Most of my stories are fiction revolving around a central truth or experience. This one is different; it’s all truth. No names have been changed and I don’t have anyone’s permission to use their name. At my age I will write about things that I’ve experienced and if someone has an issue with it, well, that’s their issue, they can deal with it.
In 1958, Plymouth build a special edition of the Fury; they called it the Golden Commando. The company only built 5,303 of them. That sounds like a lot of automobiles until you think that it is only 100 per state, assuming none were sold in Canada or Puerto Rico, and I know for a fact that my friend, Arturo Harrison, whose father owned the Chrysler Plymouth franchise in Puerto Rico, that a couple of Golden Commandos were sold there.
I also know that in the period from 1958 to 1963 I only saw two of them. I’m not talking about pictures of them, or seeing them in the movies, I mean I actually saw two of them because they were owned by two men in Palatka, Florida, the town I lived in from 1955 until I was invited to join the U.S. Army in 1965. All of the Golden Commandos were the same color, Buckskin Beige with gold trim. They had either a 290 horsepower 318 cubic inch V8 or the 305 horsepower Golden Commando V8. Both engines had dual 4 barrel carburetors, duel exhausts, heavy-duty Torsion-Aire suspension, 150 mph speedometer, and were equipped with an automatic transmission or a manual, three speed, steering column mounted, standard transmission.
One of the vehicles belonged to, well, I will leave his name out, because he was an arrogant asshole who was afraid of the car but loved to be seen near it when it was parked. The other oneI knew well and after all these years I still miss it and it wasn’t even mine. It had the three speed, manual transmission, glass pack mufflers, and of course the 305 horsepower Golden Commando engine. It belonged to my good friend, and two time brother-in-law, Joe Hamlett.
Joe was, the hardest working man I knew. At 18 he was a full time high school student and also the manager of the produce department of the largest grocery store in town. He was a DCT student (I’ve forgotten what that stands for but it meant that Joe got out of school at noon to go to his full-time job). Joe is a year older than me, which means with all the various hierarchies that structured high school life in the late fifties we would have never met had he not started dating Lucille, my girl friend Anne’s younger sister – keep in mind, older guys could date younger girls , they just didn’t hang out with younger guys.
At first I only saw Joe occasionally when he would bring Lucille home from a date, or when he could get off work long enough to attend the Brunner family hamburger fry, a Saturday tradition that included boy friends; namely me, and whoever Lucille was dating, before she settled down and started going steady with Joe, and whatever girl Anne and Lucille’s younger brother, Lee, was lucky to be with – later in his high school career, Lee became quite a catch, but in the beginning of his dating career that wasn’t the case.
Over a period of twelve months or so, Joe and I became good friends, though, for me it wasn’t a friendship of peers, I always thought of him as somebody very special, and frankly, I still do. I don’t remember what kind of car he had before he had the Golden Commando, but I remember the first night I saw him in it. I knew that car was made for him, period. I didn’t know at the time that there 5,302 others like it, and it wouldn’t of changed my mind if I had known it.
Joe asked me if I wanted to go for a ride while Anne and Lucille were doing whatever it was they did for an hour or more before they came downstairs and asked if we were ready to go. I couldn’t even speak and I knew I was wasting my time trying to get the silly grin off my face. Joe pretended he didn’t notice as he fired up the finely tuned engine and I looked out the window a lot. We left the Brunner’s house and headed east on highway 20/17, where the two split Joe turned left on highway 20. He held the Golden Commando dead on the speed limit until we left East Palatka and were looking at a four mile stretch of straight road. I saw him glance in the rear view mirror, which was mounted on the dash, how cool is that? There was no one behind us and no one ahead as far as we could see. Joe down shifted to second gear, released the clutch, looked at me and gave me his patented, I know something that very few people know and I’m going to let you in on it look. There was something about that look that made me feel special and it still does. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I could only nod.
He turned back to the road, reset his hands at 10 and 2 and slammed the accelerator to the floor. If you’ve never experienced the surge of power of a monster V8 engine, sucking gas through eight carburetor jets the size of a man’s little finger, then there is no way I can capture the experience with words, but I’ll try: the sudden force pushed me back in my seat so hard there was no way I could have touched the dash.
The noise of the dual glass pack mufflers had risen from a pleasing deep rumble to something alone the line of fighter jet taking off with after-burner engaged. At 100 miles per hour, Joe shifted from second to third, floored it again and the torque and noise was little changed from the level I’d experienced at fifty when he first accelerated. It seemed like only seconds before he was slowing for the small town of Hastings, where he turned around and headed back to the Brunner’s house.
I would have liked to have stayed in that car for the rest of the evening but I knew that wasn’t going to happen so I didn’t say anything. In fact, I don’t remember that either of us said much of anything until we got to the girl’s house and then I don’t think there was much conversation, something that still hasn’t changed – we don’t have to talk a lot, we seem to be in each other’s head so much that speaking is a waste of energy.
Every one in town who had a muscle car wanted to take on Joe’s Golden Commando and he obliged all of them. Most of the contests were such one sided affairs that Joedeveloped a new way to race. Rather than drag off from traffic lights running side by side, Joe told challengers that he would follow them to the agreed on race location, usually a long straight stretch of deserted highway, then he would flash his lights, and they were to accelerate until there was nothing left then they were to flash their lights a second time. At that point, Joe did the most demoralizing thing he could have possibly done; he passed them.
If anyone ever managed to keep him from passing them, I didn’t hear about it, and I’m sure that I would have. Joe beat Billy Taylor; the owner of a very hot 1957 Chevrolet so many times that Billy installed two heavy duty electric fuel pumps, looking for an edge. Unfortunately he hadn’t thought that plan out very well and when he turned them on at 120 miles per hour his fuel line collapsed from gas tank to carburetor.
Summer ended and I started classes at our local Junior College, now called St. Johns River Community College. There I met Perman Roberts, from Starke, Florida, a community about 30 miles west of Palatka. Perman had a brand new, 1960 Chevy with a 348 cubic inch engine, and wonder of wonders, a four speed transmission. He took me for a ride and I had to admit that it was fast but I assured him that it wasn’t as fast as Joe’s Golden Commando. Nothing would do for Perman but for me to arrange a race.
As I look back on it and considering all that I know now about both of those cars I’m not so sure that the Golden Commando was in fact faster than Perman’s Chevy, and, though it never crossed my mind at the time, I think Joe might have had his doubts when he saw Perman’s car. In any case, Joe told Perman that he would take him on and he explained his special brand of racing. Perman, though it was obvious he was leery, agreed, and asked where we would race. Joe said that he didn’t have time to go to one of his usual high speed straight stretch of road. He thought about it a minute then said, “Let’s do it right here.”
Right here was downtown Palatka, a place where he never raced. He added, “I don’t mean downtown, let’s just go out Crill Avenue (Highway 20) and when I pull out to pass you try to keep that from happening.” Perman wasn’t excited about the prospect of a high speed run near downtown but he agreed. I jumped in the car with Joe and he fired the Golden Commando up. What happened next was a total surprise for me and I know it was Perman also. Less than a mile from downtown, Highway 20 makes a 90 degree bend to the right before heading west toward Gainesville. Two hundred feet from the curve Joe flashed his lights and pulled into the passing lane, only there was no passing lane, the highway was and still is a two lane downtown street at that point.
Perman gave it a shot, but by the time he realized that Joe was serious we were even with his window. He pulled the Chevy into second gear and put his foot on the floor but it was too late, the Golden Command had a jump on him that nothing could have overcome. Fighting the wheel to get us through the curve Joe shifted from second to third and I knew we were doing at least eighty miles an hour. I saw Perman’s lights move sharply to the left then the right and I knew that he had bumped the curb. When Joe shifted, then popped the clutch, the Golden Command threw all of it’s belts off, including the power steering and the alternator belt. Joe prided himself on his strength and it took every bit of it to manhandle the car through the curve a job not made easier by the fact that we suddenly found ourselves with all but no headlights.
We pulled off the road at the next intersection and Perman kept going. In a few minutes, with me holding the flashlight, Joe had the belts back on and we headed to the Brunner’s to pick up our dates. Neither of us said anything; there just wasn’t anything to say.
A month or so later we had one more race, a high speed, probably in the area of 140 miles per hour confront, with Tim Presley. Tim was as serious about fast cars as Joe. Somehow he’d become the owner of a former NASCAR automobile that had been made legal to run on the street, but I wondered if it really was legal the first time I saw it and heard it. In any case, Tim, a friend of Joe’s, challenged him and noted that this time he would win, in fact, he said, “When I flash my lights you’ll be so far behind you won’t even be able to see them.”
Joe laughed and said, “Let’s do it, talking about it is a waste of time.”
Ten minutes later, with me in the passenger seat, wearing a grin from ear to ear, we entered the first mile of a 13 mile straight stretch of road that Joe used only for the most serious races. It wasn’t easy to see the speedometer but I did note when the needle passed 130 miles per hour. Seconds later Tim flashed his lights and Joe pulled out to pass. It wasn’t easy and it probably took three miles before we were past the former NASCAR machine. Joe let the Golden Commando run for another three or four miles until Tim began to slow and he knew that the race was won.
Joe slowed to a crawl, swung wide and did a U turn. Instead of going back to town he pulled off the road under a large live oak tree and shut the Golden Commando down. “That was tough,” he said, “I'm going to let it cool off a bit.”
I nodded. Crickets were loud and there was a gentle breeze moving the streamers of Spanish moss that hung heavily from the tree. The engine made popping sounds as it cooled. Neither of us spoke, we were both content to sit and listen to the night. Our reverie ended with a sharp crack, as loud as a high powered rifle, and immediately the right front corner of the car fell. Joe looked at me and without emotion, said, “I’ve never seen it happen or even heard of it happening, but my guess is that the right front torsion bar just broke.”
Before he could say anything else Tim drove up, saw the sagging right front corner of the car, and said, “I’m glad that didn’t happen while you were running beside me.”
Joe laughed and said, “Pressley, I passed you so fast you didn’t even know it had happened until you saw my taillights pulling away.”
That happened during the summer of my nineteenth year. Last summer, my sixty-fifth, Joe visited me and Christina. We didn’t say much more then than we did in 1961, there just isn’t much to say to someone that has that has had your back for almost fifty years; someone you know will always be there as long as there is breath in him, no matter what comes down the road.
I would have liked to have stayed in that car for the rest of the evening but I knew that wasn’t going to happen so I didn’t say anything. In fact, I don’t remember that either of us said much of anything until we got to the girl’s house and then I don’t think there was much conversation, something that still hasn’t changed – we don’t have to talk a lot, we seem to be in each other’s head so much that speaking is a waste of energy.
Every one in town who had a muscle car wanted to take on Joe’s Golden Commando and he obliged all of them. Most of the contests were such one sided affairs that Joedeveloped a new way to race. Rather than drag off from traffic lights running side by side, Joe told challengers that he would follow them to the agreed on race location, usually a long straight stretch of deserted highway, then he would flash his lights, and they were to accelerate until there was nothing left then they were to flash their lights a second time. At that point, Joe did the most demoralizing thing he could have possibly done; he passed them.
If anyone ever managed to keep him from passing them, I didn’t hear about it, and I’m sure that I would have. Joe beat Billy Taylor; the owner of a very hot 1957 Chevrolet so many times that Billy installed two heavy duty electric fuel pumps, looking for an edge. Unfortunately he hadn’t thought that plan out very well and when he turned them on at 120 miles per hour his fuel line collapsed from gas tank to carburetor.
Summer ended and I started classes at our local Junior College, now called St. Johns River Community College. There I met Perman Roberts, from Starke, Florida, a community about 30 miles west of Palatka. Perman had a brand new, 1960 Chevy with a 348 cubic inch engine, and wonder of wonders, a four speed transmission. He took me for a ride and I had to admit that it was fast but I assured him that it wasn’t as fast as Joe’s Golden Commando. Nothing would do for Perman but for me to arrange a race.
As I look back on it and considering all that I know now about both of those cars I’m not so sure that the Golden Commando was in fact faster than Perman’s Chevy, and, though it never crossed my mind at the time, I think Joe might have had his doubts when he saw Perman’s car. In any case, Joe told Perman that he would take him on and he explained his special brand of racing. Perman, though it was obvious he was leery, agreed, and asked where we would race. Joe said that he didn’t have time to go to one of his usual high speed straight stretch of road. He thought about it a minute then said, “Let’s do it right here.”
Right here was downtown Palatka, a place where he never raced. He added, “I don’t mean downtown, let’s just go out Crill Avenue (Highway 20) and when I pull out to pass you try to keep that from happening.” Perman wasn’t excited about the prospect of a high speed run near downtown but he agreed. I jumped in the car with Joe and he fired the Golden Commando up. What happened next was a total surprise for me and I know it was Perman also. Less than a mile from downtown, Highway 20 makes a 90 degree bend to the right before heading west toward Gainesville. Two hundred feet from the curve Joe flashed his lights and pulled into the passing lane, only there was no passing lane, the highway was and still is a two lane downtown street at that point.
Perman gave it a shot, but by the time he realized that Joe was serious we were even with his window. He pulled the Chevy into second gear and put his foot on the floor but it was too late, the Golden Command had a jump on him that nothing could have overcome. Fighting the wheel to get us through the curve Joe shifted from second to third and I knew we were doing at least eighty miles an hour. I saw Perman’s lights move sharply to the left then the right and I knew that he had bumped the curb. When Joe shifted, then popped the clutch, the Golden Command threw all of it’s belts off, including the power steering and the alternator belt. Joe prided himself on his strength and it took every bit of it to manhandle the car through the curve a job not made easier by the fact that we suddenly found ourselves with all but no headlights.
We pulled off the road at the next intersection and Perman kept going. In a few minutes, with me holding the flashlight, Joe had the belts back on and we headed to the Brunner’s to pick up our dates. Neither of us said anything; there just wasn’t anything to say.
A month or so later we had one more race, a high speed, probably in the area of 140 miles per hour confront, with Tim Presley. Tim was as serious about fast cars as Joe. Somehow he’d become the owner of a former NASCAR automobile that had been made legal to run on the street, but I wondered if it really was legal the first time I saw it and heard it. In any case, Tim, a friend of Joe’s, challenged him and noted that this time he would win, in fact, he said, “When I flash my lights you’ll be so far behind you won’t even be able to see them.”
Joe laughed and said, “Let’s do it, talking about it is a waste of time.”
Ten minutes later, with me in the passenger seat, wearing a grin from ear to ear, we entered the first mile of a 13 mile straight stretch of road that Joe used only for the most serious races. It wasn’t easy to see the speedometer but I did note when the needle passed 130 miles per hour. Seconds later Tim flashed his lights and Joe pulled out to pass. It wasn’t easy and it probably took three miles before we were past the former NASCAR machine. Joe let the Golden Commando run for another three or four miles until Tim began to slow and he knew that the race was won.
Joe slowed to a crawl, swung wide and did a U turn. Instead of going back to town he pulled off the road under a large live oak tree and shut the Golden Commando down. “That was tough,” he said, “I'm going to let it cool off a bit.”
I nodded. Crickets were loud and there was a gentle breeze moving the streamers of Spanish moss that hung heavily from the tree. The engine made popping sounds as it cooled. Neither of us spoke, we were both content to sit and listen to the night. Our reverie ended with a sharp crack, as loud as a high powered rifle, and immediately the right front corner of the car fell. Joe looked at me and without emotion, said, “I’ve never seen it happen or even heard of it happening, but my guess is that the right front torsion bar just broke.”
Before he could say anything else Tim drove up, saw the sagging right front corner of the car, and said, “I’m glad that didn’t happen while you were running beside me.”
Joe laughed and said, “Pressley, I passed you so fast you didn’t even know it had happened until you saw my taillights pulling away.”
That happened during the summer of my nineteenth year. Last summer, my sixty-fifth, Joe visited me and Christina. We didn’t say much more then than we did in 1961, there just isn’t much to say to someone that has that has had your back for almost fifty years; someone you know will always be there as long as there is breath in him, no matter what comes down the road.
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