Ode to the Small Block Chevy

A throbbing rumble. Meshing Gears. Whirring belts. Spinning shafts. Reciprocating hunks of metal. Explosions in a closed chamber. Compress, explode, expand, turn. Chemical energy into Mechanical. A big bang in a little chamber creates a mechanical piece de resistance, the invention that shaped the 20th century. And this, this is its finest, most pure masculine iteration. 427 cubes of unbridled pushrod power. No nancy boy over head cams here, no siree. No limp wristed flat-plane engines here, not enough torque to pull a twig, none of that, not here. This is 427 cubes of pure masculinity, tree stump pulling, world shifting torque. That’s what matters, horsepower is only a function of torque over time, none of this high revs no torque bullshit, not here. This is the small block Chevrolet V8, the engine that built America, 50 years plus and still going strong. This isn’t a pansy Symphony Orchestra, none of that finesse, none of that subtlety. This is a rock band, thing Queen at Wembley stadium, not the New York Philarmonic at Carnegie Hall. Now what would you rather hear? Be honest. Queen wins, every time. This engine is brown beer, It’s football and greasy food. This is engine is manly, this engine is America. This is the quiet Blue-Collar bloke in the corner of the bar with a beer who finally gets tired of all the nancy boy ruckus so he takes them out back and gives them a damn good thrashing. This is the engine that can give the best Germany and Italy have to offer a bloody good hiding. An all aluminium old school tour de force. A definite case of “Meet the new boss same as the old boss”. This is the grand daddy of engines. An all American thoroughbred, bordering on the edge of insanity.
An eight cylinder rock band, a pure explosion of power. A deep barrelled grunty exhaust note that’d make the baby Jesus cry. This is God’s engine, a symbol of all that is beautiful and righ tin this world. This is 427 cubes of baseball and apple pie.