Aylmer's Poor Boyz, with a barn-find 1956 Chevrolet sedan. Front, from left: Timmy Maxsom, Mike Maxsom, Chris Hetherington; passenger side: Troy Forgie, Casey McGowan, Derrick Mayhew, Joey Verboomen; driver side: Panch Davis, Carman Hetherington, Boz Davis. CREDIT: Shannon Lee Mannion, The Ottawa Citizen

Amidst much hilarity, the roar of engines and the smell of exhaust, six members of the Poor Boyz Car Club make a grand entrance into the parking lot across from the former Technical High School in downtown Ottawa.

They don't stop in the parking area, but boldly stream across the grass and come to rest on the basketball court, where Casey McGowan hastens out of his 1972 Camaro.

"We aren't all here yet," he apologizes. "The Firechicken (a.k.a. Firebird) ran out of gas so the others are on a gas run."

Poor Boyz, poor of pocket maybe but not of spirit, as four more cars pour across the grass, the gas dilemma solved.

Introductions all around, firm handshakes and polite "pleased-to-meet-yous." Most appear to be in their early to mid-20s, but one could be twice that. Turns out Panch Davis, who owns a 1984 Chevette with a 427 V-8 stuffed into it, "a mini-funny car," he asserts, is sort of the den father. "Yeah, they're all my adopted sons, good kids," he says. "They all have keys to my garage."

One of the Hetherington brothers pipes up. "Yeah, he's got the garage and the tools. He's cool."

There's Carman and Chris Hetherington, both hazel of hair but with considerably different tastes in cars. Carman's choice is a 1956 four-door Chevrolet that someone unearthed from a barn where it'd sat for 37 years. He touched up the blue paint recently, dabbing on a near colour-match with a brush."I did that for a photo shoot last week for our website (www.poorboyz.8m.com)," he explains. "I did the rims red, it's traditional."

Chris is more into heavy American metal and drives a 1968 Chevelle. The brothers plan to launch a clothing line they call Poor Boyz Custom Clothing in June. The designs on the T-shirts, tanks, hats, etc. are inspired by Carman's original tattoo-style artwork and blend urban wear with "hot rod kustom kulture."

The circle of faces turns thoughtful when I ask, "What does car culture mean to you?" and then erupts. "It's when we drive around and then show up at the same place." "It's when we spend the winter in the garage building a race car." "It's when go to car shows, cruise nights, work on each other's cars."

I counter, "But why form a separate club when there are at least 50 you could join?" Casey jumps in. "Well, we're mostly from Aylmer and the Chelrods (based in Chelsea, Que.) are too far away. Sure there's the import guys, the super-tuners, but it's rare to get guys of our age with a passion for these types of cars. It was passed on to us from our parents and grandparents."

Mike Maxsom chimes in: "My dad got me my first car, a Gremlin, from a junkyard for $50."

Mention of this car starts a rapid-fire dialogue that goes something like this:

Mike: My other Gremlin, the 1974, couldn't make it. The '72 is my driver. Me: Oh, is the other your parts car? Mike: No, it's my race car that I've got 30 grand into. It's a seven-year ongoing project that I haven't finished yet. Me: My goodness, that's a lot of money to put into a Gremlin, you couldn't find a Pacer? Much laughter and Mike feels that he has to show his commitment by whipping up his sleeve to reveal a red Gremlin tattooed on the side of his arm.

This gives Boz Davis, son of Panch and owner of a 1991 Ford Mustang LX 5.0-litre, impetus to demonstrate a few of his tattoos. Up comes his pants leg. A mass of colour covers his lower leg muscle. On his neck is what seems to be a large baby blue insect. It looks like a trilobite. "What, the spark plug?" he asks, mock-shocked while the others chortle.

Everyone has at least one tattoo. Given warmer weather, the interview would have resembled a biker reunion. But you know what they say about books and covers. "These days," Boz points out, "It's socially acceptable."

Time to grab a few photos of the boyz and their toyz.

"Get that bling-bling going," Casey exhorts Chris, who delegates Derrick Mayhew to move his Chevelle into place. There's a big trust factor when you let another guy drive your car.

Do the club members have loud sound systems to match their engines? "We like all kinds of music," Troy Forgie responds, "but we took our radios out. We like the sound of our cars. It's about driving, not listening to music."

"I like to listen to my car percolate," insists Joey Verboomen of his 1971 Nova.

Oddly, all the cars present are blue or silver. There are no foreign marques. "We burn Hondas and Yamahas," growls Panch, who, when not doing the car thing with his son and their friends in the club, is a Harley man.

Time to wrap up as someone kids that the club is meeting the Dalai Lama at 3 p.m. Then it strikes me. "Where are the girls in the club?" There are guffaws and disgusted looks. "Poor Boyz," someone says, with explicit emphasis.

Oh yeah, duh.

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