The year was 1973, last gasp of the muscle-car revolution. And like every other young, American male with a pulse, 22-year-old Bob Willison of Canfield, Ohio, felt the need for speed.
The trouble was, he was almost too late. By ’73, history was moving faster than the hopped-up machines at the Friday-night drags. For one thing, auto-insurance bean-counters thought young guys in Pontiac Goats and Chevy Chevelles and Plymouth Superbirds were hitting roadside trees and guardrails too often and too hard—a problem.
And legions of free-breathing, 400-horsepower V-8s were converting urban atmospheres into a choking, eye-burning toxic fog. I should know: I lived in Los Angeles as a choking, eye-burning car guy during much of that time.
No matter. Willison still nurtured a desire to go fast, in whatever manner proved most practicable. But he didn’t want some big, fat Chevelle. His eye was on a lithesome 1964 Corvette coupe. He was making good money working in the Akron GM paint shop, so why not? He cut a deal on the C2, twisting his finances tight as a rubber-band propeller, with not a penny to spare. He paid a $200 deposit and went home to arrange his finances, so excited his skin didn’t fit.
But there was more to this “being an adult” than he planned. When he called the insurance man, he was quoted $600 a year. Doesn’t sound bad today, but in 1973 it was roughly the equivalent of $6,000 a year.
But wait, he had no accidents! No tickets! Tough, son, said the insurance guy. Six-hundred dollars—which Willison didn’t have. It was like being 22 and waking up one morning with no teeth and dementia.
Heartbroken, he had to cancel. The dealer felt so bad for him, he even returned the $200 deposit.
Trouble was, as sure as he still needed to eat, Willison still burned for a Corvette. He spent a year accumulating a war chest, and at 23, all his swords in order, he cut a deal on a triple-black, four-speed ’64 roadster. He offered $4,000, but the dealer produced the car’s $4,000 sell sheet and said he needed to make $200 on the deal. Willison agreed to $4,200, paid the insurance man’s blood money, and, at long last, had his Corvette.
In the years that followed, Willison developed a sentimental attachment to the car. Despite owning several other Corvettes during that time, he would hold onto the ’64 ‘vert for 23 years before finally parting with it.
But his work in the GM paint shop was far more than just a paycheck. He liked painting cars and developed a high level of proficiency at it. And one winter, after 12 or 14 years of ownership, he stripped the ’64 and bathed it in the most deeply ebony paintwork possible. The following summer, the car went to its first show, a big regional Corvette event. It was judged like all the rest. At mid-afternoon Willison and his wife, Roxanne, drove off the field to find a restaurant and a burger.
But while they were eating, Bob Willison’s phone rang. The main man at the show wanted to know where they’d gone, as their ’64 had won Best of Show. The gentleman was even kind enough to bring the trophy to the restaurant. It was one of many such awards Willison’s paintwork has scored.
As mentioned, though, the Willisons are far from a one-Corvette family. Bob Willison has restored a long list of cars, not all of them Corvettes. His interest in the automobiles of his youth include Chevelles and GTOs and others, all of which he converts to rolling fine jewelry. In fact, his talent with paint proved to be a gateway to financial freedom, offering him the opportunity to spend the second half of his life working on the cars he loves.
Painting the Way to Freedom
Willison has lived an admirable, hard-working life. Straight out of high school, his job at GM taught him his craft—but there was a problem. He worked the second shift, a 10-hour trudge from 4:30 p.m. into a pitch-black void. As a young single guy trying to get a life, it was not ideal.
Willison stuck with his job, becoming a master painter, but in the end he couldn’t take the schedule and quit. He found an decent job painting trailers, followed by a gig at a sign-painting company. His advanced skills applied perfectly there, and the pay was great. Thanks in part to his talent, the company grew. He met Roxanne there—she was 19—and in time they married. The company continued to thrive, and he became a partner. After some successful decades, on July 1, 2007, he and his partners sold the sign company for a massive profit.
In his early 50s, Willison was free to retire. Now he could do what he loved—restore cars—full time. He had the perfect workshop on his property in Canfield, and his two grown sons, Bob Jr. and David, to help him with his builds.
The Jewel In the Window
Our feature car is Willison’s magnificent 1957 283/250 “Fuelie,” the first single-headlight C1 of the 14 Corvettes that have passed through his hands over the years. In 2014 he paid $42,000 for the ’57—not running and in extremely tired condition, but absolutely complete. He trailered the car to Canfield, and upon offloading it found no nasty surprises. (Unloading another trailered Corvette a couple of years before, he’d heard loud, scrabbling noises. The car rolled off, and two furious raccoons raced out of the chassis, headed for the back country in search of a quieter abode.)
With numerous customer projects in the shop, the ’57 sat untouched for seven long years. Finally, in 2021, what would be a full, two-year restoration began. In 2023 the car went to its first show, a massive gathering of 220 Corvettes. Willison was immediately told to park it in the front row. He asked why, and the answer was blunt: “It’s the Best In Show.”
The show man wasn’t alone in his opinion, either. Our photographer, Rich Chenet, passed part of his misspent youth in a hot-rod paint shop and knew fine paint from mud-daubing. He was struck instantly by the ’57. Willison and his wife were off looking at other cars, so Chenet camped at the ’57 until they returned.
But Bob Willison is lots more than just a great paint man. He does all his own bodywork, steel or fiberglass, and as it happens, Corvette ‘glass is his ideal medium. If he isn’t satisfied with the body gaps or door hangs of a car, he redoes them till they’re tight, straight, and divine. Helped along by Roxanne’s indispensable second pair of skilled hands, he hangs doors and bumpers, sets hoods, and perfectly shims the ultra-demanding mounting of the voluptuous C1 windshield on its cowl.
“She knows more about cars than half the ‘car guys’ I know,” he says of his wife.
The ’57’s 283/250 isn’t the first Fuelie Willison has dealt with. Along the way, he’s become expert at setting up and tuning these sometimes-troubled packages. In the ’50s, many Chevy dealers themselves had fits making the Corvette’s FI work. When stumped, they sent problem units back to Rochester, the manufacturer, to be healed—sometimes getting a completely different unit in return.
But having patiently accumulated sufficient expertise, Willison says his ’57 is now wonderfully reliable. A good-running Fuelie, he counsels, must have very good vacuum and the choke must be well set up. He also fits an electric shut-off valve under the plenum to keep it from flooding when it gets too hot. This problem is usually caused by a bad gas valve, say the experts, and Willison agrees. With a good valve, his 283 runs like a train, a pleasingly responsive package.
The ’57’s most striking virtue, of course, is its rich, Venetian Red body and cool Shoreline Beige coves, a striking enough presentation to halt Chenet in his tracks. Willison’s singular gift is his ability to produce a deep, flawless finish. And, unlike some gifted painters, he’s a modest, down-to-earth guy with no secrets. He’ll tell you exactly how he achieves his superlative results.
Looking over the ’57 before starting its restoration, Willison was pleased to find it had no stress marks in the fiberglass. The car hadn’t been brutalized, and its body didn’t even have to be taken off the frame—a routine operation in early-Corvette refurbs. Just as salutary, the car’s stainless trim was in excellent condition. He sent it off to Bruce Dell, the Ohio stainless-steel genie, who rendered it all like-new. Reading the car’s various health signs, Willison is inclined to believe its odometer’s low 21,800 miles isn’t really a “five-digit 121,800,” but a legitimate reading.
With the body fully stripped, he went about correcting countless tiny fiberglass details, adding and removing material, perfecting gaps and clearances, making all surfaces true. When the prep was complete, he painted the Shoreline Beige coves first. Then, rich, Venetian Red was applied to the body and wet-sanded down with fine 2,500-grit paper. The car got four coats of color, then five coats of clear. In his opinion, applying more risks a glittery, wet-looking result. With his combination, he says, “It looks almost flat—like the deep shimmer of real lacquer.”
And so it does.
