The Prowlers then…

It’s 10 o’clock on a Thursday morning, and the members of the San Diego Prowlers Hot Rod Club — along with some fellow travelers — have taken over Steele 94. The place is a roadhouse that straddles the line between Jamul and Spring Valley. The men in the club keep referring to it in conversation as “The Greek” — for many years, this spot was a restaurant called The Greek Sombrero, and was, I gather, the site of wild nights for (at least some of) the Prowlers. Once upon a time. The Greek is gone now, and the times are less wild. But the Prowlers remain.

These days, they get together a couple times a month. Today’s event, after breakfast, is a country ride with stops for show-and-tells at the home garages of four different locals. Though the club is county-wide, this part of the county — El Cajon and neighboring areas — is the Prowlers’ home turf.

…and now.

My host is Bruce Hamilton, a jovial and talkative sort with a full head of shaggy white hair, who, like the Prowlers, is 77 years old. He says that this club boasts an amazing array of cars, most of them Fords. Someone here tells me that Hamilton is such a shrewd mechanic that he can listen to an engine (even a jet boat’s) and diagnose its problem in less than five seconds. Hamilton recommends the pork chops and eggs, and introduces me to a few friends.

Here is Jim Reid, the club secretary, whose ‘32 hiboy is one of the few to boast a Ford engine — a five liter V8 from a ‘90s Mustang. (Most hot rods use Chevys.) Here is Bud Brown, whose grandfather homesteaded the land Brown still lives on in Jamul in 1934. Robby Ivy’s family has been here since 1941. He’s got 11 cars on that property now. There are many more faces — wizened and white-whiskered, looking at me over their coffee cups.

The Prowlers tend to be older fellows, but they are still jazzed about their rides. Hamilton eagerly takes me outside for a little parking lot tour. The cars are all circa 1948 or earlier, and are all — to use the club’s favorite term of approbation — bitchin’. Aggressively tilted roadsters, larger sedans, and coupes with hand-painted pin stripe details on the back. A bright yellow 1931 model A with an exposed super-charged engine rising up menacingly out of the vehicle. These cars are the product of a mixture of greasy mechanical work and extensive automotive know-how. Also of finesse: there’s a delicacy in the crafting of these modified monsters — the impeccable paint, the custom upholstery, the careful choice of fixtures. Hod rods have always had this mixture, a combination of power and grace, speed and style.

Hot rods at the huddle-up.

Hamilton asks me if I have a favorite type of car. He even offers me some possible popular choices. I’m afraid I’m not much of a car guy, but I’m happy to look around, take a ride, and learn a few things, things like: a roadster has no windows and a soft top or no top at all, while the larger sedans and coupes have hard tops. Also, the hot rod thing in San Diego had its start with races at Paradise Mesa, an abandoned Navy field.

My first ride is with Reid in his hiboy It’s loud. The interior is spare. As we head to the first stop, Reid tells me a bit about the dawn of the hot rod phenomenon. Like that other southern California vehicular subculture, the motorcycle gang, this one was birthed by returned GIs. “The war was over and people were still looking for a thrill.”

After about 10 minutes, we arrive at John Peterson’s spread in Jamul, where the group looks around, fiddles with things, and chats. We’re here for about 30 minutes before we move on. Lacking the flexible schedule of these retirees, I can’t make it to all four stops on today’s outing, but I have time for the next one.

Club Secretary Jim Reid and his fender-free roadster.

Hamilton wants me to take a ride in Vortex, the super-charged, highly modified yellow ’31 Ford belonging to Don Kleine. According to Hamilton, Kleine was “too much of a squirrel” to be allowed in to the Prowlers in the old days, too fast and wild. As I ride with him, I’m glad that we’re constrained by the tightness and slowness of the caravan. He can’t really show me what his car can do, though that doesn’t stop him from repeatedly revving his engine — a blown ’56 Chrysler Hemi with 725 HP Hilborn Injection and 671 Littlefield Blower — and pounding on the gas before stopping just short of the car in front of us. He lets out an unhinged chuckle each time. (Hamilton will ask me later if Vortex — a moniker Kleine shares with his car — scared the hell out of me.) The car is actually loud enough that it’s hard to talk inside, so Kleine and I say little before we arrive at our next stop, which is John Perez’s place. Surprised by the vast number of cars, the immense garage space and the hardware scattered throughout the property, I mention to Hamilton that the Prowlers must have very accommodating wives. I am quickly corrected: “No. Ex-wives !” Two men next to us agree. Some rueful advice about the travails of marriage in middle age follows. The forties must have been the divorce hot spot around here, agewise.

After Perez’s, I have to make my way to my own sled. That would be the Toyota minivan that is still parked at the restaurant. Hamilton offers to take me back. He needs to go anyway, because someone left his cane at breakfast. On our way to the car, he says that the Prowlers belong to an era, and that the club won’t be around forever. He says that there’s something that people who know him well will hear him say often: “Everything is for a while.”