I remember the first time I saw a Mustang. I must have been about 6 or 7 years old, and I was hit with a sudden awareness that the 1966 Mustang was a beautiful car, and one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
Sometime in the early 70s, my dad owned one, and walking up to it one day I just suddenly felt both peace and joy. I asked my dad if I could have it when I became old enough to drive, and he said yes. That was one of the happiest days I could remember.
Of course, that very car was later sold for a more “family friendly” car, and it was long gone by the time I turned 16, but the Mustang had left an unshakeable love in my heart.
Eventually I owned a 1966 Coupe, and then later the car that came closest to the car of my dreams: a 1965 Fastback. My dream car had always been the 1966 Shelby 350H (there’s something magic in that black and gold beauty), but this Fastback became my living, breathing dream.
For 8 wonderful years, whenever I felt down or in any way out of sorts, just sitting in it would bring a smile to my face. Turning over that 302-4bbl beast and roaring it down long flat desert roads made everything bad in the world melt away, even if it was only for a short while. I even realized another dream by getting a picture taken of it posed with a P51-D Mustang… one of the last times before those old planes were moved out of Arizona.
I don’t own that car anymore… it was a show quality street car, and someone else far away now owns it, but I can’t help smiling whenever I see another ’65 or ’66 running down these desert roads.
Someday I’ll own another one, but for now, I have my memories and my dreams.