SEMA is a sea of predictability disguised as excess. Row after row of Camaros, Mustangs, C10s, and late-model Hellcat swaps all chasing the same applause meter. Gas Monkey Garage knew that noise, and they knew the fastest way to cut through it wasn’t another safe crowd-pleaser, but something that made seasoned builders stop mid-step and ask why.
The 1972 Buick Riviera was that why. Not a muscle car in the traditional sense, not a lightweight canyon carver, and definitely not an Instagram darling. It was a calculated left turn meant to challenge what a SEMA build is supposed to be and remind people that style, presence, and engineering ambition still matter more than trend-chasing.
A Luxury Coupe With a Chip on Its Shoulder
By 1972, the Riviera had already lived several lives. Originally pitched as Buick’s personal luxury flagship, the third-generation Riviera leaned hard into dramatic design with its long hood, short deck, and controversial fastback profile. This wasn’t a car built to win drag races; it was built to dominate boulevards with torque-rich big-blocks and unapologetic mass.
That’s exactly why it worked as a SEMA platform. The Riviera’s 4,300-plus-pound curb weight, long wheelbase, and factory luxury bias made it an engineering challenge rather than a bolt-on exercise. Gas Monkey wasn’t interested in another pro-touring clone; they wanted to take a car most builders overlook and force it into a modern performance conversation.
Going Against the SEMA Grain
SEMA rewards craftsmanship, but it also rewards familiarity. Builders know what judges expect, what photographs well, and what sponsors gravitate toward. Choosing a ’72 Riviera was a deliberate rejection of that formula, and Gas Monkey knew it would polarize opinions instantly.
The Riviera’s sheer size alone makes packaging modern suspension geometry, wheel fitment, and driveline components a nightmare compared to a first-gen F-body. But that difficulty was part of the message. Gas Monkey wanted to show they could engineer around limitations instead of starting with a car that already checks every performance box.
The Subtext Behind the TV Narrative
On television, the choice was framed as bold, risky, and slightly reckless, which made for good drama. Off camera, the decision was far more strategic. A Riviera stands out under the SEMA lights precisely because it doesn’t fit any current build category, forcing the car to be judged on execution rather than expectation.
It also aligned with Gas Monkey’s brand identity at the time. They were positioning themselves as builders who didn’t need to follow the rest of the industry to stay relevant. The Riviera wasn’t picked despite its flaws; it was picked because of them, serving as a rolling statement that originality still has currency in a hall full of sameness.
A Statement Before the First Wrench Turned
Before the suspension was reworked or the powertrain decisions were finalized, the statement had already been made. Gas Monkey showed up with a Buick that most people associate with vinyl roofs and soft springs, daring the SEMA crowd to rethink what performance and cool can look like.
That gamble set the tone for everything that followed, from the engineering compromises to the aesthetic choices and the mixed reactions on the show floor. The Riviera wasn’t just a build; it was a challenge aimed directly at the SEMA status quo, and Gas Monkey knew exactly what they were doing when they rolled the dice on Buick’s most misunderstood coupe.
From Forgotten Luxury Coupe to SEMA Contender: The Riviera’s Historical Weight and Design DNA
To understand why the choice of a 1972 Riviera landed with such force, you have to understand what the car represented long before SEMA. This wasn’t a muscle car fallen from grace or a cult classic waiting to be rediscovered. The Riviera was Buick’s attempt to redefine American luxury performance on its own terms, and by the early ’70s, it was already drifting out of fashion.
That historical baggage is exactly what Gas Monkey leaned into. They weren’t just fighting packaging constraints and scale; they were fighting decades of perception baked into the sheetmetal.
Buick’s Flagship with an Identity Crisis
The Riviera debuted in 1963 as GM’s quiet flex, a personal luxury coupe with European proportions and big-inch American power. By 1971–1973, the Riviera had grown massive, riding on GM’s E-body platform and tipping the scales well north of two tons depending on trim. It was engineered for ride quality and isolation, not apexes or brake markers.
Under the hood, even the performance-oriented GS variants leaned on torque-heavy big-blocks like the 455, rated at modest net horsepower numbers thanks to emissions regulations. The car was designed to lope effortlessly at highway speeds, not attack corners. That DNA doesn’t disappear just because you want it to.
The Boat-Tail Legacy and the 1972 Reality
Design-wise, the ’71–’73 Riviera is inseparable from the controversial boat-tail rear end. Inspired by classic speedboats and European grand tourers, it was bold, sculptural, and completely out of sync with emerging muscle-era minimalism. Some consider it brilliant; others consider it an overstyled misstep.
By 1972, tightening emissions standards, softer suspensions, and luxury-first priorities had dulled the Riviera’s edge. That made it an odd candidate for reinvention, especially at SEMA, where visual aggression and performance cues tend to dominate. Gas Monkey didn’t smooth over that history; they put it under brighter lights.
Why the Riviera Fights Modernization
From an engineering standpoint, the Riviera’s architecture actively resists modern performance upgrades. The long overhangs, wide body, and factory suspension geometry make lowering the car without ruining ride quality a serious challenge. Wheel and tire fitment requires careful offset math to avoid rubbing while still filling the massive arches.
Chassis stiffness is another overlooked issue. The Riviera was never designed for modern grip levels, meaning any serious suspension or tire upgrade exposes flex that wasn’t a problem in 1972. Reinforcing the platform without adding excessive weight becomes a balancing act, especially when aesthetics are under SEMA-level scrutiny.
Design DNA You Can’t Erase
No matter how radical the build, the Riviera always reads as a Riviera. The long hood, the tapering rear, the low beltline, and that unmistakable roof profile anchor it firmly in early-’70s GM design language. Unlike a Camaro or Mustang, you can’t disguise its origins with bolt-on aggression.
That permanence is what makes the car such a risky SEMA play. Judges and spectators aren’t reacting to a blank canvas; they’re reacting to their memory of what the Riviera was. Gas Monkey’s task wasn’t to overwrite that memory, but to reinterpret it without breaking the car’s visual and historical contract.
Why That History Matters on the Show Floor
At SEMA, context matters as much as craftsmanship. A Riviera doesn’t get the benefit of nostalgia-fueled goodwill the way a Chevelle or C10 does. Every modification has to justify itself against a legacy rooted in comfort, not competition.
That’s why the build sparked conversation before anyone asked about horsepower or suspension geometry. Gas Monkey wasn’t just modifying a car; they were challenging an entire narrative about what deserves to be taken seriously in the custom world. The Riviera’s past wasn’t a footnote to the build. It was the obstacle that defined it.
Inside the Shop: How the Riviera Was Really Built, Who Did the Work, and What the Cameras Didn’t Show
By the time the Riviera rolled into Gas Monkey’s orbit, the hard questions had already been asked off-camera. This wasn’t a flip, a thrash build, or a feel-good rescue. It was a calculated SEMA project built under the understanding that the Riviera’s biggest enemy wasn’t time, but expectation.
What viewers saw on TV was the tip of the iceberg. What actually happened inside the shop was a far more methodical, vendor-heavy, deadline-driven operation than reality TV ever admits.
The Truth About “Built In-House”
Gas Monkey Garage has never pretended to be a one-stop fabrication utopia, and the Riviera was no exception. Core disassembly, mock-up, and final assembly happened under the GMG roof, but specialized work was split among trusted outside vendors with deeper expertise in specific disciplines.
That includes chassis refinement, high-end paint execution, interior finishing, and certain fabrication tasks that simply don’t make sense to rush internally when SEMA-level tolerances are on the line. This is standard practice across nearly every serious SEMA build, regardless of what the show narrative implies.
The cameras love to suggest a small crew grinding late nights to beat impossible deadlines. The reality is more surgical: parallel workflows, multiple shops working simultaneously, and a strict build schedule managed backward from the SEMA load-in date.
Chassis, Suspension, and the Compromises Nobody Talks About
The Riviera’s factory frame was never designed for modern wheel-and-tire packages, and correcting that without visually rewriting the car was one of the build’s quiet battles. Reinforcement points were addressed selectively, not aggressively, because adding stiffness also adds mass, and mass is the enemy of ride quality in a car this large.
Lowering the car required more than cutting springs or dialing in coilovers. Suspension geometry had to be corrected to keep camber curves reasonable and steering feel predictable, especially with modern rubber that generates far more grip than Buick engineers ever planned for.
What didn’t make it to air was how often the stance was adjusted, rolled back, and re-measured. The final ride height wasn’t the lowest possible setting. It was the lowest setting that didn’t visually break the Riviera’s side profile or compromise drivability on the show floor.
Powertrain Choices Driven by Image, Not Just Numbers
On paper, the Riviera could have worn any number of modern crate engines and made effortless horsepower. In practice, the powertrain had to match the car’s visual mass and presence. An engine bay that looked too modern or too small would have undercut the entire build.
That meant prioritizing torque delivery, visual impact, and reliability over chasing dyno-sheet bragging rights. Cooling, accessory drive packaging, and underhood cleanliness mattered as much as peak output, especially under SEMA lighting where flaws are amplified.
The result was a setup designed to look intentional, not trendy. That decision cost time and money, but it preserved the Riviera’s credibility in a room full of builds trying too hard to be shocking.
Interior Work That Never Gets Enough Credit
If there’s one area where the Riviera quietly won over skeptics, it was the interior. This wasn’t a gutted race shell or a digital overload. It was a careful reinterpretation of ’70s luxury through modern materials and craftsmanship.
Seat structure, foam density, and stitching patterns were all revised to support modern ergonomics without erasing the car’s original character. That balance is far harder to strike than dropping in off-the-shelf buckets, and it required far more trial fitting than the show ever acknowledged.
The cameras rarely linger on interior development because it doesn’t read as “drama.” In reality, it’s one of the most time-consuming and opinionated phases of a build like this.
Editing vs Reality: Where the Show Simplified the Story
Television thrives on clear heroes, fast problems, and instant solutions. The Riviera build didn’t offer that kind of simplicity. Many decisions were debated, reversed, and revisited weeks later as the car evolved.
Some conflicts were exaggerated, others ignored entirely. Long stretches of problem-solving, measurement, and revision were condensed into quick montages or skipped altogether. What looked like confidence on screen was often the result of exhausting deliberation behind closed doors.
The real story isn’t that Gas Monkey forced a Riviera into submission. It’s that they negotiated with it, compromised with it, and ultimately accepted its limits rather than pretending they didn’t exist.
Engineering vs. Entertainment: Powertrain, Chassis Mods, and the Compromises Behind the TV Narrative
What the cameras framed as a straightforward hot-rod makeover was, in reality, a constant tug-of-war between mechanical integrity and made-for-TV momentum. The Riviera wasn’t just being built to run; it was being built to survive SEMA scrutiny, televised deadlines, and the weight of Gas Monkey’s brand expectations. Every major system became a negotiation between what made good engineering sense and what read quickly on screen.
The Powertrain: Reliability Over Shock Value
From the outside, the engine choice looked predictable, even conservative. That was intentional. Rather than chase an exotic or period-correct unicorn that would complicate packaging and tuning, the shop leaned on a modern GM crate-based V8 architecture that delivered predictable power, modern drivability, and parts availability.
Horsepower numbers were never the headline internally. What mattered was throttle response, cooling stability in stop-and-go SEMA traffic, and accessory clearance under a hood that was never designed for contemporary engine dimensions. The show framed it as a quick, confident decision; the reality involved repeated mockups, accessory drive revisions, and heat management planning that rarely make compelling television.
Transmission and Driveline: The Invisible Decisions
Television loves engines because they’re visual. Transmissions and driveline geometry almost never get airtime, yet they’re where builds like this succeed or fail. Matching gear ratios to the Riviera’s weight and torque curve was critical to keeping the car from feeling lazy or overly aggressive.
Driveshaft angles, tunnel clearance, and rear-end selection were all constrained by the factory floorpan and the desire to avoid cutting up a historically significant body. Those compromises limited ultimate performance potential, but they preserved street manners and long-term reliability. None of that fits neatly into a 30-second montage.
Chassis and Suspension: Making a Heavy Car Behave
A 1972 Riviera is a big, front-heavy platform, and no amount of TV magic changes physics. Suspension upgrades focused on control, not corner-carver theatrics. Spring rates, shock valving, and ride height were tuned to keep the car composed without destroying ride quality or visual stance.
Steering geometry was another quiet battlefield. Modern steering components promise precision, but integrating them into a vintage chassis without bump steer or clearance issues takes time. On screen, it looked like a bolt-in solution. In reality, it required iterative alignment work and compromises in turning radius and wheel offset.
Brakes, Wheels, and the SEMA Illusion
Big brakes and large-diameter wheels photograph well, and SEMA lighting rewards aggressive hardware. The challenge was ensuring that rotor size, caliper placement, and wheel design actually worked together without overheating or clearance issues. Some ideal combinations were abandoned simply because they wouldn’t survive real-world driving.
Tire choice was another behind-the-scenes compromise. Ultra-sticky compounds look great but flat-spot easily and hate street miles. The final setup favored predictable behavior and durability over peak grip, even if that decision dulled the spec-sheet appeal.
What TV Simplified—and What It Ignored
The show presented confidence where there was caution, and speed where there was repetition. Engineering is rarely linear, especially on a platform that predates CAD modeling and modular components. Decisions were revisited after test fits, after heat cycles, and after other systems revealed conflicts.
Entertainment thrives on certainty. Engineering lives in trade-offs. The Riviera’s powertrain and chassis weren’t the result of bold, singular vision, but of layered compromises that balanced performance, reliability, aesthetics, and time. That nuance doesn’t always make good television, but it’s exactly why the car held up under real scrutiny.
Design Decisions Under Pressure: Styling Changes, Abandoned Ideas, and Last-Minute SEMA Crunch
By the time the Riviera’s chassis and powertrain compromises were locked in, the clock was already the loudest voice in the room. SEMA doesn’t reward “almost,” and the pressure to deliver a visually arresting car forced design decisions that would have looked very different with another six months on the calendar. What emerged was less a pure design manifesto and more a high-speed negotiation between ambition, fabrication reality, and Las Vegas deadlines.
The Riviera’s Lines vs. Modern Custom Expectations
The 1972 Riviera is a styling minefield. Its long hood, massive doors, and boattail-adjacent rear proportions don’t naturally align with modern pro-touring trends. Early concepts leaned toward heavier visual surgery, including more aggressive body smoothing and sharper character lines to “modernize” the profile.
Those ideas didn’t survive mockups. Every removed trim element exposed how much the Riviera relies on factory creases to avoid looking slab-sided. In the end, restraint won, not because it was safer, but because pushing further started to erase what made the car unmistakably a Riviera.
Paint, Finish, and the Cost of Changing Your Mind
Paint became one of the most contentious late-stage decisions. Initial direction favored a wilder, higher-contrast finish that would jump under SEMA lights and play well on camera. Test panels told a different story, exaggerating panel length and highlighting inconsistencies that would be invisible on smaller cars.
The final color choice was about control, not shock value. Subtle metallic depth hid the Riviera’s sheer acreage better than any trick wrap or candy finish could. It was a concession to scale, and one that seasoned builders recognized immediately, even if casual viewers didn’t.
Interior Concepts That Never Made It Past the Shop Floor
Inside, ambition ran headlong into time. Early interior sketches flirted with radical departures from stock layout, including reworked dash geometry and modernized gauge clusters that would have required extensive structural changes. Wiring alone threatened to derail the schedule.
What made it into the car was a refined evolution, not a revolution. Materials were upgraded, fit and finish tightened, but the architecture stayed familiar. It wasn’t a lack of imagination, it was triage, choosing execution quality over experimental risk days before transport to Vegas.
Aero, Stance, and the SEMA Parking Lot Reality
Aero add-ons were discussed, mocked up, and quietly shelved. Splitters, subtle rear treatments, and underbody ideas all sounded great until ground clearance, trailer loading, and real-world drivability entered the conversation. A Riviera that can’t survive a SEMA parking lot is a liability, not a showpiece.
Stance became the visual weapon of choice instead. Ride height adjustments were measured in fractions of an inch, balancing tire-to-fender relationships against suspension travel. The final look was aggressive without being fragile, a decision rooted in experience rather than Instagram trends.
The Final 72 Hours: What Got Cut to Make the Show
Every SEMA build has a list of “after Vegas” tasks, and the Riviera was no exception. Minor trim refinements, additional tuning, and cosmetic details were intentionally postponed. The priority was a car that could be driven, displayed, and scrutinized without excuses.
What viewers saw as a finished product was, in reality, a carefully staged milestone. The crunch didn’t lower standards, but it narrowed focus. In that pressure cooker, Gas Monkey Garage chose credibility over spectacle, even when spectacle would have been easier to sell on screen.
Budget, Timelines, and Reality TV Mythology: How Much Was Real, Rushed, or Rewritten for TV
By the time the Riviera rolled onto the SEMA floor, the car had already lived three separate lives: the one envisioned in the shop, the one executed under deadline, and the one edited for television. Understanding where those lines diverge is key to understanding the build itself. This wasn’t smoke and mirrors, but it also wasn’t the whole truth.
The Budget: Bigger Than TV Admits, Smaller Than People Assume
Reality TV loves the idea of a shoestring miracle, but SEMA-level builds don’t happen on hope and hustle alone. The Riviera’s budget sat in that uncomfortable middle ground where sponsors offset hard costs, but real money still left the building. Custom fabrication hours, paint materials, machining, and logistics don’t disappear just because a camera is rolling.
What TV rarely explains is opportunity cost. Shop labor tied up on a SEMA car means other paying jobs get delayed or declined. Gas Monkey didn’t just spend money, they spent calendar real estate, which in a high-volume shop is often more valuable than cash.
The Timeline: The Clock Was Real, Even If the Calendar Wasn’t
SEMA deadlines are immovable, and that part of the drama is absolutely legitimate. Transport dates, booth setup windows, and media commitments don’t flex for unfinished welds or late parts. The pressure you see in the final episodes is rooted in genuine logistical consequence.
What’s compressed for TV is the perceived start date. Major planning, parts sourcing, and design decisions happened well before cameras framed the first wrench turn. The show presents a linear sprint, but the real process looked more like a staggered relay with long pauses followed by all-out bursts.
What the Cameras Missed: The Work That Doesn’t Make Good TV
Some of the most critical Riviera work never made the edit because it doesn’t read visually. Suspension geometry checks, steering correction, brake bias tuning, and hours of fitment refinement don’t create cliffhangers. Yet those details are what separate a parking-lot prop from a credible build.
This is where Gas Monkey leaned into their experience. They understood that SEMA judges, builders, and serious enthusiasts look past paint depth and wheel choice. The Riviera needed to drive, stop, and behave like a finished car, even if that meant fewer flashy moments on screen.
Rewritten for Drama: Where Reality TV Took License
Conflicts were simplified, timelines sharpened, and decision-making made to look more chaotic than it was. That’s not deception so much as storytelling shorthand. Real builds involve dozens of micro-decisions, most of which don’t translate well to a 44-minute episode.
What matters is that the end product aligns more with the shop’s real priorities than the show’s manufactured tension. The Riviera wasn’t built to win an argument in the edit bay. It was built to survive the scrutiny of SEMA veterans who know exactly how hard it is to pull something like this off on a fixed deadline.
SEMA Floor Reception: What Builders, Judges, and Industry Insiders Actually Thought
By the time the Riviera rolled onto the SEMA floor, the TV narrative stopped mattering. The car was now in neutral territory, judged not by ratings but by people who build, break, and bankroll high-end customs for a living. In that environment, reputation buys you attention, not forgiveness.
What followed was more nuanced than the internet hot takes ever suggested.
Initial Reactions: Surprise, Then Scrutiny
The first reaction from seasoned builders was genuine surprise that Gas Monkey chose a 1972 Riviera at all. Full-size personal luxury coupes from the early ’70s are notoriously difficult to modernize without losing proportion or turning cartoonish. That alone earned the car a second look.
Once the crowd got closer, the scrutiny began. Panel gaps, ride height consistency, wheel-to-body relationship, and undercarriage cleanliness were all quietly evaluated. This wasn’t a “wow” car in the loud sense, but it was a “wait a second” car, which carries far more weight among professionals.
Judges’ Perspective: Cohesion Over Shock Value
SEMA judges aren’t scoring on TV drama or social media buzz. They’re looking for design cohesion, execution quality, and whether the build has a clear point of view. The Riviera didn’t chase extreme fabrication trends, and that restraint was noticed.
The suspension setup, brake package, and steering corrections signaled that this wasn’t a static display piece. Judges clocked that the chassis dynamics had been thought through, especially given the Riviera’s mass and wheelbase. It wasn’t radical, but it was correct, and correctness matters more than spectacle at this level.
Builders’ Talk: “They Actually Finished It”
Among shop owners and fabricators, the most common comment wasn’t about paint or power. It was about completion. In a hall full of cars with gorgeous topsides and unfinished details underneath, the Riviera held up front to back.
The wiring was clean, the fitment was consistent, and the mechanical systems looked resolved rather than rushed. Builders know exactly how hard that is under SEMA pressure. Finishing a car is often harder than building one, and Gas Monkey earned quiet respect for crossing that line.
Industry Insiders: Branding vs. Credibility
From sponsors and industry insiders, the conversation shifted to credibility. Gas Monkey has always walked a line between entertainment brand and legitimate shop, and this Riviera leaned toward the latter. It didn’t feel like a rolling billboard or a TV prop dressed for Vegas lights.
Parts selection made sense, vendor integration was subtle, and nothing screamed obligation over intention. That matters to manufacturers watching who they trust with future builds. The Riviera didn’t burn bridges; it quietly reinforced them.
The Reality TV Filter Falls Away
Off-camera, the Riviera was judged on the same harsh scale as any other SEMA car. It didn’t dominate the show, and it wasn’t ignored either. It lived in the harder middle ground where experienced builders nod, pause, and move in closer.
That reaction tells you more than trophies ever could. In a room full of six-figure builds and unlimited budgets, Gas Monkey’s Riviera didn’t embarrass itself. For a car born under cameras, deadlines, and narrative pressure, that may be the most honest compliment SEMA can offer.
After the Lights Went Out: The Riviera’s Post-SEMA Fate and Gas Monkey’s Legacy with Non-Traditional Builds
Once SEMA shut down and the freight doors closed, the Riviera entered the phase that defines whether a build actually mattered. Plenty of cars peak under show lighting and then quietly disappear. This one didn’t become a poster child, but it didn’t get stripped, parted, or forgotten either.
What Actually Happened to the Riviera
Post-SEMA, the Riviera remained intact and drivable, which already puts it ahead of a surprising percentage of show builds. It wasn’t immediately flipped as a hype car, nor was it mothballed as a brand artifact. The car existed in that rare middle ground where it could be shown, driven, and evaluated without excuses.
That outcome speaks volumes about how it was built. Cooling systems, brake bias, suspension geometry, and wiring integrity weren’t theoretical. They were functional enough that no one panicked once the cameras and trailers were gone.
Why You Haven’t Seen It Everywhere Since
Part of the Riviera’s quieter post-SEMA life comes down to its identity. A ’72 Riviera isn’t an obvious social media darling, and Gas Monkey didn’t force it into that role. There was no attempt to rebrand it as a viral restomod or slap on another narrative arc.
Instead, the car settled into being what it was always meant to be: a proof-of-capability build. Among builders, that matters more than views or auction headlines. Not every car needs a farewell tour to justify its existence.
Gas Monkey and the Risk of Building Outside the Formula
The Riviera also marked something important for Gas Monkey Garage. It was a deliberate step away from the shop’s greatest-hits formula of Camaros, Mustangs, and light trucks. Choosing a full-size, front-wheel-drive-origin luxury coupe—converted and modernized—was a risk in both engineering and branding.
That risk didn’t deliver instant mainstream applause, but it did buy credibility. Industry people noticed that Gas Monkey was willing to solve problems instead of repeating solutions. That’s how a shop matures from TV success into long-term relevance.
TV Narrative vs. Shop Reality, Revisited
Reality TV thrives on conflict, shortcuts, and last-minute drama. The Riviera quietly rejected that framework. Off-screen, it reflected planning, restraint, and a willingness to leave some ideas on the table when they didn’t serve the car.
That contrast may be why it resonated more with builders than casual viewers. The Riviera wasn’t loud about what it accomplished. It simply worked, and in this industry, that’s the highest compliment you can earn.
The Long View: What the Riviera Really Proved
In hindsight, the Riviera wasn’t about redefining Buick or rewriting SEMA history. It proved something more practical. Gas Monkey Garage could step outside its comfort zone, build a non-obvious platform correctly, and survive scrutiny without leaning on TV magic.
That matters for the shop’s future more than any single car. It signals that Gas Monkey’s legacy won’t be limited to entertainment-driven builds. When they choose to, they can still build cars that stand on engineering, finish quality, and honest execution.
The final verdict is simple. The 1972 Buick Riviera didn’t need to be a legend to be a success. It needed to be real, complete, and credible—and it was. In a world full of unfinished dreams and overproduced narratives, that might be Gas Monkey Garage’s most grown-up build to date.
