When
I was 12 or 13 my dad restored a 1968 Mustang for my two-years-older
sister. Before this, I was mostly oblivious to cars and knew more about
computers by far. I don't remember much of being that age, but I do
remember riding in the back of my dad's coworker Mark's 1991 diesel
F-250 Supercab, adding a few more miles to the 400,000 on the odometer
as we drove southeast through Texas to pick up the car.
My dad handed me
the money to pay for the car. Holding $2,000 dollars, more money than
my mind could even conceive of then, in my hands was a memory that has
stuck with me. On the trip Mark and I discussed the relative merits of
VESA vs. ISA vs AGP expansion slots, the differences between hubs,
routers, and switches, and whether or not 10baseT or 100baseT was
necessary for the office networks.
When we got to the little house on a sandy lot with peeling white siding, I found a horned frog and watched it scurry while my dad did the inspection, handed over the cash, and loaded the car up. The car hadn't made an impression on me. It was an old, though cool, car with a peeling vinyl roof and two different colors of aqua paint. The ride home was more of the same, except I fell asleep in the rear floorboards as night fell.
I remained mostly indifferent to the car for the few years it was being restored until he had finished the body work and was about to paint. I helped prime a few parts, did some sanding, and finally when the paint was laid, helped install the engine. The engine was what got my attention.
All those intricate parts, all mechanical, keeping everything in time, metering fuel, with only a handful of electrons now and then to keep it rolling. The pure mechanical nature of it was what grabbed me; even in the days before most people had even seen a computer, we could crank out power and build machines with lockstep precision. It was something I thought only existed in the space program, and was a counterpoint to my interest in computers. After installing my first intake with him, I was hooked. Cars became something to learn about, something to be improved, and later, something to be driven.
The first car I ever drove was my mom's 1994 Volvo 850. Long, but open, it was responsive, comfortable, and safe. I graduated to my dad's F-150 SuperCab in short order. It was also long, tall, and not nearly as responsive. The contrast taught me about the tradeoffs between power and nimbleness.
While the Triton 5.4-motivated truck elicited from me the yet-unknown-to-me Jeremy Clarkson's refrain, "Poowwwwweerrrrrrr," the worm gear and reciprocating ball steering box did not grant confidence in the bends, and the light rear made it hard to get the power where it was supposed to be. The Volvo, by comparison, was like a surgeons scalpel. 169 hp, but a musical note from the I-5 and tight steering with boat-anchor brakes made it fun.
When we got to the little house on a sandy lot with peeling white siding, I found a horned frog and watched it scurry while my dad did the inspection, handed over the cash, and loaded the car up. The car hadn't made an impression on me. It was an old, though cool, car with a peeling vinyl roof and two different colors of aqua paint. The ride home was more of the same, except I fell asleep in the rear floorboards as night fell.
I remained mostly indifferent to the car for the few years it was being restored until he had finished the body work and was about to paint. I helped prime a few parts, did some sanding, and finally when the paint was laid, helped install the engine. The engine was what got my attention.
All those intricate parts, all mechanical, keeping everything in time, metering fuel, with only a handful of electrons now and then to keep it rolling. The pure mechanical nature of it was what grabbed me; even in the days before most people had even seen a computer, we could crank out power and build machines with lockstep precision. It was something I thought only existed in the space program, and was a counterpoint to my interest in computers. After installing my first intake with him, I was hooked. Cars became something to learn about, something to be improved, and later, something to be driven.
The first car I ever drove was my mom's 1994 Volvo 850. Long, but open, it was responsive, comfortable, and safe. I graduated to my dad's F-150 SuperCab in short order. It was also long, tall, and not nearly as responsive. The contrast taught me about the tradeoffs between power and nimbleness.
While the Triton 5.4-motivated truck elicited from me the yet-unknown-to-me Jeremy Clarkson's refrain, "Poowwwwweerrrrrrr," the worm gear and reciprocating ball steering box did not grant confidence in the bends, and the light rear made it hard to get the power where it was supposed to be. The Volvo, by comparison, was like a surgeons scalpel. 169 hp, but a musical note from the I-5 and tight steering with boat-anchor brakes made it fun.
At
age 15-and-a-half it was time to choose what I would drive. It was
something cheap and used, or something old and restorable. Because of
the chance to indulge my mechanical curiosity (as well as some teenage
yearning for a tail-happy vehicle with a herd of horses under the hood) I
chose something old and restorable.
By a matter of chance, while walking I saw an almost unrecognizable 1967 Mustang coupe hidden in the brush on an abandoned lot, less than a mile from my house. My dad contacted the neighbors and found information on the property owners. After talking to them on the phone they told me I could simply have the car - they didn't know who had the title because it had been passed around the family so many times. My $1,500 offer still in my pocket, we filled up the tires, hooked up to the dolly it was still parked on, and pulled the car one mile home. We had it appraised and filed for a bonded title, which converted to a full, non-salvage title in 6 months if no disputes were filed. The car was mine.
By a matter of chance, while walking I saw an almost unrecognizable 1967 Mustang coupe hidden in the brush on an abandoned lot, less than a mile from my house. My dad contacted the neighbors and found information on the property owners. After talking to them on the phone they told me I could simply have the car - they didn't know who had the title because it had been passed around the family so many times. My $1,500 offer still in my pocket, we filled up the tires, hooked up to the dolly it was still parked on, and pulled the car one mile home. We had it appraised and filed for a bonded title, which converted to a full, non-salvage title in 6 months if no disputes were filed. The car was mine.
The
floor pans had holes the size of baseballs. The rear quarters and
driver's side door skin was a sea of body filler. But under all the
tree-sap, within the miasma of the rotten, fetid cabin, I found hope:
the shining glimmer the power of my own hands would bring to a luster.
It was hard splitting my time between high school and restoring the car. Taking the two most difficult AP courses my Junior year and 4 AP classes my Senior year, and volleyball until 6pm every evening, the car took me the better part of 3 years to finish. While my dad helped a great deal, the grunt work - the scraping of 40 years of gunk, the wire cup cleaning leaving your torso studded with 20 gauge steel wire, the hammering, cutting, beating, and swearing - was all mine. He was the paid consultant, I was the minimum wage employee. My grades were average, but my knowledge was skyrocketing.
It was hard splitting my time between high school and restoring the car. Taking the two most difficult AP courses my Junior year and 4 AP classes my Senior year, and volleyball until 6pm every evening, the car took me the better part of 3 years to finish. While my dad helped a great deal, the grunt work - the scraping of 40 years of gunk, the wire cup cleaning leaving your torso studded with 20 gauge steel wire, the hammering, cutting, beating, and swearing - was all mine. He was the paid consultant, I was the minimum wage employee. My grades were average, but my knowledge was skyrocketing.
No bolt was
left unturned on the vehicle. My dad built a rotisserie and once I had
it stripped we mounted it, replaced the floor pans, hammered, cut, welded
the fenders. The local Oldies station wafts by as I build the montage
of memory in my mind. It was the only station we ever turned on in the
garage.
While the
montage unfolds I drive the Volvo occasionally - it is now my Dad's car
after an engine transplant at 275,000 miles - and my mothers Expedition.
My best friend is my neighbor and he helps me with the work. I don't
drink, I don't party on the weekends, I have no girlfriend, but I have
the mental image of my car, my Mustang in every sense
of the word, and the vision of cruising down country roads and state
highways with both windows open and a V8 burbling at the behest of my
right foot. My sister's red '68 urged me to continue as she looked over
the rebirth of her older sister.
I finally finished the car in the fall of 2005. Senior year. I'd roped a few friends in with the tale of the car, and had even documented my progress on a website I built for that express purpose.
If you look
on my senior page in the 2005 yearbook, I was "Most likely to: bring
his car to school next week." But that next week finally came, and I
arrived behind the walnut trimmed steering wheel. I could talk about it
with passion, I displayed it more proudly than any report card or
scoreboard. The midnight blue paint, while far from perfect, shone and
the 350 horses under the hood made short work of the quarter mile and
painting elevens on the school lot.
That car sparked an obsession that continued into college with Formula SAE. It continued into my transition into industry when I picked up the 911SC that needed a little work. And it continues today as I take care of, improve, and drive everything like I stole it, including that glorious, now sequentially fuel injected Mustang.
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