An Ode To My First Muscle Car
Now...here is the original essay.
Now...here is the original essay.
Adventures of a Girl and Her Muscle Car
By Lisa Eller Jobe
I will never forget my first bicycle. My mother surprised me for my fifth birthday with a trip to Toys R Us. We walked to the back of the store and stopped at the long row of new bikes. She looked down the aisle, outstretched her hand before her and said, "Pick out any one you would like!" I slowly and carefully began down the row, taking time to examine each one. When I arrived at the most perfect bike in the world, I stopped and said, "This is the one I want." My mother looked at me blank faced and replied with some confusion in her voice, "Wouldn't you prefer the pink princess bike?" No. I did not want the pink princess bike. I thought she was crazy for having even suggested it. My bike had a black shiny frame with black mag wheels and knobby tires. It had hunter green fenders, a "gas tank", and a blocky banana seat. But the most appealing part for me was the large number one racing plate attached to the front handlebars. It looked just like a motor cross bike. It was a boys bike.
During hot Texas summers, it was common practice to spend the entire day playing outside. We were allowed to go anywhere as long as we stayed in our neighborhood and we were within earshot of moms piercing whistle. My afternoons were spent riding bikes with my two older brothers and a slew of neighborhood kids, all of whom were boys. That day in Toys R Us, I knew that I would have been ridiculed if I had come home with a pink "girly" bike. Besides, I wanted to pop wheelies off of curbs and jump shoddily put together ramps made from scrap wood or anything else we could find. I wanted to ride on the dirt-bike trails at the local park. I didn't want to be a boy but, I did want to have fun like a boy.
Ten years later, I was no longer riding boys dirt bikes. However, I was about to turn sixteen. I was thinking a lot about what kind of car I would like to drive. The movie "Can't Buy Me Love" had cemented the convertible VW Rabbit as the quintessential chick car, but it just wasn't for me. It was while watching another show, 21 Jumpstreet, that I was struck with cupids arrow. The opening sequence to the show featured a street race with a vintage Mustang Fastback. It looked so exciting. There were engines roaring, gears shifting, and tires peeling out. I was in love.
I spent the next six months planting seeds in my fathers head. Although I knew he appreciated my passion for horsepower, himself racing cars and motorcycles, he kept trying to steer me toward a new Ford Escort. I'm not sure if he was serious or just trying to divert my attention. One day after school, I stopped by his shop and sitting in the parking lot was a glistening red 1966 Mustang Fastback. I raced inside to find the owner. I was anxious to ask them a ton of questions about their car. "Whose Mustang is that out there?". My fathers employee stared at me for a second and replied, "Uh, it's yours."
It was like time had stopped. I remember screaming what was probably the longest scream in history. I jumped up and down...well...screaming. I'm not really sure what made this my dream car. Maybe it was the Nancy Drew books I adored as a kid. I always admired how she was independent, racing around in her sporty car with friends solving crimes. Maybe it was that women were noticeably absent from the race tracks when I would watch my dad compete. I vividly remember seeing "Heart Like a Wheel" and saw the struggles women like Shirley Muldowny faced. I think it gave me a good idea about how women were treated when they tried to enter a man's world. I didn't like what I saw. To me, this car was a protest. It was a declaration that I could and would act, behave, and drive whatever I felt like. And I did.
The first time I drove it was nerve racking. I had never driven a stick shift and my father was teaching me. Our neighborhood had lots of hills and I struggled to take off from a stopped position. I kept rolling backwards each time, but I had made up my mind that I would not be defeated. My father told me to give it more gas, so I did. Not only could I take off on a hill, I learned I could peel out when I did it. The first six months I owned the car, I realized the difficulties in owning an older vehicle. I ran out of gas once because we didn't realize the gas tank had a small hole in it and the gauge wasn't reading correctly. I also kept getting clogged points and my car would get flooded and stall out. Each time I had a break down, a nice, older gentleman would always stop to help me. Every time. "I used to have a car just like this", they would tell me. "I've always wanted one of these", I would hear. I always wondered if I would have gotten the eager help if I had been driving that Ford Escort my father tried to pawn off on me.
I'll never forget the first day I drove it to school. It was probably the only time I ever wanted to slow down for a school zone. I slowly rolled passed the front of the building and instantly noticed the stares. Stares from guys, stares from girls, stares from parents. I held my head up with one wrist resting on the top of my enormous steering wheel and pulled into the first spot on the second row. That would be my spot until I graduated. One of my favorite places to spin my tires was pulling out of our school parking lot. I remember leaving after school on many occasions hearing shouts of "White smoke 'em!", from various boys. I'm pretty sure some of those boys were living vicariously through me.
I guess you could say that my car became my identity. Years after high school, I realized I had become known as the "red Mustang girl" to classmates I didn't know very well. I would get introduced at parties as, "This is Lisa. You know...the girl with the red Mustang." Maybe people noticed my car so much because I kept it immaculate. Actually, I was a little OCD about washing it. It had a full wash at least once a week and might have the chrome polished more often than that. I even cleaned the engine compartment because I lifted the hood so often for those that would ask. I loved that car. It was like having a cool friend around. I used to boast that I would have to be buried in it one day, sitting at the wheel.
The attention that powerful beast brought me was not always the favorable kind. I had an upperclassman approach me in History one afternoon. "My best friend hates your guts", she informed me with a very straight face. I had no idea how to even respond. She must have interpreted the confused look on my face and continued, "She hates you because of your car. She wants one too." I was a little taken aback. I guess you could say that incident prepared me for the egging my car would receive later that year. I guess there were other people who hated me too.
My bright red beauty also attracted the unwanted attention of the police. I got a lot of speeding tickets. Some officers let me go with a warning, maybe knowing they too might have a problem keeping this machine within the limits of man's laws. Others were not so understanding. I was on probation in four different cities in my county at one time. Once, I flew through an intersection doing a solid seventy in a thirty five. Sitting at the red light was a police car. I saw his lights flip on and that's when I made a split second decision. I could hit the breaks, pull over, and receive my citation...or. I chose or. I knew I had a good enough head start so I hit the gas and went faster. I was desperately trying to crest a hill ahead. I had a plan. As soon as the police car was obstructed from view by the hill, I smashed down the breaks and drifted sideways into the cemetery. I sped through that hallowed ground so quickly, I'm sure I raised some of the dead. When I reached the other side, I realized I couldn't see the cop car anywhere. I had lost him. Victory!
I drove that car for five years and it taught me a lot. It taught me that I could drive a stick, peel out, race boys, and win. It taught me that I was a pretty good stunt driver when I had to crank the wheel at 70 mph to avoid hitting another car. I spun it a perfect 180 degrees through one of the busiest intersections in town. I learned how to change my oil and my tires if needed and I could push start it by popping the clutch. I learned that I could get my teachers attention by flying past him in a full fishtail on the way to school. And I learned that it's possible to outrun the cops when you don't want that speeding ticket. But, I also learned that this muscle car brought a lot of attention with it. Not because it was a beautiful car, but because a girl was driving it. Most guys were impressed that my knowledge of muscle cars was as good and often greater than theirs and were polite. However, I would also get comments like, "What's a girl doing driving a hot car like that?" or "That's not your car. It must be your husbands/fathers." I didn't act offended or call them sexist. I simply threw it in gear and let them stand in a cloud of my tire smoke, mouths open, wondering what had just happened.
No comments:
Post a Comment