The dashboard is straightline with minimal padding and quite dated looking with its elongated speedometer. Gauges are the bare minimum and require supplementation (which Donovan has done). Even the bright blue see-through plastic of the steering wheel looks outdated. There was a bucket-seat-and-console option In '62 but few Super Duty buyers specified it. It added unnecessary weight and why add another burden to that beautiful piece of underhood machinery?
Clutch in, left and forward into first gear. The clutch action is light and you're surprised again. With all that torque to transfer-over 500 actual lbs./ft.-you somehow expect the clutch to be the same one as on a 40-ton dual. It's not. And the Borg-Warner T-10, as always, works smoothly and precisely.
You're out in traffic now and the car simply chugs along, not overheating, not bucking, not doing anything your father's old 389 street engine didn't do. Here's a break in traffic. Mash the throttle and you're slammed back against the seat. 6000 rpm. Mash back on the shift lever and flick the clutch pedal. Your head is almost torn off.
You feel the torque kick into the small of your back like a supercharger. It happens at about 4000 rpm—and you love it!
A few more shots like this and you're ready to take on all comers. You practice your shifting and your burnouts and you feel great. Hey man, check me out. This is me, man, and I'm driving a bad-ass '62 Poncho Super Duty, man. Check me out.
There's nobody on this night that's gonna beat you. Nobody. You can't be touched. Tonight, you rule. Turn on the AM and let's cruise awhile, man. Maybe you can pick up a run. Hey, cool sounds, man. Shut Down by the Beachboys. Tach it up, tach it up, buddy gonna shut you down. Yeah, man!
Go down Cross Bay Boulevard, man, and check out the White Castle. Maybe you can pick up a run with that guy who just bought the 409. Or that fuelie Vette that's been shooting off his mouth. Tell him to put up or shut up. Tonight, man, you rule.
Here's the White Castle. You pull into the lot. Hey, wait a minute. Where's all the guys? What are all these junker, clapped out Chevys and Fords doing here'? Where are the guys with their boss wheels and boss threads and boss chicks?
You snap back. Your mind has been in a time warp. It's not 1962. It's 1973 and there are no runs this night, not with 409s and fuelie Corvettes or anything else. And it's sad.