Both cars on a good day – going downhill with a tailwind – could hit 60 miles per hour, maybe even 65. Both have stories to tell, which I’ll save for another time.
This story is about my first new car, a 1969 Mustang coup. Her metallic black-jade finish glistened in the sun, but what really glistened was the speedometer, spurred on by the 302 cubic inch V-8 engine under the hood. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I remember making the trip to the Ford dealership with my buddy Milt. As I admired the fine lines of a Boss 429 Mustang, practical minded Milt checked out an Army drab green Ford Falcon. Milt had completed a stint in the Navy before college so he was a few years older than me, but not enough for the salesman to ask, “Is your son also thinking about buying a car today?” That comment remains a sore spot with Milt to this day – I make sure of that.
Well, we both signed on the dotted line and headed home to show our wives, Patti and Yvonne, the fine choices in vehicles we had made. Milt’s payments were less than mine for sure, but I had successfully bargained the salesman down from the sticker price of $3,300 to a sale price of only $3,000, providing affordable payments of $103 per month for 36 months. Ah, the good old days. Of course, even with the new job I’d just landed we were pulling down less than $700 per month.
That new job was to serve as the dean of boys at a private boarding school in Calhoun, Georgia. I remember squeezing a half dozen boys into the car one day to go to town. We were weighted down to the axles and when I hit a hard bump it blew a rear tire. Not a problem. I loosened the lug nuts, but instead of using the jack those high school boys hoisted the rear end in the air while I slipped the flat off and replaced it with the spare, as slick as a NASCAR pit crew.
Yvonne and I made the trip from Georgia up I-75 as often as we could to see her folks in Cincinnati. One sunny afternoon we were headed back to Georgia when, as often happened, Yvonne dozed off. Shortly after crossing the Georgia line we came upon a long sloping straightaway where you could see for a mile or more. In those days I always ran 85-90 miles an hour and as we hit that stretch, with Yvonne asleep, I decided it would be a good time to open her up to see just how fast she would go (the Mustang that is, not Yvonne).
I slowly pressed down on the accelerator and watched as the needle crept into new territory – 100, 105, 110, 115…as the needle hit 120, I could feel the front end starting to float a little bit and at the same time Yvonne started to stir and opened her eyes. “How fast are we going,” she asked. “Oh, about 90”, I said as I let off of the accelerator and quickly slowed down.
I know what you’re thinking; I needed a big fat ticket to slow me down. Well, that is the rest of the story. Yvonne’s sister and her husband lived in Arlington, Virginia at the time and we decided to make the long 600 mile trip over a short four-day weekend. Naturally, with so far to travel I wanted to make good time. In those days I hated to stop even for gas, let alone a real rest break. I’ve gotten better, but recently a friend who took a trip with us said my idea of a rest break is “pee in three” (minutes that is.)
With both kids secure in the backseat we hit the road. Oh, I should mention the kids at that time consisted of our 3-year-old longhaired Dachshund, Snoopie, and her 6-month-old little brother, a roly-poly Saint Bernard puppy named Woodstock. They were quite a pair, with Snoopie’s ears blowing in the breeze and Woodstock drooling all over the backseat.
We quickly passed through Tennessee and were well on our way up I-81 into Virginia when it happened – one of Virginia’s finest served up a blue light special. I was doing maybe 85, but so was almost everyone else. It just didn’t seem fair that he picked me to stop for speeding, but it never does. You get picked off like a duck at the shooting gallery, and there’s not a darn thing you can do about it except pay the fine.
Well, paying the fine was my problem. Remember, this was 1969. We had a Standard Oil gas card, a checkbook, and only a few dollars in cash; not enough to pay the $45 fine. VISA and Master Card had been around for a few years, but we had neither. So the nice officer had us follow him to the local county jail, the name of which I have long since blocked from my mind.
Upon arrival I was summarily thrown into the holding pen with the meanest looking bunch of redneck crooks and thieves you’d ever want to meet.
“Hey boy, whatcha in here fer, speed’n,” one of them snorted. Too afraid to speak I nodded my head, and they all had a good laugh.
“Well you ain’t the first, and you sure ain’t gonna be the last. Them Smokies are hot tonight,” an especially big hairy scary bruiser said with a belly laugh.
While I was trying not to pee my pants from fear, Yvonne was calling her sister collect to ask if they could wire the $45. Of course, they were glad to do so. So we waited, and waited, and waited. I hit the hoosegow at about 7 p.m. and was still waiting for my Western Union get-out-of-jail card at 2 a.m. My cellmates had all dozed off but I was wide-eye awake when the jailer made his rounds.
“Sir, do you know if my wife heard back from Western Union,” I timidly asked. “I dunno, but I’ll check,” he responded.
Turns out, the local Western Union office had received the money within an hour of Yvonne’s call to her sister and had called the jail to let them know, but the message had not been relayed from dispatch. So, finally, about 3 a.m. we were on the road again. I had learned a valuable lesson and I’m proud to say, though I’ve had a ticket or two since, I always drive the speed limit today. Well, almost always.
George Brown is a freelance writer. He lives in Jackson Township.