I have had a strong affection for vehicles, cars and trucks and such, from an early age. My first memory of such was formed when our small family moved from a house in a small town, to a three-story row-house in a city. I was five years old. Our belongings were loaded into a “hanger truck”. Well, actually, a tractor-trailer that was normally used by a company that manufactured hangers. It had a very large picture of a hanger painted on the side of the trailer. I was in love with “hanger trucks”.

The move was made during WWII. A world of “black outs”, shortages, rationing and Victory Gardens. All the metal in the country was needed for the war effort. No new metal toys! So my dad built toys out of scrap wood. And the first toy? A wooden “hanger truck”. And then a complete army of jeeps and tanks and troop trucks, with cloth canopies! Vehicular love kicked into high gear.

Of course, the experience of actually driving a vehicle had to wait until I gained some stature. I had my foot-powered-scooter, a dangerous vehicle in its own right. Not too bad on the level, but propelled downhill at speed, it can behave erratically. People should not park their cars where children play! What’s a little dent in the back of a car anyway?

I spent years attached to a Schwinn, a reliable mode of transitional transportation. Over time it was tricked out with a light, a horn, a siren, a basket, saddle bags, an air pump, handle-tassels and a balloon in the spokes to provide the sound of a motor. That baby got me around well enough, but I longed for more.

I got my first chance to experience real driving, in my dad’s ‘51 Chevy, back and forth in the driveway. That ignited a fire in me that has never been extinguished. I got my license in a ‘53 Ford, and acquired my first car, a ‘49 Plymouth. I was out the door and jamming. That Plymouth saw a lot of living, some of which was barely lived through.

My first experience driving a truck came shortly after I got my license. My uncle had a ‘53 Chevy pickup. He hired me to deliver eggs on an egg route. His elderly and proper mother rode with me on my first trip, to teach me the route. At some point I noticed a look of terror on the poor ladies face. “You’re going too fast!” She cried. “You’re going 90 miles an hour!”. “Actually, I’m going 35. That’s the temperature gauge you’re looking at.”

My first new car was a black ‘63 Valiant. The first of a long line of cars, trucks and SUVS I have owned. I love to drive. I have driven all over this great country. And I love to buy cars. I am maybe one of the first, but certainly not the only, member of our family who has been infected by the buying bug. I doubt that, we as a family, could even remember and count all of the cars we have owned. It might be worth a try.

My affection for vehicles, and for driving, has produced many entertaining, and often exciting, experiences. Not the least of which was my first cross-country trip. Driving my ‘65 Bonneville convertible, top down, was a joy. Experiencing Route 66. Seeing the western desert for the first time, the mesas, the sunsets, the wild sand storms. Driving through open range at 125 mph. Coming over the crest of a hill, and into a herd of sheep. Flashing past a terrified Native American sheep herder, who most certainly was in immediate need of a change of pants.

My passion for driving inspired me to become a certified private driver education instructor, a side venture. I got my certification at the University of Massachusetts. My instructor was the author of the most popular driver safety textbook, Man & The Motorcar. His stories were priceless. On one occasion he was teaching a high school girl how to drive. She was driving, my instructor was in the front passenger seat, two other students sat in the back. This took place before driver ed cars had dual controls. The town where they were driving had steep hills. As they approached an intersection, they heard the blaring air horn of a tractor-trailer that had lost its brakes. It rushed into the intersection at high speed. The instructor and the rear seat students dove for the floor. After several moments they realized that they had not been hit. “What happened. How did you avoid that truck?” the instructor asked. “I think we went under it.” “What do you mean, you think we went under it?” “I closed my eyes”.

My love of driving got me a job driving a dump truck for a couple years. A ‘54 Chevy, five- yard beauty. Two of the most exciting years of my life. I had a later experience driving truck, but these two years were special. My boss taught me a lot of the tricks of the trade. He taught me how to drive into a delivery location, pick a point of reference (maybe a stone), and back in until my rear driver side wheel touched that stone. That put my truck in position to dump. He taught me how to drive through a muddy area without getting stuck. He taught me to apply the brakes before I approached a bad bump, then, releasing the brake, I could roll over the bump at slow speed. This prevents damage to the rear axle.

It was this last little trick that is featured in the final segment of this moderate tale. I had been hauling gravel for a couple of days. One day my axel had broken as I down-shifted on a steep uphill grade. This particular truck had had previous broken axles. My buddy attached a chain and dragged me up the hill and off the road. Mechanics came and repaired the axle. The next day I was back in the truck, hauling more gravel.

The gravel pit was high on the side of a mountain. A winding dirt road led from the pit to the valley below. This was my third trip of the day. My boss loaded my truck with gravel, and I started my trip out of the pit. Just below the pit, the road crossed a railroad track, a big bump. I applied the brakes and slowed to a near stop. I released the brakes and eased over the tracks. Crack! A loud noice, and the truck leaped forward! I pumped the brakes. Nothing! I tried to down-shift. No gears! I was free wheeling down the road. I picked up speed as I neared the first curve. Should I risk the curve or ditch the truck into the bank? I made the curve and plummeted downward. I surveyed my options in the valley below. Really only two were available. I could try to shoot off to the right between a couple of chicken coups. Pretty risky.

My other option was to take the chance that no car would be passing when I approached the T at the bottom of the road. I was flying. My rear axle was quickly sliding out of its housing, which had been partially cracked during the repair the day before. I held my breath. No cars. I shot through the intersection and into the cornfield beyond. The truck sank to its hubs in the soft soil. Boy, do I love to drive! And I still have a strong affection for vehicles, especially trucks.

Over the years my mistress has transformed, sometimes gracefully, often not, into many different automotive forms. Even immersed as I was in her sense-numbing nectar, practicality would occasionally dictate that I compromise desire for utility and here a truck or there an econobox would appear and linger as long as I could stand before I thirsted once more for the deeper passion that could only be sated by the sultry form of my true love. Here of course I speak of the Ford Mustang.

In actuality, my attachment to Mustangs began before I could drive…legally at least.   I had put together plastic models, acquired HO scale versions that travelled over scale miles of plastic track paid for a few sections at a time from lawn-mowing money, and read all the brochures cover to cover that I got from accompanying my dad on his annual pilgrimage to the Ford dealer’s new model open house. It was no surprise therefore that my first car, purchased partially on credit, a fact that immediately set the tone for my willingness to abandon reason where desire was concerned, was a 1965 Mustang. I remember my dad’s comment when he sat nervously in the passenger seat of this high-mileage questionably reliable Ralph Nader agnostic sleazy used car back-lot wonder as I attempted to extract every erg of energy available from the 200 straight 6 that whined apprehensively from beneath the sleek long white hood: “Do you think it would be a good idea to test the brakes before you see how fast it will go?” I did test them, at the end of the test drive, and they worked well enough. I was hooked, and have been since.

Over the years I have been owned by numerous Mustangs, as well as their close Mercury cousins the Cougar and the Capri, and each has been special to me in their own way. They say your first love is your best, and although that may be debated, it would be hard to deny the attraction I had to that first Mustang. That being said, two others have stood out from the rest enough to garner special affection. The first was a 1984 charcoal gray GT convertible with a 5-speed manual transmission. This was one of the few cars I have ordered equipped exactly as I wanted, and it was the source of immediate angst as the promised 5-6 week waiting period turned into two and a half months, and I was not fit company to be around when my repeated trips to the dealer to see if it was parked out back awaiting prep each ended in disappointment. When it finally came it was immediate total bliss. I cannot say if she led me to abandon my law-abiding ways or I enticed her, but suffice it to say that when we were enjoying each other’s company regard for government regulation entered a period of serious decline. For one glorious year we were the fastest thing on the road, or near enough so that the challenges from the occasional obviously superior adversary could be graciously declined without putting too much of a dent in our mutual self-esteem. I dubbed my ride the “Parkway Prowler”, and she did her best to earn the name. But time passes, and the summer of exuberance turned to fall and pleasant more mannerly top down drives through the vibrant colors of autumn became the norm. Then winter came and a shed was fashioned to shelter my passion during the long dreary months ahead. These were interrupted only with regular visits to the shed to start the Mustang and let her run at idle while I basked in the still fairly new car smells to the accompaniment of the sounds emanating from the premium sound system featuring the electronically advanced Dolby auto-reverse cassette player.   Spring finally came and with it the anticipation of new encounters where the pleasantries of competitive domination would surely once again be the norm. But the new year brought change, and every car that mattered was now faster. But my affection for searching out the limits of our relationship did not diminish.   I simply found more secluded locations where our joy could endure uninterrupted. She was still fast enough.

The second stand-out relationship is the one I currently enjoy. Nor is this a “love the one you’re with” affair. This connection has been cultivated with much anticipation and forward planning, an oddity for one so usually driven with heat of the moment passion, and its arrival was inevitable from the first rumbling of a 50^th anniversary re-make of the greatest American automotive classic ever produced. The general justification here was that my first car was built exactly 50 years earlier, and that an opportunity for that type of milestone would not occur again in my lifetime, and if I were to own this car till the day I left this world I could, at least automotively speaking, die happy.

I speak here of a magnetic gray 2015 convertible with a 4-cylinder turbo-charged 315 HP engine married to 6 speed manual transmission. The marketing minds at Ford chose to call this power plant Eco-Boost. Now I am as supportive as anyone of the concept of greening up the planet, but I confess my interest here runs more towards blackening up pavement, which surprisingly enough this car will do in third gear. Given that, I actually find the term a little offensive to hang on a car with this much performance potential. I will admit that I do not find the 32 plus MPG that this thing will achieve if one is to stop paying attention to its intended function and just hang with traffic at 80 or 85 on a reasonably flat interstate offensive, but it was far from my prime motivation in this acquisition.   In fact, I could not have even presented that as my incentive in any credible fashion to anyone who might have a vested interest in my monetary expenditures. I think it is well documented that I was moved more by the little toggle switch conveniently located on the center of the dash that allows one to enter into “track mode” and all that it has to offer. Now for the speed is everything crowd let me be very clear here. This car is fast. As fast as the GT from just a few years back. It is, however, not the fastest thing on the road…not even for the first glorious year I have owned it. It is not even the fastest Mustang…not by a long shot. But it is quick. It is what I like to call fast enough. Fast enough to shatter the speed limit in any state in the union and do in right away.   My doctor who fears the effects of even caffeine on my heart-rate would probably think it is more than fast enough, but I have not discussed this with him. I am not sure I took his potential concern into account as much as the extra $7,000 price tag that went with stepping up to the GT, as was my immediate instinct, when concluding this decision to be the only viable choice. That and the rumor that for another 500 American dollars Ford Racing would put a tune on this engine that would give it another nearly 100 HP without voiding the warranty. I’m not sure if that ever really came to fruition, but there is a shop locally that will apply the tune for about $500. Coupling that with the lower weight of the turbo (I’m sorry, there I go again) would make it a car to be reckoned with.   Even with this stock power plant, performance could have been improved with, aptly enough, the performance package.   Mostly that is better rear-end gearing, but comes with suspension improvements as well (although the standard version corners faster than I will), but it also comes with a set of black wheels and summer-only tires. This last was enough for me to decide I didn’t need it, regardless of my doctor’s feelings in the matter, as I am too old-school to embrace blacked out everything as the height of automotive beauty. I am more of a chrome it if you can see it kind of guy.   That notwithstanding, the sleek lines of the 2015 don’t offend me despite their lack of brilliant trim.   Even the wheels that come standard with the turbo are somewhat subdued, but are still attractive enough nonetheless.   I did not intend leather seats due to the Arizona heat, but they are cool looking, and cool to the touch with the flick of a switch. Hot too if the need should ever arise. The interior is inviting and in my opinion is the greatest improvement out of many over the last design. It is truly enjoyable to be in. Getting in is of course a different matter, and is the only thing in a “I can’t find anything I hate about this car” car that is of any irritation. In fairness, 50 years ago I would not even have noticed.

As I say, it has been a year. The 50^th anniversary hype and the gotta-have-one feeding frenzy has long-since subsided. But like any good relationship, ours has grown over time.   I cannot say we yet have truly discovered each other’s limits, but we are closer. We have in fact not even recorded our flirtations on the “for track use only” feature that allows one to keep track of fastest elapsed times and such, and I have never been as much concerned with those numbers as the feeling that comes from achieving them and the satisfaction that only happens when a spirited car is driven as God intended. No relationships are without their ups and downs, and this one has been no exception, as the hot Arizona summer brought a brief period of intermittent separation, with the Mustang hunkered down in a shed fashioned for the purpose of protecting her from the ravages of the monsoons, where she was occasionally started and allowed to run at idle as I enjoyed the almost new car smell while surrounded by the sounds emanating from the satellite radio. But we are reunited now, and I still feel as excited to walk out to the corral and saddle her up as I did a year ago, and I still turn and look back over my shoulder when I leave her as would be true of any great love. The 2015 Mustang may not have earned Car of the Year honors, but in a lifetime of cars it has been a car of a lifetime for me. But the greatest compliment I can give her, and it goes to the depth of our relationship is simply this; she is good enough to wax.