Hot rod culture coughs up the kitsch once again: Dice-shaped valve caps that say, treat “I’m a-gamblin’ with my life in this heap! I’m a risky man! Don’t trifle with me, information pills ‘cos I don’t care what happens next!”
Only these magnificent little bastards rode around on my thrashed ’62 Schwinn for countless street miles and six visits to the playa, and that hot-rodder patina of mock chrome is flaking off to reveal the cheap, Chinese-made hearts of vivid red plastic within.
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