Driving down the road with no particular destination in mind, I’ve been waiting for a nice fall or winter day like this: clear, 60 degrees, perfect for taking this car out for a run. The Model “A” has been winterized, yet I’m hoping to sneak the Bird out on some of these uncharacteristically pleasant winter days resulting from climate change. The scent of burning leaves drifts through the open windows; a couple of neighbors persist in burning theirs, while I prefer letting the wind carry them away. I’d rather savor the sound and sensation of the wheels on the road, the wide radial tires tenaciously gripping the curves. We attempted once to fit radial tires under the Model “A,” but it made steering incredibly difficult, akin to driving a 1940s International garbage truck. Radials don’t mesh well with old-time steering boxes, so we promptly removed them.
I give the engine a little throttle, and in an instant, I’m pushing nearly 100 MPH on these back roads. “Don’t do that,” a small voice in my head admonishes. “It’s not safe. Wait for a good stretch of a major highway.” Nonetheless, the car’s suspension effortlessly smooths out the road, even on our notorious Portage County back roads. No jolts, a stark contrast to my everyday Toyota driver. Its handling surpasses all my previous antique cars or Miatas, momentarily transporting me back to 1965—a wonderful time in my life.
The dashboard brings back memories of my 1955 Crown Victoria Ford, a car I cherished in ‘65. It was probably my favorite among the 112 cars I’ve owned. That was as close to a sporty car as I got back then—powerful, with Hollywood mufflers. Look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls. I drove that car all around town, just relishing the feeling of being in it. It felt like an extension of myself. I had to sell it for college money, a decision by my mother that I never quite forgave. If not for that, I believe I’d still have it. Perhaps that event triggered a devil-may-care attitude toward cars—hence 112 and counting. If I couldn’t keep the one I wanted, maybe I had to experience them all.
I’ve attempted to fill that void on occasion. About five years ago, I took a chance on a ‘55 Ford Hardtop. It looked promising, priced attractively low. However, it soon became evident why—the frame was cracked and hastily patched together. There was no point in restoring that one. But my pursuit of acquiring antique cars isn’t over yet. If a pristine ‘55 Crown Vic were to cross my path, well, we know how that would go.
Now, this red 2002 Ford Thunderbird is my newfound time machine. “Time Machine?” they inquire in unison! You see, every time I step into it, I’m transported back to 1965. I purchased it around six months ago in June. When these T-Birds were released in ‘02, I made a mental note that someday, I’d own one resembling the ‘55 T-Birds I coveted. I could never fit into and drive an actual ‘55 T-Bird. Trust me, I tried. They’re so cramped that I couldn’t even get my legs in and close the door. However, the Model “A” required my presence at many summer events; old cars have a way of dictating your destinations.
The Bird has only clocked 15,000 miles, which is why I immediately seized the opportunity. It looks new, smells new, drives new. Did I mention it’s red? I’m a sucker for pretty red cars. It’s a convertible hardtop, boasting a fancy leather interior, truly a luxury car with Lincoln underpinnings and a sizable engine for a two-seater sports car. Perhaps it’s more suited for an older gentleman. Automatic transmission, air conditioning, power windows, power steering, and a dashboard that illuminates like an airplane cockpit. This is why Ford only produced them for four years—2002 through 2005—because they were far too luxurious for the average sports car clientele. They couldn’t move enough units. In contrast, the ‘55 was incredibly simple—radio knobs, headlight knob, heater/defroster. And those dashboard lights? Well, there’s no comparison with the Thunderbird. Just two bucket seats and that’s all. I might fit the bill as an older gentleman and likely won’t be taking it to a drive-in anytime soon. So be it.
Driving these old cars seems to transport you back in time. Well, the car is only part of the equation. It triggers memories buried deep within your brain. Let’s see, my girlfriend at the time would have been Sandy from Bedford. I haven’t thought about her in years. And that, my friends, is why we have old cars!
