An Encounter of the Shelby Kind
| 28 February 2003
It’s fall of 1967. Mary, the three kids, and I are visiting our home town of Hornell in upstate Western New York. On Saturday morning, my Dad and I take his ’67 plain-jane Mustang coupe to Russ Davis Ford for some routine service. The car’s on the lift so we’re on the lot wondering among the new Mustangs. In the last row there’s a ‘67 Lime Gold fastback. WOW, a Shelby GT500. The Sales Manager, an old friend and a car guy himself, sees us looking, finds the keys in his pocket, and throws them to me saying, “Be careful. Have fun.”
We climb in and buckle up. I fire it and slip it into gear while hiding my disappointment that it’s a C-6. A quick glance at the gas gauge tells me our fun won’t last long. One mile through the suburb of N. Hornell and we’re out of town. I turn right onto Big Creek Rd. at about 10 MPH, manually shift to 1st gear, ease the gas pedal to the floor, and move the gearshift back to drive. Big Creek is a wide 2-lane cement with no side roads and no houses for the first 4-miles. It’s nearly straight and gradually uphill for 2-1/2 miles and then it sweeps downhill through a long radius 90-degree right-hander onto a flat mile-long straight.
Dad white-knuckles the console and I keep my right foot planted. We both know the engine’s too new, too tight, for this but the adrenalin’s up. I’m letting this pony run. It grabs second gear and chirps the tires. Speed? No clue. With right foot still planted, it grabs third and I begin to notice wind and tire noise along with intake honk, exhaust growl, and the under hood symphony. There’s a little shake on bridge expansion joints but it’s driving straight and true. Finally, I glance at our speed. It’s at 125 and we’re a half-mile or less from the sweeping bend. I ease off to 115. Dad says, “Little fast, don’t ya think?” I say. “No, the 409 was good at 115, remember?” I ease it into the bend but the front doesn’t bite very well; it’s pushing. There’s nothing coming so I let it go but add steering lock. No good! Let up a hair; find some grip. Ok, it’s turning. Slowly straighten out, ease onto the gas, and take it back to 125. Ok. OK!! Breath.
Now slow down. It’s time to go back. I really hate this part. Going back from any test drive is always hard, this one especially so. But slow down we do and I pull into the first side road to turn around. Just as I stop, the engine stalls. I remember the gas gauge. We must be out of gas. No, It cranks and finally catches on the third try. I’ve been beating too hard on a tight engine. I ease it on back to Russ Davis Ford at about 50 MPH so temperatures can equalize to minimize the crackling as it cools down on their lot. We return the keys and the Sales Manager says something about how did we like it; we mumble a reply and try not to grin too much. You think he knew? No way, right?
Disclaimer: This is a true story but a poor example for anyone to follow. Activity of this sort should only take place on a race track, not on public highways. Well, unless it’s a Saturday morning in 1967 with no other traffic on the road.