We called the Galaxy: "The Beat". It was a battle-axe of a car, 4 dr, an ex-loaner for the service station my friend and I both worked as as oil-change monkeys (oh, the stories I've got from that place). Anyhow, when it got too scruffy for that (and believe me, that was pretty scruffy), my buddy bought it for $50.
It was his all-purpose "get-around" winter car in the beginning. We all had mid-70s cars we were building or had built into street machines. He had a '76 Pinto with a 289, T10 4-speed, and a 9" rear-end. I had a Chevy Monza with a built 350. We drove these cars sparingly, and got around in a string of cars all costing $100 or less (there's some good stories there as well-- like the time my mom called a scrap yard and had all of my "reserve" beaters hauled off).
Eventually, the cars we drove were so bad, they became excellent. Whenever we would see each other parked in a public place, we would deliberately hit each other-- rake down the side with a bumper, etc. No car inflicted more damage with less wear-and-tear than "The Beat". While not running into each other, we amused ourselves by shooting the body panels with a .410 shotgun. We could not penetrate the bodywork on that car, even from 10 ft away.
Anyhow, by the time we took it to Colorado, we had taken out the back seat and replaced it with a lawn-chair chaise. The glass was all intact, but several windows would not roll down any more. Of course, none of these cars had A/C. We took the RD along in the trunk because we were considering it the last line of defense, in case we burned through all the tires, or some vital piece of running gear disintegrated into base elements along the way. None of us really had a concern about the FoMoCo small-block, as I'm pretty sure it's probably still out there somewhere, running away, burning about a quart of used motor oil every 500 mi.
When we got back, we cut the top off the car with a sawzall and cutting torch. One Saturday night, the gas-tank fell off the back of the car after the straps rusted in half. The situation was satisfactorily resolved by cutting the floor out of the trunk, welding tabs on a 55 gal drum, bolting the drum in the back, and piping it up. The effective cruising range of the car was doubled, and it was most excellent.
The final permutation of the car came when the exhaust fell off, and we welded up pipes that came up through the back seat area, pointing up on a 45 deg angle and terminating about 6 ft in the air. The car had achieved perfection, with nowhere to go but down.
Eventually, we grew up. I got married, my buddies moved on to other things. Steve rolled the Pinto, I sold the Monza. I have no idea where "The Beat" ended up, but the last time I checked, early 60s Galaxy windshields were worth no small amount of money. It's somehow emblematic to me that a little thought-of piece of a forgotten car is somehow worth more than all of the rest of it ever was.
We're all men of a certain age now-- business owners and leaders in one way or another. My kids are grown and having kids of their own.
They say you only live once, but if you live well-- once is enough. I've got zero regrets regarding any of this.
(Dave, Me, Steve, Estes Park, 1981)
