Meet your new muscle-car gal.
Some Saturday soon you may hear the growl of my mighty 4.6 liter engine with the power of 215 horses. I may drive like a grandma, but my coolness factor at a stoplights recently went up a notch.
Dad wanted me to have his 1996 Mustang convertible. It’s way too much car for a school teacher; I’ll need to take it out of town so I can pretend I am someone else.
Dad bought the car when he was at an age when a man has a few coins to rub together and a young man’s craving for something fast — just about the age that I am now. Gas was $1.23 a gallon and he was proud to buy American.
Before he died, he wrote “Heather — Mustang,” on a piece of paper, which my stepmom Lynda interpreted by handing me the keys. It’s not a show car, thank goodness. I would be too afraid to drive something worth more than my annual salary. However, Dad was pretty good with a wrench and spent some money on good tires and a new ragtop.
I had hoped to see the car hauled to the scrapyard, years from now, after many more dad/daughter Mustang adventures. Now I’ll ask some friends if they’re willing to ride shotgun behind 285 lb-ft of torque.
Most of 3,352 pounds of curb weight is in the engine, but realistically the coupe only fits two people comfortably. When Dad and I would set off for a daytrip we were lucky to cram a small cooler and pair of binoculars in the backseat. Usually Lynda stayed at home, graciously giving us time together.
I have so many memories in that car that I would get sad if I sat down to remember them.
It has a nickname — Vroom-vroom, no doubt because of the gruff purr from the V-8 engine. One day, while out of earshot of Lynda, Dad confided he had tested her during a long trek across the desert — 120 mph. When my eyebrows raised to my hairline, he said he had to do it at least once — to see what she could do.
I’ll take his word for it. I can already tell that the car’s sweet spot is about 85 mph. Now I know why I was always telling dad to slow down.
When we folded into the car, we put the top down and decided where the road led — the top of Mt. Diablo, Crow Canyon Road, Tilden Park, sometimes Chrissy Field.
I recall one day, quite possibly my favorite, when we cruised off for lunch and continued until the car hugged the curves of Highway 1. I figured out where we were when I smelled the ocean. The perfect table with a few was waiting just in time to see the sun nod.
You also just can’t help but look cool when you’re sitting in a convertible at a stoplight with your hair looking like a wind-tossed rock star and waving a bright yellow rubber chicken.
On our most recent, and last trip in the Mustang, Dad and I vroom-vroomed to the top of a Sierra Nevada summit for a picnic near Hope Valley. We sat separately by a creek, each of us praying that the cancer thing would end up being no big deal.
Having his car is in no way practical. This is the Sacramento Valley and the car is black. That first week I spent $1,000 for insurance, an oil change, a new battery, and a few tanks of gas. Soon I heard a sound that meant a new sway bar is in my future.
I’ll gladly replace a few things, that means dad loved the car enough to try to wear it out.
When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to get my drivers license until I knew how to check my oil, change a tire and drive a stick shift. I must admit, shifting all that power in my hand feels good, even if I’m only driving 28 miles an hour down the Esplanade and occasionally stalling at stoplights.
The car helps me feel closer to him, the same way I feel when I wear his sweaters.
As I showed off the car to a friend, I realized Dad loved the wind.
He rode a motorcycle in his 20s, and we spent many a weekend sailing the Carquinez Straights in “baby boat.” Of course he would also buy a convertible.
Thank you dad, for teaching me to love the landscape.
Thank you for teaching me to stop along the side of the road rather than miss one of those slow-motion moments. I just wish you had been able to point out the view without taking both hands off the steering wheel.
This week I was driving my Honda Civic to work. I often turn off the radio, which makes driving my “think time.”
I saw the full moon rising at daybreak, soft in the muted sunlight. The cows were doing nothing much along that long stretch of Highway 99. I imagined Dad, singing along with Jimmy Buffet, feeling that wind and not missing a thing.
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