Byron Wardlaw and I were close chums in high school, Hart, to be specific, Forever Home to The Mighty Indians and not those nuevo bird flu hawks (lower case). Byron owned this hot rod black GTO. Stomping on the gas, his monster Pontiac would lay rubber, swerve hither and yon, then disappear as a smoking dot on the horizon. Our heads jerked back as we hauled asterisks in primitive young male arrested development glee.

Once Byron grinned and offered the preamble to all Bad Things when he said, “Watch — THIS!!!” The “THIS!!!” was the GTO’s gas gauge. Santa Clarita’s one traffic light turned green and Byron punched the accelerator all the way down to the front axle. My eyebrows skeet shot to the top of my skull. The muscle car’s gas gauge plummeted an entire quarter tank in seconds.

A 1967 GTO gas tank has a 21.5-gallon capacity. I remember thinking, “Wow. Byron just went through a buck-and-a-half worth of gasoline!”

Petrol back then? Gas was about 22 cents a gallon.

Almost 60 years later, I own a Prius. If I could somehow sneak it through time, I could fill up my Toyota hybrid for a penny or two under two bucks. In the Alternative Universe Department, if teenage 1967 Byron could vault forward to 2025, his GTO’s exhibition of speed would have cost my friend about $25. Twenty five bucks to go screaming a couple hundred yards. If he would have done it four times, which would have taken less than a minute, he’d be out of gas AND a C-note.

I shake my head........

© Santa Clarita Valley Signal