Things changed for the car, obviously. For some reason, my dear old grandma felt she needed a 318-cubic-inch V8 for her 20-mph trips into town. For me, the combination of that engine and rubber-band-sized tires gave me an early education in car control. I had power oversteer available any time I wanted. Of course, with slippery blue vinyl bench seats, this was not always a wise option to exercise. If I wasn't careful, I could be correcting oversteer from the passenger's side of the car.
Even so, the drum brakes caused me more concern than the little tires. They faded rapidly and toward the end of the Dart's life, they had a habit of failing entirely. Fortunately, the engine maintained plenty of compression, so I always had alternate means of slowing down...somewhat.
My Dart had companionship, too. My favorite cousin lived about an hour away, and he had use of his parents' red '72 Swinger with a black vinyl roof. I could go (he had emission controls), but he could stop.
The car met its eventual demise quietly. While it was in the shop for the brake problems, the mechanic noticed that the effects of more than a decade of salty upstate New York winters had rusted the frame almost completely away.
It was a long time before I owned a car for which I had as much affection. The AMC Pacer that came next certainly made it look even finer.
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