How I Roll: Ride, Sally, Ride

Excerpt from a recent conversation:

“I never knew you had a Mustang. When was this?”
“Early nineties.”
“Why haven’t you done a blog entry about it?”
“Well, that was when my cars stopped being so crappy, so it’s harder to make them entertaining… although the roof did leak.”
“Was it a convertible?”
“No.”

And thus we have the return of the How I Roll series.

I don’t remember if we sold the gold Cavalier or not. Some cars are like old underwear. They just sort of eventually disappear. But I do remember the day my parents asked, “Would you want a Mustang?”

The only other time I remember anything close to this happening in my life was when I was nine years old. I had been outside playing in the neighborhood. When I came home, my parents were standing beside the carport talking. They asked me, “Would you want an Atari?”

Of course I wanted an Atari! There wasn’t even a question. That was like asking would you want to quit school, or would you want to visit the set of the Neighborhood Of Make Believe.

Likewise, there was no question I would want a Mustang. Especially considering my previous three cars had been a 1980 Monte Carlo, a baby blue Escort with louvers, and a gold four-door Cavalier.

Mind you, my parents asking would I want a Mustang did not equate to them buying me a Mustang. I made the payments. They just found it.

And so it came to pass that my fourth vehicle was a maroonish 1989 Ford Mustang. It was not a convertible. And it was not a 5.0. I was reminded of this when I got into a race with a Toyota Corolla one Friday night and only outran it by half a car-length. (“Oh yeah! Eat some of that 2.3 liter dust!”)

However, the Mustang was my first car equipped with power windows. At last, I didn’t have to feign power windows by inconspicuously cranking down the window without ever moving my shoulder.

More importantly, it was my first car with both fast forward and rewind buttons for the cassette player. Did it get any better in 1992? Not for me, it didn’t.

Then there was the day when Dana Scarborough turned to me in Fundamentals Of Public Speaking and said, “I thought you might like to see these.” Her perfect lips, dark sensuous eyes, long spiral-permed brown hair. It took me a few seconds to see the Mustang-related magazines in her hand. It was the first time I had ever been noticed for my car, in a positive light anyway.

I drove it for about two and a half years. Rumor had it that at the three-year mark, you were required to get a mullet, and I didn’t want any part of that. Besides, by that time, I had started craving a Jeep Wrangler.

I don’t remember a whole lot else about the Mustang. I remember the AC went out at some point. The handle on the glove compartment broke. Oh, and I ran over something coming home from work one night which dented up the plastic underneath the bumper pretty good. And of course, the roof leaked.

But only on the passenger side.

And only when it rained.

“I got a fuel injected engine sittin’ under my hood. Shut it off, shut it off, buddy, now I shut you down…”