And an addict.
Like dragons, I’m psychologically dependent on shiny things. Things like sparkling fast cars, and the shinier and quicker they are, the more my need, not to mention expense.
It began with this ’69 Mustang Mach 1, 428 CU IN, 330 HP, Cobra Jet.
That’s my mother (RIP) and me in my Levi high-water jeans and Bass wingtips. Not exactly a teenage sex symbol, but the chicks dug the car. I don’t think they noticed the groovy shoes. Or me, for that matter.
A friend of a friend painted the Cobra Jet on the rear fenders. I thought it looked hip at the time; not so much today.
Well, all things come and go.
The year was sliding away, and my addiction to shiny fast things became somewhat sedated. A flame diminished but never extinguished, which I attribute to the beginnings of a family that grew into three kids, 7 grandkids, and soon-to-be 7th great-grandchild. See, there was a gal whose fancy I caught after all. She said it was my long legs that attracted her. But don’t let her fool you; it’s not my legs she’s referring to.
I’ve been lusting over the new 6th generation Mustangs for a time when suddenly, one day I snapped, a relapse, and I found myself inexplicably at a local Ford dealer. How I got there, I haven’t a clue. But there I was, dazed and spun-eyed, chuckling and salivating over an orange Mustang like a drooling inbred.
Here’s me and the same chick from fifty years ago, posing by our 2016 Pony Car. It’s not a GT 5.0 Mustang, like the salesman tried to sell me, but then who needs 435 HP anyway?
Secretly I yearned.
There was a smile on my face, but inside, I burned with desire: I needed more; more horsepower, more torque, more handling, more RPM, more top-end.
I needed racing strips.
And a shiny black spoiler.
Salvation came on a Sabbatical Saturday, January 2, 2021, as I heard angels sing hallelujah from the heavens.
And here she is, the last of the breed, a 2020 GT350 Shelby Mustang. I call her GT VUDO after the engine’s Ford given nickname, Voodoo. She’s a naturally aspirated beast possessed with 526 HP, 429 LB-FT, spinning a flat-plane crankshaft that redlines at 8,250 RPM. (That’s no typo.) Cut loose the rein, and she’ll scream like a banshee and dart like a jackrabbit chased by a Coyote while she cradles you snugly in her grasp.
Whatever happens here on, I’ll die happy: the right woman, the right car, an extended family, and a good home. A man would be a fool to ask for more.
But then, there is the new GT500…