With as much as I do here at the magazine, be it a feature article or thumbing through the submissions for Snapshots or My Muscle Mustang, I am greeted with the passion people have for their cars. Whether it is in the beginning stages of being overhauled, or it’s a bone-stock daily driver, the love affair with the automobile is quite apparent. That passion got me thinking about my very first car, the one I had before the pair of brand X-ers I picked up.
Before I was allowed to have any kind of high-performance vehicle, my dad made me drive around in his '85 Thunderbird. The car had seen numerous trips to Florida and South Carolina on family vacations, and carried with it a load of memories.
The car wasn't anything special. It was equipped with a V6 (wish it has the 5.0-liter!), and by the time I got it, it had seen its glory days and was well into growing old. The valve covers leaked oil so bad at times in the summer when I would come to a stop light, smoke and that stench would curl around from under the fenders. It leaked so much oil, I never had to change it . I would add a quart of oil a week, change the oil filter every 3 months, and be done with it. And who could forget the time I blasted out every speaker in the car! I didn't have a thundering stereo in the car, but one day after class in high school, I decided to try and impress a girl and turn the stereo up real loud with a LIT song on. Needless to say, I heard more rattling than I did music.
As much as I beat on that car, it was good to me, and it never let me down. I would take her to school, to work, and to my other job, which was working the burnout box at Raceway Park. I couldn't get it above 75 mph for fear the engine would blow up. At that speed, rolling off of the throttle would allow you to listen to the rods slap around a bit. Throw in a valve tick at an idle (and an occasional idle surge), and it’s a surprise the car lived at all. Ahh, but the memories. That car held a coveted spot in the back of the Piscataway High School parking lot with the rest of the hot cars. See, us car guys stick together, so between my (AACCKK!) other car ('68 Chevy Nova), my buddy Austin's lifted Dodge truck with a 440, my other buddy John's WS6 Firebird, and the lone Ford of the group (an unnamed guy with a Mustang GT who tried to get me in trouble for a burnout he did…long story!), we had our spots in the back of the lot. We were the outcasts, but the in-crowd as well. Everyone loved our rides, but didn't want to socialize with us. The T-bird was given a pass to park there for the first couple of months because of my Nova's low 12-second drag strip runs. It made its own place with the crew when I blasted doughnuts in the school parking lot in the snow with her. I don't think my dad was happy when he found out 3 years later, but I learned it from him so. Remember the shelled rear Dad?
When I finally had to get another car due to driving longer distances to work and such, it was time for my brother, Vinnie, to get the keys. He blames me for running the T-Bird into the ground, and I resent that. I may have started it, but he certainly finished it. I mean, HE was the one that almost lit the car on fire when the window switch started burning...gimme a break Vin!
Between my brother and I, we railed on that car pretty good, but she never let us down. She may have looked beat and smoked the mosquitoes out with the oil leak, but looking back, that car was a part of some of the most fun (some reckless I might add) I ever had. I would tell you about the incident involving the T-bird, 4 friends, and a certain Rutgers soccer field, but I still think they are looking for me...regardless, for both my brother and I, this car was the beginning of our tenure on the road.
When the time came to give her up, we ended up donating her to the blind. Honestly, she is probably the reason why those donations now have to be inspected first. But for all of her problems and faults, I loved that car, and miss her now. I mean, for all I put her through, it would have been nice to have her around now and under the knife getting a makeover and a thumping small-block Ford. But alas, she has gone on to a better place.
With Father's Day coming up, it's only right I say thanks to my Dad for (at the time I thought) making me drive the T-bird. I may have only washed her twice, and not really appeared to have given her as much care as I should have, but looking back, it makes for some good memories, better stories, and an undying love for any car I have ever driven, be it a GT500 or a Focus.
Thanks Dad for allowing me to beat the you-know-what out of your car for so long. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have the appreciation for the cars I drive today.
Now if I could only have my beloved Thunderchicken back...