ICONICUS MAXIMUS

If you were asked to repaint the Mona Lisa, could you do it?

- Mike Musto

If we contracted you to renovate Fallingwater by Frank Lloyd Wright, would you be up to the task? And if you were entrusted to reimagine one of the most significant automotive shapes of all time, would that frighten you? Most of the time, questions like this are hypothetical. Let’s face it, the Mona Lisa is priceless, and Fallingwater is an architectural wonder, so it’s doubtful anyone is going to make a run at those anytime soon.

But what about that last question—the one about the car . . .

I look at its shape now in disbelief, 51 years after its reveal, and wonder what the public must have thought when they first laid eyes on it. There are no bad angles or harsh lines, and as a singular form, it possesses a menacing arrogance that few have matched. This is not a car for those without passion, or for those who walk a quiet line through life. Instead, it’s a vessel that captures emotions, mixes them with gasoline, and then ignites them in a way that sets fire to the imaginations of petrolheads the world over. This, the 1968 Dodge Charger, is the automotive antihero that other automobiles aspire to be. It’s the movie bad guy, the television celebrity, and in truth, one of the most stunning shapes ever to come out of Detroit.

Now, of course, I’m biased; I’ve owned an oil-slick-black ’68 for more than 15 years. To date, I’ve logged over 65,000 miles on it, and it’s the reason that I became an automotive journalist in the first place. That car is my happy place, and I’m more comfortable sitting behind its three-spoke wooden steering wheel than just about anywhere else on the planet. I was captivated by the Charger’s toughness by watching movies like Bullitt, Cannonball!, and then, of course, The Dukes of Hazzard, but it wasn’t until I saw one in person that the fork was placed in me and I was done.