The Pony

The Pony

When I was a young man, in my late teens and early twenties, I loved cars and the cars I loved were fast ones. I even made modifications to Dads car before I owned my own to make it more sporty and faster. It's strange that when I bought my first road worthy vehicle it was a 3/4 ton Dodge pick-up. It wasn't fast and it wasn't sporty but it was affordable and I knew that Dad could really make use of a pick-up truck on the farm. Besides I still lived at home and Dads car was sporty and fairly fast, because I had made it that way, and I could use it whenever I wanted to. In fact before too long we had pretty much traded and Dad was driving my truck all the time while I drove his car.




The guys I was hanging out with at the time were more into girls than cars so for the first time in my life I was the cool one in the group. I was driving an almost new 1970 Plymouth Satellite Sport that was about one and a half heart beats from being a Road Runner. I had taken off the standard two barrel carburetor, put on a four barrel and added headers and dual exhaust. I had also put on a few other performance parts so for a little three-eighteen it rocked. I tweaked the outside too with a nice set of mag wheels and some lace paint. Lace paint was paint sprayed on over a piece of lace so that when the lace was removed the design was left on the car. It was really sharp and stylish too.




Dad didn't know about most of the changes I had made to his car. I just did it without saying anything, probably because I knew he wouldn't agree if I asked. You see, if he didn't say no then I really hadn't done anything wrong. That's how I saw it anyway. Of course he knew about the wheels and paint because he liked that stuff too. Dad was a car guy and he could appreciate a nice ride. I did these changes over a period of a few weeks. I was working and had saved up a bit of money and I spent it all on that car. All was right with the world until Dad took the car into the dealership for its regular warranty maintenance. That's when the rectal excrement hit the rotary oscillating device.




By the time he got I got home from work he had been stewing in his own juices for a few hours and he went off like a gun. He just about as mad as I had ever seen him. I don't really remember what was said but the gist of his tirade was that I had no right changing things on his car that could affect his warranty without asking him first and I had no respect and he thought he could trust me and now he knew he couldn't.




As the lecture went on I began to realize that I had made a big mistake. He wasn't angry because I had made modifications to his car. He was angry because I hadn't asked. He never once suggested that I should change it back to stock but over and over again I heard that I should have asked. By the time we were through I owned a tweaked out 1970 Plymouth and Dad owned a beat up 1969 Dodge Pick-up. To this day I'm not quite sure how he thought I would learn anything from this punishment but I certainly wasn't about to say anything to him about it.




I loved that car. It was really quick and it really looked good. I drove it for four years and I drove it hard but now I'm wandering from the point of this story.




As I said earlier, for the first time in my life I was one of the cool guys. I was driving a sharp, fast car and people actually wanted to be my friend. The other guys respected my opinion too. Instead of blowing me off every time I said something they would actually ask me for my opinion. One young man in particular went out of his way to be my buddy. He was always tagging along with me and inviting me to do things with him. We both had steady girlfriends so we used to double date a lot. In my car of course. He even followed me from job to job as I searched for the career or trade that I wanted to spend my life at.




This fellow didn't own a car and he didn't live far from me so when we were working at the same place he would ride to and from work with me. One day, on our way home, we drove past a car lot and sitting there was a 1967 orange Mustang. It was beautiful and my friend fell in love immediately. Day after day that car was all he could talk about until finally one day I stopped in so we could take a closer look at it.




Up close it was even nicer. The body and paint were perfect. The interior was pristine and when the salesman started it up it sounded positively awesome. He asked us if we would like to take a test drive. I thought my friend was going to turn inside out. He said he would have to go with us but that since I owned the Plymouth over there I could drive.




Just about that time the place came alive with customers and, I'm sure against his better judgement the salesman pointed at me and said, "Go, but be careful!" We went. As soon as we were out of ear shot, I lit that pony up. It was fast and I put it through its paces. After a short run we decided to take it out to show my dad. We both respected his opinion on cars. Dad was a car guy as I said but he didn't think much of this one. If remember right, he called it suicide on wheels. That only made it better.




We then headed back to the dealership to see if Buddy could make a deal. There was about a mile of gravel road before we hit the paved highway so we went really slow. We didn't want to get stone chips in the paint but when we got to the pavement I stopped revved it up and popped the clutch. It lit up like a rocket then died. We coasted off to the side of the road and tried to re-fire the engine but it was no use. It wouldn't even turn over. I was beside myself. I was sure I had blown the engine. If my car hadn't been sitting at the dealership with the keys in it, I think I would have walked away and left the Mustang right there on the side of the road. I certainly thought about it but better judgement took over and I walked across the road to a gas station there and called the salesman.




From the sound of his voice on the phone I think he was as scared as I was. He had let these two young hooligans take off in a high performance Mustang and they had blown the engine. I'll bet he was worried. He showed up in minutes with my car and a can of gas, saying that the Mustang might be empty. We dumped the gas in and the salesman climbed in. When he turned the key, it hesitated then that pony fired and came to life. He dropped the clutch and was gone in a cloud of dust and tire smoke.




We admired that Mustang for a while before it finally disappeared from the lot but we never had the nerve to go back in and try to make a deal. Buddy soon bought a car though. It was an old V W Beetle. Not exactly a Performance Mustang but it got him there and back.