Bitch Kitty Racing

I learned to drift the car early on, hitting the brakes just right so the back end would step out and slide around corners. At stop lights, I found just the right timing between brake and gas to get off the line first. I routinely left tire tracks going up the hill to school, and after class there were many races out along the old back roads. A sense of oneness with the car’s power and maneuverability was my advantage. I had better control than nearly all the guys I raced, and they envied the Mustang’s looks even after losing.

Somehow, it never occurred to me that my father was rather suspicious of my reckless abandonment in his Mustang – not even when the gas mileage went down to 9 mpg after I had been driving. Nor did it seem to surprise him when the guys I raced after school would challenge it later in the day only to find Dad behind the wheel. It wasn’t until later in life that I discovered he took on a few of those challengers. I also discovered that he had gotten a warning from the State Patrol while “burning the carbon out of the engine” on the freeway going to work one weekend. Then, much to my surprise, I caught him describing how he could make the Mach I drift to my 16-year-old daughter. He told her that he knew I drifted it a few times, as well. Thanks Dad.

For someone relatively quiet and modest, the Mach I was anything but that. It was hard to imagine my dad or me racing around in that car, because it was the antithesis of how we appeared. But it brought out the kid in both of us – the real spirit of adventure we had despite our very structured lives. I loved that car and cried when my dad sold it to someone else. He was afraid of what might happen if his 20-year-old daughter owned it. He tried to tell me it was an issue of maintenance, not recklessness, but I knew better.

Later in life, I finally managed to buy my own Mustang – a 1984 in charcoal grey with a sporty V-6. While the mid-80’s weren’t Ford’s best effort on the Mustang, it was my Mustang and I was proud of it. It was fun to drive. I knew that car and how it felt. We made many road trips, including one to Mount St. Helens. I cruised up the back roads alongside the Toutle River, a cassette playing some rock music nice and loud. I cruised right up to the observation area and unwittingly past it, just rocking out in my Mustang, enjoying the view. When I realized I was the only vehicle to be found, it occurred to me I had passed the warning signs for the “red zone” some time ago. It took no time to learn that my little Mustang could turn on a dime and then I hit the gas – hard –with a lot of St. Helens ash billowing behind me. It would have made a great commercial. But the thought had not crossed my mind that if the mountain were to erupt, I was way too close for safe evacuation. So I hit the gas even harder and went speeding back down the road, past tree trunks stacked like toothpicks and a river redefined by a force of nature so great that it was inspiration enough to chance a ticket. My Mustang took corners in drift mode and at every straight I was doing over 100. I felt safe in my car and knew it would get me out of there alive. I believe the mountain had a brief burp of activity about two weeks later. Hell, I would have been to China by then at the rate I was going.

I enjoyed working on the car; changing oil, installing nonstandard equipment, and even doing my own pinstriping. I’d stop by my parents to show my dad the latest and we’d poke around under the hood. Every so often, I would let him in on one of my adventures, far away from mom’s hearing. We continued this even after I got married, but eventually it didn’t happen as much. There was a certain amount of strain between the two men in my life, and my Mustang only mattered to one of them.

After getting married and having a child, it was decided that my Mustang needed to be sold for a more practical family car, either a station wagon or a minivan. Trust me, if you’ve driven a Mach I, you don’t drive a station wagon or a minivan. I’m a Mustang person and I like being fun, fast, and a bit unpredictable. I like the fact appearances can be deceiving. But my Mustang was traded fro the good of the family, and I faithfully drove a station wagon and hauled children, dogs, rabbits, and all sorts of home improvement supplies. The wagon went through a lot of wear and tear, and slowly it became more and more expensive to maintain. Finally, it was time to replace it.

I remember being taken to the local Ford dealership by my then husband. He led me past the minivans and the SUV’s to where the Mustangs were parked. I was thrilled; so many shiny new Mustangs, so many powerful engines, so much of that sense of abandonment I knew so well. I felt like a kid with a bunch of new toys just within reach. We came to a metallic cocoa colored one, with a striking light beige interior, and he told me to hop in in the driver’s seat. He got in the passenger’s side, easily fitting in the car – unusual for his 6’5” frame. All I wanted was a test drive – to feel the power and sense the handling again. I wanted to feel it drift even if it scared the crap out of the salesman. As I played with the various switches on the dash, my husband turned to me and said, “Enjoy it now, because this is as close as you’re going to get to having one as long as I’m alive.”

I was devastated. I felt like my sense of self had just been drained like oil out of the car. We ended up across the street at the Chevrolet dealership, his make of choice. I compromised with a bright red Cavalier Rally Sport with a 4-cylinder engine. Good dependable car that at least looked fast and was a couple thousand less than the Mustang. But it wasn’t my Mustang and it still wasn’t me.

Time passed, and my husband’s lucky streak held as I continued to allow him to breathe. I finally moved on. With the money I got from being bought out of the house after the divorce, I bought my Mustang – in “Legend Lime Green.” I still live in the same neighborhood so everyone gets to see me in my new hot car, including my ex.

Getting the Mustang wasn’t really revenge; it was part of my new independence. I researched the car, the cost, and the dealership. I chose the very basic of the Mustangs, not because of price, but because it looks like the classic Mustangs. It reminds me a lot of my dad’s Mach I. There are not a lot of extra knobs and lights and gadgets to get in the way of the neat interior.

I walked into the dealer and said, “This is what I want and this is what it should cost me.” After a couple of hours of negotiating, I drove my new Mustang to my parents’ house and had my dad meet me in the driveway. He looked like a little kid at Christmas. The look wasn’t just for the car, but for me as well. He said I had this sparkle in my eyes he hadn’t seen in years. He said, “It’s about time,” which was exactly what he said to me when I told him I was getting a divorce.

Sitting on the coffee table of my apartment is all the paperwork for the annual Northwest Mustang Round-Up in July. It is filled out and my vacation request for a day off to do the road tour is approved. I plan to attend one of the judged shows with my car as well as some of the social events and the big barbeque. For the first time ever, I can enter this event with my own Mustang. And you can bet I’m going to make sure my dad is there with me, too. I mean he is the reason I got into this Mustang thing in the first place. He’s got to be there to take the credit for the car. Besides, we’ve got some drifting to do.

Reckless abandonment is a wonderful feeling. I can make this car do a hairpin turn and I can glide down the open, unchecked freeway at speeds that would have made my other vehicles quiver. If I put my foot in the gas, the car goes – fast. It also drifts, especially on those county back roads on a sunny day when I’ve got the CD player loaded up with old rock music – the good stuff. I lean the seat back and I relive those moments escaping the Mount St. Helens red zone as I slide around the corners and punch it down the straights.

I feel free.