ArcaMax

It was the summer of 1986 - and muscle was still cheap. My friend since elementary school, Stuart (whom we all called the Stu Monster in tribute to his exploits with beer and other things) was a year behind me in age, but way ahead when it came to owning a serious beast.

While I had a ratty '78 Camaro with a consumptive 350 small block, glass packs and peeling-chrome Keystone Classic mags, Stu had finagled his parents into a small loan (big to us in those days) of $2,200 - which he used to secure ownership of an amazingly pristine 1971 Plymouth GTX equipped with the 375 horse 440 cubic inch "Commando"V-8 engine and three-speed Torque-flite automatic with floor-mounted "slapstick" shifter.

It had gattling gun exhaust tips thrusting menacingly out of the huge rear bumper; a wing on the trunklid - and massive steel slab of a hood with "440" callouts on either side. It was chocolate brown metallic with red "GTX" decals and wore its vinyl roof like a mafia hit man's pompadour. It rode on a full set of Hurst 14 inch mag wheels - shod with the widest tires that Manny, Moe & Jack (the mascots of the local auto parts place) could provide.

The thing was wildly, horribly dangerous - which was what made it so much fun. Anything more than eggshell application of the throttle would send the rear end into a violent fishtail, blue haze from the big-inch motor and the overmatched tires providing some cover for these misdeeds.

If you stood anywhere near the pipes with the engine running, your eyes would begin to water from the unburned hydrocarbons. It was heaven.

I experienced my first 1-2 tire chirp in an automatic-equipped car in that GTX - and almost lost control as the back end broke loose violently in the process. One night, we took on a brand-new Corvette and ate his lunch up to 120-something mph - at which point my fear of looming death took over and I eased off the throttle to bleed speed back to double digits. The thing was just ferocious.

Another time, one of my idiot friends decided to try to pass us on a blind curve in his Formula 400 Firebird. The GTX did not allow it. Luckily, no one was coming in the opposite lane.

These were truly great days, not so much because we were young and dumb and ready for anything - but because young and dumb teens could still easily buy cars that today are often six-figure "collectibles" that only rich old men (and a few equally rich young celebrities, pro athletes, musicians and so on) can even look at.

Today, an authentic 1971 GTX 440 in good condition is probably a $50k car; maybe more. A 1972 Formula 400 Firebird would be similarly out of reach. But back in the mid-'80s, they were just "old clunkers" - obnoxious gas pigs that virtually no one in the K-Car era gave a damn about. They were priced accordingly. You'd find them readily - parked outside in the second or third row back of seedy used car consignment lots.

We were 17 years old, with McDonald's jobs and zero credit. Yet we could afford them. The high school parking lot was overflowing with them, in fact. Old GTOs and Chevelles, Novas, Camaros and Mustangs - all kinds of stuff. Sure, they were mostly a bit on the well-chewed side, with primered panels and Gabriel Hi-Jacker air shocks lifting the back end up. But the essential thing is they were available. And they were ours.

We didn't know it at the time, of course, but we enjoyed the privilege of being the last generation able to drive these things as they were intended to be driven (that is, all-out, all the time - with no worry in our heads about bending precious metal), of being able to fiddle with engines that today are touched only by meticulous restoration shops - and rarely, if ever, experimented upon to extract another couple of horses by bumping up the ignition timing or fattening up the mixture of the carb. Like those teenage years, it didn't last long.

Stu ended up dead behind the wheel of the GTX - after he lost it on a curve late one night, flipped and broke his neck. That event sobered me up - and may even have saved my own life. I toned it down a bit in the Camaro and subsequent fast cars, the little voice in my head advising me that I was not, in fact, immortal after all. I don't know what became of my friend with the Formula 400. And the high school parking lots were suddenly full of Hondas.

It was only 20 years ago. Not so long in terms of the calendar - but an epoch in the life of a then-kid who didn't realize until it was long gone just how good he'd had it. And that there's no going back.

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www.ericpetersautos.com or EPeters952@aol.com for comments.