the mustang

Learning how to drive is no small feat, but throw in a classic muscle car, and you've got a recipe for disaster. I mean, who even lets someone who only has a learner's permit to even touch the steering wheel of their baby?!

The answer is my dad.

I'd been showing great skill as a new driver is the only explanation I can give for his lapse in judgment. I mean, I hit the ball out of the park right off; I'd been able to make it to school clear across town from the DMV directly after passing my written exam without killing or injuring anyone. Mom just handed me the keys, and said, "You're driving," as if she didn't realize her life was now in my hands.

Fast forward a few weeks of being this dazzlingly safe driver not hitting anyone or anything. I was on top of the world. This driving thing was not such a big deal. I even survived driving on the road to the mall AKA the freeway without dying (although I did get close to hyperventilating and may or may not have been yelling in fear of how crazy it was and hated driving to the mall now). So of course, Dad would be proud of me. And I imagine to show that pride, he decided to invite me to drive his pride and joy, his powder yellow 1966 Mustang.

My initial reaction was something like, "Dad, are you sure you want me to drive that thing?" but translated that thought to saying aloud, "Sure, let's go."

Next thing I know, I am scooting the seat up as far as it will go in order to reach the pedals and looking at the shifter and wondering how you get through the gears without a clutch. Dad explained how to push in the little side button as you go up or down on the shifter, and I was amazed. I practiced, sitting there with my foot on the brake, just shifting. It seemed like a good preparation for this grand occasion of driving Dad's before then untouchable car. I was nervous at this point. Just pressing the gas pedal was telling me this car was way different than my mom's Volkswagen Golf I'd been driving. Eventually, Dad said it was time to get going. I think we were heading to pick up fountain drinks or a little groceries. I can't remember.

I claimed the courage to put that car in reverse and let off the brake and onto the gas, and BOOM! We went from 0 to what felt like 60 to 0 in what felt like two seconds flat—right into the side gate fencing that stuck out about three feet into our long and wide driveway.

Immediate eruption of yelling and cussing from Dad about how could I run into the fence like that, I would never drive his Mustang again, blah, blah, blah led to the first time I remember yelling right back. I told him loudly and logically, "How could I know the car would go so fast?" and "I've never driven an automatic before" and "You should have warned me" and "This is only the second car I've ever driven; Give me a break!" And you know what happened? Dad stopped in his tracks, looked around assessing the situation, and told me I was right, handed me the keys again, and said to try again but SLOWLY.

I can't describe how painfully slow I inched my way out of that driveway, but when I finally got out onto the blacktop and put that Mustang in drive, I never felt such satisfaction—until I got to go forward. Man alive, there's nothing quite like speeding down the road in a big hunk of roaring metal.