The first rifle I ever really shot was a plain old Ruger 10/22, and the ammo feeding it came out of a brown box that looked like it belonged in my grandfather’s tackle shed. Peters. Forty grains of lead, high velocity, round nose, and in my memory it never once let me or my 10/22 down at the range. Every round went bang, every can went flying, my groups were as good as they could be for a new shooter, and I never thought twice about it as a child, just happy to be at the range with his dad. Years and a lot of ammunition later, a friend randomly handed me a near-full brick of the stuff. Same brown box, same old-timey lettering, stored so carefully it could have rolled off the line last week or thirty years ago. Between the sands of time and my slowly deteriorating memory, there’s no honest way to tell just by looking at this stuff to tell if it’s any good anymore, so today we’ll group and chronograph a box of it to see if its performance lines up with my memories of it.