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Mike Floyd
Mike Floyd
One of my seminal memories was the few months I spent helping my cousin Steve literally build me from the frame up a super sick 1970 Chevy Nova in his garage just off of 8 Mile (yes, that 8 Mile). Black with white SS stripes. 350 V-8. Blackjack headers. Ladder bars. Four on the floor. Drum brakes all around. Mainly I helped hand him the wrenches, the bondo, the buffing wheel, the beer. When it was finally done and I blistered the tires for the first time, plumes of smoke filling up my rear view, I felt like a true American Bad Ass (pre Kid Rock). That's what it was like for so many of us who grew up in The D back in the day. It was about muscle. Detroit Iron. I remember my friends literally getting into fistfights that started out as an innocent discussion about the merits of the Mustang vs. the Camaro. I remember the first Woodward Dream Cruise, loping along in my 1967 Ford Thunderbird (suicide doors!) and pouring bleach on the street so fellow cruisers could spin 'em better and smoke 'em longer. The cops put a stop to those shenanigans in the years to follow. Buzzkills. So when I had an opportunity to get into this crazy business, you best believe I leapt like a bionic cheetah at the chance. Over the past 20 years or so (carbon dating myself), I've been honored and privileged to be a part of three great publications in Motor Trend, AutoWeek, and where I started as a cub journalist at the Detroit Free Press. I live out on the Left Coast now, and I've traveled the world several times over to bring hungry readers the latest and greatest news, photos, reviews, interviews, and more on all things cars over the Interwebs. Talk about broadening your horizons. And while the salad days back in my cousin's garage seem a million miles away now, my love for cars -- and my hometown -- have never wavered. Neither has my commitment to delivering the best possible experience to our users.
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