“Sure thing,” I replied, as I pulled into a gas station to jot down the info. Half an hour later, I pulled into the parking lot of the address I was given to find a nondescript industrial building. A tall gentleman came out to greet me; we shook hands, exchanged pleasantries and he led me inside. Faster than “Big Daddy” Don Garlits could tree Don “The Snake” Prudhomme, my jaw hit the proverbial floor, bouncing a couple of times as I struggled to reel it back into place under the warehouse’s overhead sodium vapor lights that reflected off the perfectly polished concrete floor. Signs from the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s called out the advertisements of the day: Chevrolet, Phillips 66, Coca- Cola, Goodyear and Harley-Davidson lining the whitewashed walls. Perfectly placed and each with its own battery tender attached, the cars quickly gave themselves away as anything but the usual run- of-the-mill Fords, Plymouths and Chevrolets. The group was instead flush with Shelbys, GTOs and Z28 Camaros. And as the cherry on top, it turned out that the last-minute Camaro add-on was no ordinary pony car; it was a rotisserie-restored, RS-optioned, orange COPO- edition Camaro. With fewer than 60 such cars produced that year, it’s the kind of auto you read about in magazines and your friends all have on their bucket lists. But to actually see one in the flesh, well, most of us have a better chance of getting struck by lightning in an underground bunker. Circling the car, I noted its visible options and started to formulate a plan for the various shooting angles that would best highlight them. This is typically when the uncontrollable drooling starts. I become googly eyed and usually ut ter just one single word: wow. Forget having a date with a Bond Girl, dinner with Roger Penske or going on a drive with Mario Andret ti, I just wanted to shoot—and hopefully sit inside of—this uber-rare muscle car from my youth. When the COPO’s owner looked at me and said, “The keys are in it, feel free to move it where you need it,” I instantly felt like a kid in a candy store. Living the dream developed a whole new meaning as I slipped into the black-and-white houndstooth driver’s seat, pumped MECUM.COM • 81 the gas pedal three times, turned the key, and the 427 cubic-inch big-block fired instantly, soon settling into an aggressive lope. Each firing cylinder let out a staccato note that reminded anyone in hearing distance that even back in 1969, there were 425 ponies inside this car itching to be unleashed by its driver’s right foot. Born in the factory with a 3-speed automatic, the COPO shifted easily into drive as it idled out of the building and onto the pavement. A grove of white Aspens formed the perfect backdrop, allowing the tangerine Camaro to pop like its paint was plugged into a 220V outlet. A full 45 minutes and some 650 shutter clicks later, I returned the COPO to the building. Switching off the key, the mighty big-block shuddered to a stop. I opened the door, got out and marveled at the car’s clean lines, bulbous hood and … before I could soak in any more of its gripping glory, my eye was suddenly caught by the sight of a 1968 Shelby GT350 convertible, primed and ready to go out next. I let out a sigh, allowed my eyes to go googly all over again, sucked back the drool and whispered, wow. Willy Wonka’s got nothing on this candy store!
