It was 1969, and I was 15 years old when my dad purchased a 1969 Ford Mustang convertible—burgundy with a black interior. With its three-speed floor shifter and 289 HP engine, the car cost $2,800.00 off the showroom floor.
I learned to drive in that car, sometimes switching off to my mom's 1966 Chevy Impala, but my driving scared her too much to continue, so the Mustang it was. I got my license in the dead of winter, and anyone who experienced a driver's test on icy roads and snow blindness knows all too well how difficult that was for the instructor and me.
Little did I know that just a year and a half later, I'd be trading in the asphalt for a destroyer in the United States Navy. Just 17 years old with an option to either join up or be carted in front of a judge for possession of a bag of pot my dad found in the glovebox of his Mustang, a stupid thing to do on my part, to say the least.
I spent four years on that tin can and was finally discharged in South Carolina, where I purchased my first Harley-Davidson motorcycle from a guy heading out to sea and had no further use for it. It was a 1959 Road King that needed some TLC, but it was doable. I rode that bike all the way to upstate New York, taking my time to see the sights and enjoy life on the road, where I met many people living their dream of communing, while others like myself chose the open road and the adventures it brought.
At 22, I bought a 1963 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With the money earmarked for college, but that was not in my plans. The Impala had a 327 cubic inch engine with a four-speed on the floor and some hidden items that would prove useful when I street raced it on Friday nights under the lights. I recall my first time racing it up against a 1955 Chevy with a blower, and god knows what else, but it was a beast to say the least.
The flag was lowered, and all I can remember is my Impala front wheels coming off the ground as I did my best to keep it in my lane. The fireblowing Chevy was inches behind me and sure to win until I mashed the nitro button, and with a trail of fire, I crossed the finish line to applause from my friends in the stands.
I continued racing and building cars, and the track became my second home. I taught both my son and my daughter to drive, each with the same passion for speed I had. We were on the road a lot, going from one race to another, and doing well enough until a major sponsor approached me, and just like that, we were in the big league.
Time raced past me, and after a wreck that left me with a broken neck, I retired from racing but never far away from it as I became my kids' manager. They went on to become well-known in the racing world, earning a comfortable life and fulfilling their need for speed.
Me, you ask. Well, I found a 1932 Willys, a car I'd dreamed about when I was a kid. It was in the fields along a long, winding country road, rotting away, until I towed it home and began the task of putting it back to its original glory. It took me three years to complete, with the goal of one day racing it against any fire-breathing monster who dared to race me.
Rolling up to the starting line, both my kids were assisting me and cheering me on as the tree lit up green and my willys jumped off the ground and disappeared down the strip all alone with no other car in sight. I deployed the chute and coasted to the end of the field, where I was pushed back to the staging area, and screaming fans who had just witnessed the fastest time ever on that track.
I never raced that car anymore, but I sat in it more times than I can remember. reliving that first and last race that forced me into retirement, to the joy of my wife, who, although scared every time I buckled in, waiting for the green light, sat in the stands, hands clenched, silently cheering me on.
Mike 2026
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