Bill Sanders
In the 1960s, as a 6-year-old kid, I could call out a car from a distance just by looking at their headlights or their taillights, but my real education in “fun machines” came from local gearheads. Castleton had four full-service gas stations, an impressive number since the town only had about 40 small houses, a Mom & Pop grocery store, a cafeteria, a Barber shop and my father’s TV sales/service shop. While gorgeous American muscle machines frequently drove up and down our streets, the “Big Three” were just figuring out that performance, like sex, sells and so every young male in town spent some time working (and learning) in one of those service stations. I became intimately familiar with all things mechanical and even got a decent head start on my “creative vocabulary” while hanging around with an older gearhead crowd.
It was September 1964 and the new ‘65 models were just coming out. I was starting second grade and waiting for the school bus at the end of our driveway when a powerful rumble emanated from over a nearby rise in the road. Suddenly a beautiful red 1965 Pontiac GTO crested the peak and roared down the hill past me. I lusted over that car time and time again, especially when it occasionally came into town for service.
I couldn’t wait until I could own a cool car of my very own. I’m sure Dad was hoping that I would drive something conservative so that I might live past my 18th birthday but he didn’t put the complete kibosh on my dream. He asked a friend of his at Gene Beltz Shadeland Dodge to keep an eye out for a used car that I might like. I had one big requirement. It had to be a 4-speed car, otherwise I wasn’t interested.
Within a few days, the used car manager called me. A Vietnam veteran had traded something in, so Dad drove me over to take a look. It was a forest green 1970 Plymouth Barracuda Gran Coupe with a 383-4bbl V-8, dual point ignition, a four-speed tranny, power drum brakes, power steering and a Dana posi with 3:55 gears. Best of all, it had a pistol grip 4-speed shifter! There was no flashy paint job, hood scoop or spoiler so Dad didn’t think it was a “race car” and he gave me the “thumbs up”. All this for $1200 cash. Sold! Note that I managed to survive my days in that wonderful car.
Later on, I graduated from Purdue and got a job with GM, so the Mopar’s days were ultimately numbered. I didn’t cry (too much) when the Plymouth and I finally parted ways. I sold the car for $1200 to an 18-year-old kid and the cycle began again.
Fast forward a bit more … I got married, had a beautiful little girl, got divorced and still had the itch for another “fun machine”. While out for a Sunday drive in June 1990, I came across a farmhouse that had a 1966 Pontiac GTO convertible for sale in the front yard. Just for kicks, I stopped in to check the car out. I asked the owner a few basic questions and then he started it up. It had that intoxicating Pontiac rumble. He let it idle for several moments and then bumped the throttle a couple of times. My knees almost melted right out from under me.
I took a closer look. The Goat was painted in Nightwatch Blue. It had a parchment interior with a white convertible top. The lacquer was shot, the interior was fair and the convertible top was toast, but it had a Hurst “T” handle 4-speed shifter! Under the hood was the original 389, punched out with 455 heads and dual quads resting on an aluminum Offenhauser intake (that brought a big smile to my face). I was hooked, but I decided to let things ride a bit. If the car was still around when I returned from my next business trip then I might take another peek. I came home a week later and the GTO was still there, so I took my fiancée (Rita) and future 7-year-old stepson with me for the second look. Long story made short, I bought the GTO and the whole family got to participate in the process.
I decided to just drive the car and fix things as they needed repair or replacement, and not to embark on a full-up restoration at that point. I replaced the worn-out convertible top first since the old one leaked like a sieve. I called a buddy of mine to help me tune up the car and get it on the road. My love affair with all things “GTO” had begun.
On July 21, 1990, Rita and I drove the Goat to the Salem Speedway to watch the races. After the race, I found a note on my windshield from a member of the IGTOA; it was an invitation to the next club meeting at “Bill’s Fabulas 50’s Drive-In” on Indy’s west side. I went to the meeting; the folks in the IGTOA were a nice group of people with a like interest in cars, so I joined the club and started going to the meetings. I must admit, I knew nothing about the GTO’s place in muscle car history nor it’s many claims to fame, but my GTO education had officially begun.
The thing I liked most about the club was that everyone enjoyed driving their GTO’s, not just to car shows but pretty much anywhere. It seemed that the only time anyone’s GTO was on a trailer was because it broke down, not because the owner didn’t want its “feet getting dirty” on the way to an event.
In late 1992, I was elected President of the club, but then our family had to move to south Texas in December 1994 due to job obligations. We came home to Indy in 1998 and I started attending Indy GTO club meetings again. My first meeting since returning was at Edwards Drive-In, but there were only 5 or 6 people present. I was asked if I would be interested in stepping back in as President and work to grow the club back again. I think something happened when I went to the restroom because when I returned, I was told the “good news” that I was re-elected. .
People who know me know that I like to drive my Goat. I don’t like to work on it unless it’s broken, I don’t like to clean it unless it’s just so filthy that no one will park next to me and the underhood compartment is always dirty because I drive it… rain or shine. These personal attitudes sort of led me into another “bucket list” event … the Hot Rod Power Tour, or HRPT. It’s kind of like a traveling “three-ring circus” with the cars being the animals in the parade. The experience is not for the faint of heart. Each tour was approximately 4,000 miles and I’ve taken my GTO on three. So far .
2008 was my first HRPT. We went from Indy to Little Rock, AR to Madison, WI, then back to Indy, all in one week. It was sunny. It was hot. It poured down rain. It was awesome! I skipped the 2009 HRPT but I participated in the 2010 event with a great friend who was then fighting cancer. The 2010 HRPT began in Newton, IA and finished up in Mobile, AL. I have never driven through such monstrous downpours and oppressive heat as I did on this tour. It was brutal, but the car held up and so did my cancer-fighting buddy. My last HRPT was in 2011. I drove with my Purdue roomy Marty. Our tour started in Coco Beach, FL and ended in Detroit, MI. The trip was another blast, fun times with a good friend, including a malfunctioning convertible top and all the usual weather-related drama.
The ol’ GTO isn’t done yet. The “fat lady” hasn’t even started to sing and I’m planning more future fun as I write this piece. Our kids are grown and gone; the two munchkins in the back seat have been replaced by two grandkids. Maybe one of them will have a love affair with the great American automobile like their Grandpa does. Adios, Bill Sanders