Friday Flashback: My SECOND First Car

The fact that I remember the exact place I was standing when I caught sight of my fake first car probably explains why I remember nothing about my reaction to my real first car: The horror of that day overshadowed the entire year, I believe. 

But the car I ended up driving was, by far, much more worthy of remembrance.  A red, 1990 Ford Mustang 5.0, just like this one.

Source

Oh, it was a beauty.  The problem was, it was a car beloved by teenage boys everywhere, and I lacked the proper respect for it.  Or so I hear.  For one thing, I had no idea what '5.0' meant, but boys did -- and they stared at me like I had superhuman strength until I stepped out of the vehicle in my tasteful loafers and cardigan.  (Oh, and braces.  Don't forget the braces.)  (And the violin case.  Sigh.)  (Was there ever any hope?)

I really did love the growl of the Mustang's apparently-manly engine.  It was just a bit too much for me to handle.  I mean, I did okay when the car was in motion -- it was really easy to reach 60 mph without even noticing , but that didn't bother me any, what with all the speed blowing through my hair -- but the trouble came when I needed to take off from a dead stop.  Then, things got dicey.  For the first several months of driving my very own car, here's how my takeoffs happened:

Sarah puts the car in gear, removes her foot from the brake, and lets the engine's power pull her forward or backward -- with no help from the gas pedal -- until she reaches the point from which she will need to actually begin driving.  Say, the stop sign at the edge of a parking lot.  She takes a deep breath, holds the air in her lungs just long enough to deaden the knowledge that she's about to be embarrassed, and flexes her hands around the steering wheel.  Poor Sarah's heart has nearly stopped with the lack of oxygen now, so she slowly -- carefully -- tenderly -- places her foot on the gas pedal.  And before she knows what side is up, Sarah's peeled out of the parking lot or driveway, spewing gravel or burned rubber bits in her wake.  Her face matches her paint job, and she gets the heck outta dodge before anyone notices. 

Except, people always noticed.  Especially in a high-school parking lot full of mingling teenagers which was where I was most often flustered right into an involuntary peel-out.  I got several nasty glares from girls who assumed I was showing off, as well as several rolled eyes from my brother's crowd who knew I was just dumb enough to not know how to handle a 5.0.  (Again -- whatever that means.)  I also got whistles and clapping hands from the boys who appreciated a good roaring engine and squealing set of tires. 

This also meant I was never good at sneaking away from home.  My daddy was a genius, apparently. 

Still, my Mustang and I had some good times.  We listened to the local pop music station as we zoomed around town, we hauled friends to sleepovers (and the occasional unmentionable party...), we were the perfect couple. 

But it wasn't meant to last, you see.  There was one fateful night...a dark road...a late curfew...a wandering deer...

And my beloved car was mauled.  I drove it for a few more months, with one mismatched front quarter-panel (is that a real thing?  I'm not sure.) and a healthy respect for deer.  (A respect that equaled fear.  I had nightmares of deer for years after that, harmlessly docile as they are, and my dad witnessed a serious breakdown one day as he was teaching me to drive my new stick-shift on an icy parking lot when a small herd of deer snuck out of the forest around us.  I think I hyperventilated for a minute.  Then, I think my dad hyperventilated when my tears wouldn't stop.)

My brother and his friend shoe-polished my car windows after that night with a cryptic reminder: Deer are for girls.  HORSES are for men. 

Yes, my Mustang would probably have been more muscled into excitement with a boy at its helm, but I'm certain it couldn't have been any more loved.  Burned rubber and all.



Do you think the Mustang made up for the terror of my 'other' first car?  How did your first car finally merit replacement?

(I feel like when I ask those questions, I'm typing reading comprehension questions at the end of a worksheet.  Like, 'What portion of the story foreshadowed the death of the Mustang?' and 'Do you think Sarah secretly enjoyed the peeling-out? Why or why not?' Heh.)