Rebuilding a legend
A jet car that was stolen and chopped up comes alive, one agonizing piece at a time.
By Brady Dennis
Published March 12, 2007
 | Doug Rose built it with his own hands in 1968, and wherever it went the Green Mamba, a jet-powered car, drew large crowds. |
| [Photo courtsey of Doug Rose] |
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BY BRADY DENNIS Times Staff Writer
TAMPA She's quiet now. Still in pieces. Still not herself. But when Doug Rose gazes wearily at the shell of his life's work, sitting there in a drab warehouse near the Tampa airport, he sees all she was and all she could be again. "She's a tough old hide," the tough old man says. "She's a real bear." She is the Green Mamba - his jet car, his legacy, his meal ticket.
In November, thieves stole the car and its custom-made trailer from the apartment complex off Waters Avenue where Rose has lived for 15 years.
The case drew national attention. Authorities tracked the car to a local repair shop and arrested the owner. But the Mamba had been chopped up and stripped down. Rose's tools, his helmets, his fireproof racing suits - all gone.
Soon, the TV cameras left. The reporters stopped calling. The e-mails slowed to a trickle.
And it was just Rose and his wife, Jeanne, alone with the wreckage and a dwindling bank account, wondering how to start over.
- - -
The love story began in July 1968, in a body shop called Korky's in North Hollywood, Calif., down the street from a bar run by a dwarf.
When he wasn't at the bar, Doug Rose was at the body shop, assembling his dream: a jet-propelled car.
He had crashed an earlier version, losing both legs from the knees down but not his craving for speed.
It took six months, 3,000 pounds of metal and a $400 surplus engine from a Navy fighter jet. In return, he got 6,500 pounds of thrust and a lifetime supply of adrenaline.
"An act of love," he called his creation. "A work of art."
He named it for a mamba snake he had once seen. It was aggressive and deadly and beautiful.
The jet car and driver spent decades working the drag racing circuit, racing on strips of pavement in a thousand small towns.
They crossed the border to Canada and Mexico. They performed in Aruba. Once, they topped 305 mph.
When the racing dried up, Rose and the Green Mamba kept entertaining the crowds. He would use the jet engine to torch cars. They torched hundreds of cars. They torched 18-wheelers. They torched piles of motorcycles.
They both gained a measure of fame. Rose knew every inch of the car, knew it better than his three wives. He would even whisper to her sometimes, tell her what a good girl she was.
The young hell-raiser of 1968 is a 69-year-old man now, with mad-scientist wisps of gray hair and a quiet weariness in his walk.
But his eyes still flicker with determination and stubbornness. He wants to climb back in that car, needs to fire it up again, both to pay the bills and to ease his mind.
"We're getting things done," he says quietly when asked about the progress.
Some days, it just doesn't feel that way.
- - -
The past few months have dragged by in a blur of small victories and larger disappointments.
"It's been hell," Jeanne said.
She and Doug rarely sleep through the night. They watch movies at 3 a.m., or talk about the many tasks they must finish the next day. Sometimes they just lie together, wide awake, not saying a word.
They've spent many days working the phone, navigating the maze of insurance claims and trying to book shows this summer with old friends who trust them to show up.
They've visited pawnshops in search of the specialized tools that were stolen. They have grown angry at sheriff's investigators, who they believe have put the case on the back burner. They despise the snail's pace of the legal system.
Meanwhile, their finances have dwindled. They live mostly off Doug's modest Social Security check and a few advance deposits for shows later this year. They face a cruel paradox: It takes money to fix the Mamba, but the Mamba is their primary source of income.
"We're kind of stuck," Rose said in January, during one of the darker days. "Everything we saved is gone. We're living off the bare necessities.
"If I had a handful of money, I'd have it done in a couple weeks."
And yet, they have encountered unexpected kindness from both friends and strangers.
An old buddy and Dade City mechanic, Ted Kempgens, welded the car back together and sandblasted the frame.
"This car has a legacy," said Kempgens, who didn't charge a dime. "I call Doug and the Mamba both legends."
Others have donated spare parts and free labor and given the Roses free credit - pay when you can.
Their apartment complex has promised to be lenient on rent. Jeanne's mother sent a wrench set for Christmas. A sister offered a Home Depot card. Friends have picked up the check at dinner.
People even have sent cat food to make sure their cats, Digit, Dirt and Bear, are well-fed.
- - -
So much work remains.
They have to construct a new fuel tank, redo the body work, get the wheels back on.
They have to find someone willing to paint the Mamba electric green for a reasonable price. They have to get the jet engine firing again.
Jeanne, who Doug calls "my crew chief," has no doubt they will succeed.
"Neither of us likes to give up," she said.
And so on a recent Tuesday evening, they are at their usual spot in a small garage in a drab warehouse near the Tampa airport, not giving up.
There's an air show in Punta Gorda in late March, and they are hoping to have the Mamba ready to burn a few cars by then.
On the wall hang reminders of better days: pictures of the Mamba in action and posters from shows in cities such as Durham, Akron and Suffolk.
Grease and dirt coat their hands after another day spent digging through old parts and trying to piece the car together.
It's a warm evening. The sun is setting. Jeanne flips on a fluorescent light overhead, and the couple keeps working.
Doug leans against the nose of the Mamba and talks about the day when he'll fire her up again and torch some scrap metal, or maybe hurtle down a track with her at nearly 300 mph.
He hasn't been there in a while, but the old man's lips melt into a faint smile at the thought:
"That's where all the fun is."
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