I won’t entirely call it my “Dream Car”, but at the time it was the closest I could get to it and worth telling the story here.

So when I was 14 my Dad decided to go down the rabbit hole and do a full restoration on a muscle car. His first choice was a 65 - 67 GTO, but seeing none after a week of scouring Auto Trader mags and leads for various other muscle cars in Colorado and NM on a vacation trip in which the sole purpose was buying a rust free SW car to trailer home and restore, he settled on a 67 Mustang Convertible. It was mostly straight, the trans was supposedly rebuilt, and it ran well enough. He took it home and got to work, and it was a veritable shit show as any restoration project turns into. Lots of minor issues and lots of money spent like you’d expect.

It’s also important to state that my Dad is a borderline OCD Perfectionist and everything has to be clean and in its place in his world. The mustang was no different. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. we got in or out of the car he would proclaim “Don’t touch the doors, use the door handles, you’re going to get finger prints on it.” We had heard this lecture a thousand times, but he still always said it. I was accustomed to being told to go outside and wash my Mom’s car and his truck, and as I finally finished the truck (and it got his inspection) I would foolishly ask “Do you want help with the mustang?” And he would bark “No. Go inside.” Instead of driving it and enjoying it he would walk out into the garage and scowl and say “Damn it there’s dust on the car. (In the middle of summer no less), grab the other end of the car cover and help me put it on.” So this is the prefacing for how he babied it.

So one day I’m out in the yard completing a very banal and unnecessary task for him that was typical of him assigning me. Shoveling a large heap of top soil and moving it about a whopping 30 feet to the edge of the yard instead of next to the driveway. He walks up to me and says “Good job. Get that last wheel barrel full and you can stop.” Then he uttered the most anticipatory and utterly TERRIFYING words I had ever heard him say “After your done do you want to drive the mustang?” I didn’t know what to say. For a moment my tongue didn’t work anymore and in equal excitement and total fear over the prospect of knowing that if I even so much as got a wheel off of the shoulder and got dust on it from the gravel he would kill me I started to literally “shake” in the left side of my body like I was having a seizure from the rush of adrenaline. I collected myself for a moment and slowly muttered “Yeah, sure.” For the next 20 min. of work I continued to have my “mini-seizure” and it carried on into me getting behind the wheel.

Finally the day had come, and I was totally unprepared for it and more concerned that I would be dead if I did anything wrong. When people tell you that 60’s muscle cars are really kind of death traps with terrible brakes and terrible handling they aren’t kidding. It felt like one with no power steering or power brakes. Instead of the glorious run down the highway and cruise down main street to the envy of my friends that I had dreamed he would let me do at the cruise night at the local annual car show, I drove it an agonizingly SLOW 23 mph down the street of my subdivision and around the cul de sac at the end for about a 1 mile round trip. I was too worried about fucking up then I ever felt like I was enjoying it.

Soon after my parents got divorced (maybe that’s why I finally got to drive it because he felt it was coming) and the car had to be sold. Since I’ve already typed way too much I’ll speed forward here and get to the ending soon. The long story short is that he sold it to the local car club that does a raffle for a car every year at their annual show. Of course I didn’t win. It kicked around locally for awhile after but then I didn’t see it anymore.

Then one day (now probably 6 years after he sold it) guess what I saw sitting on a used car lot on my way to my summer job? A Candy Apple Red 67 Mustang Convertible with a white top and a black interior and GT wheel covers. Sure enough it was it. So I went home after work and said “Guess what I saw at B & M Auto Sales?” “What?” “Your mustang.” He scowled in response. Then I said “Do me a favor and let me run it down the highway and down main street just once. Come with me to the dealership and pretend you want to buy it for me for my college graduation present and ask to go on a test drive.” He scowled again and said “I’m not going anywhere near that fucking car.” Mom lived 3 hrs away by then so I couldn’t convince her either. Thankfully I’ve never seen it again.

Someday I’m going to restore its clone though (but I’ll at least put in a HiPo 289 with dual carbs or a 390) and I’m going to put a vanity plate on it that says “Succubus” which is a female demon that tries to seduce men.