Back in 1970, a Buick GS 455 started at $3,283. Adding the GSX package cost $1,195, and the Stage 1 option was another $113 — numbers that would change my life for more than five decades.
I still remember getting told I couldn’t run my car anymore. A couple of tracks flat-out kicked me out because it kept getting faster. Once it dipped into the 11s, they demanded I install a roll bar. I told them no chance — I wasn’t about to cut up one of only 678 cars ever built. I’d rather stop racing than ruin it. That’s the same car I’ve owned for 52 years.
That’s why events like the Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals mean so much to me. MCACN isn’t just about pristine Detroit iron from the era when American factories were turning out legends by the hour — it’s also about the stories behind them. When a special car comes with a real story, there’s honestly not much more a gearhead can ask for.
I’m Joe Pratt, born and raised in Chicago, and since MCACN happens just down the road in Rosemont, Illinois, I never miss a chance to bring out my pride and joy. Funny thing is, I bought this car out of pure motivation — or maybe humiliation. Years ago, my brother-in-law absolutely embarrassed me in a drag race. At the time, I was nineteen years old, driving a 1968 Buick GS with a small-block.
So I decided to level up. Actually, I decided to one-up him. He was running a 1970 Buick GS Stage 1 — the legendary 455 cubic-inch monster rated at 360 horsepower and a pavement-wrinkling 510 lb-ft of torque. In the early ’70s, that engine could handle just about anything on the street. The question was: what could possibly top that?
The answer was simple. Add an X.
That letter turned the GS 455 Stage 1 into the GSX — bigger, nastier, and a lot rarer. On paper, Buick claimed the GSX and Stage 1 shared identical specs, but everyone knew the truth: the GSX was the one you wanted, and it wasn’t cheap.
I didn’t buy mine new. In 1974, I convinced the original owner to sell it to me, just three years after it rolled off the assembly line. I paid $1,800 — which, believe it or not, was $300 more than what the first owner had paid just for the options back in 1970. The window sticker tells the whole story: $3,283 base price, $1,195 for the GSX package, $113 for Stage 1. Add power steering, a Turbo Hydra-Matic 400 automatic, a radio, and a tinted windshield, and the total came to $4,876. I got all that for a steal, and I never let it go.
And yes, I raced it. Hard.
In bone-stock GSX trim, the car ran an 11.38-second quarter-mile. With a few go-fast mods, it dipped into the tens — best pass was 10.77 seconds at 126 mph. That’s not bad when you consider Motor Trend tested a stock 1970 GSX Stage 1 at 13.38 seconds and 105.5 mph. Differnt times back then, and different priorities.
Eventually, the track officials got nervous. Once they started demanding safety upgrades, I walked away. Instead of adding a roll bar, I pulled all the performance parts and returned the car to factory condition. Today, it stands as one of just 678 GSXs built for 1970. Buick only offered two colors — Apollo White and Saturn Yellow — and only 187 were white like mine.
Out of those 678 cars, 400 came with the Stage 1 option, which added about 10 horsepower over the standard GSX. Interestingly, 400 buyers also chose the automatic transmission — a strange choice for a car that sat somewhere between a passenger vehicle and a freight train when it came to torque. In 1970, only Cadillac’s 500 V8 topped the Buick 455, with 550 lb-ft.
Here’s the ironic part: Buick rated the same 455 V8 at 370 horsepower in models like the Wildcat, Riviera, and Electra 225. Off the record, engineers would hint that it was really closer to 400. Insurance companies didn’t like big numbers, so Detroit played games — just look at the Boss 429 or the underrated 428 Cobra Jet.
After 52 years together, my GSX has been fully restored and shown across the country. It’s earned multiple Gold awards, proof that even with 74,222.9 miles on the odometer, it can still hold its own in any beauty contest. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade those miles — or those years — for anything.