Assignment #4: My First Car
“A Mustang. Definitely get a Mustang.” That was Bobby’s response when I asked his advice about what kind of car I should get. My brother knew everything about cars. All my brothers did. They got what our family affectionately refers to as “the car gene.” Somehow the car gene missed me but I knew my brothers would not steer me wrong.
“And get the 5.0 liter stick, not the automatic,” Jimmy added his two cents. I got the feeling that my brothers, at the time still students and thus not exactly flush with cash, were getting vicarious enjoyment out of the fact that I was going to buy the car of my choice while they were still driving hand-me-downs.
The year was 1987 and I had just graduated from law school. I was to start my new job at a Pittsburgh law firm in the Fall. I had two things to accomplish that summer: buy a car and study for the bar exam. But if I was going to buy the Mustang, I would also have to learn to drive a stick. But Bob was in Nashville and Jim was in Toledo. Another brother, Tom, was in Columbus. Who was going to teach me?
“It’s easy. I’ll teach you.” My oldest brother Ray was still in his residency at Presby, living in Shadyside about a mile from my apartment in Squirrel Hill. He would do anything for a little sister, especially one who was about to acquire a brand spanking new V-8 5.0 liter Mustang, fully-loaded.
I had driven plenty of cars by 1987. In high school, I drove a red 1970 LeMans convertible every day to Cardinal Mooney High School and every weekend to football games or McDonald’s or wherever the latest hangout happened to be. My favorite thing about the LeMans was putting the top down in February and driving down Market Street with the snow flying all around me. I’m not so sure my parents fully considered that possibility when they handed me the keys. In college, I drove a mammoth 1977 Chevy Caprice Classic over four years to navigate the 600 miles between Youngstown, Ohio, and Northampton, Massachusetts. That thing was like a tank, and according to Bobby it packed 145 horsepower from its 305 cubic inch two-barrel carbureted powerplant. Whatever that means, I get the feeling it was a good thing. Although the Chevy was not what one would call a stylish vehicle, it had the distinct advantage of holding a large number of girlfriends for road trips up and down I-91 in search of parties at Dartmouth and Wesleyan, or more often, just trekking the seven miles between Smith and Amherst where our varied and ever changing boyfriends resided.
There was also the red 1981 X-11 Citation that I drove all through law school in Columbus, courtesy of my father. The less said about that sorry vehicle the better. I will say I’m sure the “X-11” moniker had nothing to do with flames shooting out from under the chassis. It is now referred to in family lore as “The Crustacean.”
But before the Mustang, I had never actually gone out and bought my own car, nor had I ever learned to drive a stick.
I perused the classified ads, made a lot of phone calls and visited countless show rooms before deciding on the royal blue 5.0 LX hatchback. It was a two-door with bucket seats, a spoiler and a great stereo. It had fat rear wheel tires. It had the coveted V-8 engine with the manual transmission. I went to the bank and took out a loan for $13,000. My boyfriend, who had graduated the year before me and thus already had a revenue stream, guaranteed the loan. What a guy! No wonder I married him. But he didn’t drive a stick either, plus he was a lefty, which diminished his prospect of learning.
When the appointed day arrived, Ray and I drove to the dealer, Bob Smith Ford in Castle Shannon, to pick up the car. I signed all the paperwork and they handed over the keys. Ray got in the passenger side, I got in the driver’s side. That’s when it first hit me that I really had no idea how to drive this vehicle.
“What was I thinking? I don’t even know how to start this thing!” I said this to myself, not wanting my brother to think I wasn’t macho enough to handle something that he probably thought should have been second nature. Did I mention that Ray was accomplished at Motocross racing and had been driving since he was about 12? He drove an old Mustang as a teenager. Also he wrecked it as a teenager. What was I thinking indeed.
“Put your left foot on the clutch and your right foot on the brake,” he said. “Then turn on the ignition but don’t take your foot off the clutch.”
I can do that.
“Put the car in first gear.”
How do I know which one’s first?
“Here’s first, here’s second, here’s third, here’s fourth, here’s fifth,” he said with just a touch of exasperation. “And here’s reverse.”
Reverse? I had to use the stick to go in reverse?
“Now ease your foot off the clutch and at the same time ease your right foot onto the gas.”
I guess I eased my foot off the clutch a little too fast because we stalled. And then we stalled again. And again.
“Maybe you should drive it home and I can learn later,” I suggested meekly.
“You can do it! Just pay attention!” Ray had many fine qualities but he was not the most patient of driving instructors.
Finally I managed to ease my foot off the clutch at the right speed, and somehow coordinated that with my right foot easing onto the gas. Hey, I was moving forward! We moved through the parking lot of Bob Smith Ford toward the road. The actual road that had other cars and drivers on it. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t really factored them into my plan for getting from Point A, Bob Smith Ford, to Point B, my apartment in Squirrel Hill.
At this point I should mention that Bob Smith Ford was located on Route 88, also known as Library Road. I never saw any libraries on that road. Only cars and trucks and more cars and more trucks. On the best of days, Route 88 is a busy two-lane highway. This particular day happened to be a weekday and the time was 4:40. Rush hour. And as is typical of many roads in the Pittsburgh region, Route 88 is full of potholes and has more hills than the Jack Rabbit at Kennywood.
Somehow I pulled out onto the road without stalling and felt a huge wave of relief. As long as I was in forward motion, I could handle this. Unfortunately, Route 88 has not only traffic and hills, it has red lights. Lots and lots of red lights. Red lights that somehow always seemed red, never green, and always positioned at the top of a hill.
Here’s what happens when you drive a stick and stop midway up a hill: You have your right foot on the brake, your left foot on the clutch, your right hand on the stick. You put the stick in first, if you can find it, and ease one foot off the clutch while easing the other foot onto the gas. If you don’t do this with exact precision, you stall, roll backwards, or both.
“Ray! What do I do!” I pleaded.
Instead of paying attention to his student, Ray was busy playing with all the knobs and dials on my new ride. The air conditioning. The radio. The cassette deck. The glove compartment. The user manual.
So I stopped, started, stalled, started, and finally moved forward again. Cars behind me honking. Sweat beading on my forehead and dripping down my back. When he could tear himself away from his fascination with the dashboard, Ray told me when to shift into a higher gear, and I’m proud to say I managed to shift into first, then second, then third, as we turned left onto Route 51, then right through the Liberty Tunnel. Right again onto the Parkway to finally exit at Squirrel Hill. There were those damn lights and hills again, but by now I had gained enough confidence to handle the car, at least sufficiently not to stall before reaching home.
Every day for the rest of that summer, I drove to and from the bar exam classes in my Mustang. It didn’t take long before the stick felt as natural as riding a bike. My favorite part was stopping at red lights and having envious men in cars next to me yell out the window, “Hey, nice car!” Then I’d throw that baby into gear and leave them in my dust.
But like the other cars in my life, the Mustang was not to last. In 1989, I sold it right before Sam, my oldest son, was born. Really, it was sort of ungainly for a woman eight months pregnant to maneuver herself into those bucket seats. So the Mustang was replaced by the much more practical blue Taurus stationwagon that eventually held all four of my boys.
Now Sam is shopping for his first car and guess what? Not only does he have the car gene, he wants a Mustang.
5 Comments:
Great story! Mom says that you must have the mustang gene because my great-grandmother also drove one, didn't she?
Yes she sure did! I liked that car a lot. Maybe when my kids grow up & get their own cars I can get another one!
Great story mom!
I really did love this one. Has Ray seen it? I do think that when you actually sit down and write an official memoir, you must fold in the spirit of Betty Clair.
Anonymous was moi.
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