oil to the turbo, so they packed grease and gear oil into the oil feed hole and called it good. After all, the turbo only had to survive a few pulls. The Buick V6 now had a turbo-supercharged-nitrious-boosted motor with 280,000 miles and every warning light lit on the dash.

Gratuitous? Perhaps, but think of it this way: An old Buick is getting one last ride to glory!

The Buick started just fine but there was valve noise. One of the volunteers pulled the car up on the dyno drum. I stood on a wooden staircase and hid behind a wooden railing. Who knows what would happen.

Here's a video of the aftermath. It was a fitting end to a mad day.

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