My 66 Convertible 4-Speed 389 GTO During the early years of my childhood, growing up in Minnesota, Dad would come home

with a new Ford sedan every year, as I remember it. We were very poor, but cars were Dads greatest weakness. I loved it and, consequently, cars became my passion; cars, riding in them and their destinations. On Sundays, Mom, Dad and I would jump in the car and I would stand on the seat between them. I wedged myself behind Dads right shoulder, and I would instruct him where to turn to get us to Grandma and Grandpas house, where we would meet the rest of the family for dinner. Even then, at those tender years, I guess I knew it was about the journey. I remember Mom and Dad being so impressed with my abilities. They would brag to anyone, and have me demonstrate my navigation prowess. But then, there was more. It probably started with my ability to recognize other 55 Fords. Soon, I was pointing out every year and model that crossed our path. I could not be stumped. This finely-honed skill lasted well into my adult life, until all of the cars started to look alike, and the challenges became too great. Im also sure the fact that Mom and Dad were no longer there to impress, made the benefits mute. Once my sister, Suzi, joined the party, Dad decided we needed a station wagon, or maybe it was his evolving plan to load up all of our belongings and move to California that drove his decision to abandon my beloved sedan. I dont know. So, out went the 55 red and white sedan, and in came the 56 black and green station wagon. It was embarrassing, and ugly. Of course, moving to California changed everything. No more meandering drives to Sunday dinners at Grandma and Grandpas. They didnt come with us. My other Grandmother did, but thats another story. She drove, and followed us in her sea green 51 Studebacker to California. I dont know if it was the higher cost of living in the Bay Area or the additional cost of another child, but Dad stopped buying a new car every year. In fact, it was three years before he bought, what turned out to be, his last new car for 28 years. It was, of course, a Ford; a white 59 Ford station wagon with olive green interior. I was horrified! White lacked imagination, and olive green was beyond nasty. It was bad enough that it was another station wagon, but it was also ugly. Why did he pick this one? Well, because it was a deal too good to pass up; a floor model. You see, even though he wasnt buying a new car every year, it didnt preclude him from stopping by the Ford showroom to eye the new models, sit behind the wheel and dream about what could be. Consequently, he developed a quasi friendship with one of the salesmen and, on this one particular day, he succumbed to the salesmans skilled
1|Page

powers of temptation and brought it home. It was on a trial basis. Just have fun with it for a few days. You dont have to keep it if you dont want to. He was a GREAT salesman. And, so, I learned that valuable life-lesson at the age of 9-1/2. I dont think Dad ever learned it, or, maybe, he just chose to ignore that one. After I got my learners permit, during the summer of 66, I was allowed to drive the 80+ miles to and from Lake Weatherbee, while pulling the boat on its trailer, every other weekend from the day school was out, until Labor Day was behind us. Looking back, it was the best way to learn to drive. I became very talented at driving with the side mirrors only, because the over-packed boat blocked the rear view mirror. This is a valuable skill that Ive appreciated many times during my life. Each time I wow myself with this ability, the memories of towing that old red boat through Niles Canyon and over Altamont Pass bubble up to the surface. Once I had my drivers license, I drove the station wagon to high school as often as I could; switching off with my friends a couple times each week. I was thrilled to leave the big yellow bus and the 6:00 AM bus stop behind me. And, while I was embarrassed by this big old clunker of a car, it was big enough to carry all of my friends off campus for lunch at A&W or Fosters Freeze. The greatest gift was the freedom. How could I hate any car that provided the wings I so desperately craved? Any yet, because I attended a high school in affluent Atherton, it was my friends who had the great cars. I couldnt help but dream about what could be. Bev, my best friend, who lived across the street - her father bought her a burned-out 57 or 58 Renault-Dauphine, I think. The only thing left of it was the body. He sent it out to be totally restored with a new engine, new interior and he painted it baby blue. It was adorable. Janice, who lived in Atherton, had a new 68 T-bird, turquoise with turquoise interior. Amazing! She later traded it in for a 57 TBird convertible. It was a piece of junk but she was the envy of all the boys, and girls, at school. And, that was the beginning. When I discovered the added freedom of my hair blowing in the wind, I had a new dream. When I turned 18, I found out that my high school graduation present would be the white Ford station wagon. By this time, we had bonded. Yes, that ugly car and I had developed a relationship that would later come to shock me, and haunts me even today. Long before I obtained my learners permit, I learned to drive her on the weekends during the summer at Lake Weatherbee. Dad would let me drive her through the campground and surrounding dirt roads, where I navigated between the wheel ruts and stray dogs. I took up my dads pension for visiting car lots, just for fun. But, I knew better than to take anything off the lot. I didnt even start the ignition. I would just ask the salesman
2|Page

to put the top down and go away, taking the keys with him. It was harmless. I had no money. If I had, it probably would have been an MGB, which Dad would have protested because he would not have been able to repair it; it being metric. But it was my dream. One day, shortly after graduation, one of the members of the muscle car gang told me he was selling his 64 GTO red convertible with black interior for $400. I had $400! I had been babysitting for many years and I had been a carhop at A&W until recently. The car was beautiful and fast, and I had to have it. The deal I made with him was that it had to pass my dads inspection first. Dad didnt raise a dumb blonde; she just looked like one. I suppose I suspected it wouldnt pass inspection, because it didnt. Seeing my disappointment and yet injected by my enthusiasm, Dad said, Dont worry. Ill find you a good car. But I want this car! I want a convertible! I cried. Two, maybe three, hours later Dad drove into the driveway with the most beautiful midnight blue convertible GTO with a black top and black interior. It had a real wood dashboard. I couldnt believe it, and I was sure Dad had lost his mind. I couldnt afford this car. Thats when he started his sales pitch; hed learned from the best. Even though it had 50,000 miles, it was only two years old and it looked brand new, not beat up like the 64. Yes, it was a steal at $2,000, but I could get $300 trade-in for the Ford and, because I was buying it from the dealership, it could be financed for $67 per month. It was a very easy sale. I was over the moon, and in love. It didnt matter who brought the car home, it wasnt going back. However, I was in fir a big surprise. When it came time to turn in the station wagon, for real, I couldnt do it. As Dad drove away, I cried hysterically. I was baffled by my own behavior and totally out of control. Even days later, when I saw the station wagon on the car lot, it saddened me to my core. And, when I saw it two weeks later, on another used car lot, the lot where they dump the cars that only the deadbeats buy cars, I burst into tears again. The bond was so surprisingly strong. But, now I had a new ride. It was a knockout. It had wide tires with beautiful rims, a four speed and a 389 engine. My attention, and every waking moment, was devoted to learning how to achieve scratch in all four gears. I was a natural. It helped that I drove it 4-5 hours every day. Even though gas, in 1969, was only 39 per gallon, I managed to spend $102 that first month, filling the tank 2 or 3 times per week. More than once, during that first year, I would set my hair in giant rollers, get in the car, put down the top and drive to San Francisco and back; to dry my hair, of course. Any excuse would do. Do you need a lift? Ill take you anywhere you want to go. While in San Francisco, I honed my clutch-riding, hill-driving skills. I got very good at it. Better than I could do it today, without a clutch. I got too good, to the point of being bad. Aside from the wind-in-my-hair effect, I gravitated to the gift of speed.
3|Page

Within the first year, the new, profoundly beautiful, empty-of-traffic 280 freeway opened in the Peninsulas backyard. It would take time for the Peninsula commuters to discover and embrace what it had to offer. Meanwhile, those of us, who have wanderlust in our veins, had the road all to ourselves. There were four and five lanes with unobstructed views and very few places for CHP to hide in wait. And, since so few people used it, I think the CHP just didnt bother. They stayed where they were needed; down on 101 with the rest of the commuters. The temptation was too strong. In the summer of 1970, on a Sunday afternoon, when there were literally no cars to be seen, with the wind blowing through my tresses, I pressed the accelerator steadily down to the floor board until it had nowhere else to go. I felt like an eagle. As I approached the Woodside exit, I felt cheated. I realized something amazing. It was the only time in my life that I wished I had been born a boy. My true calling was to be a race car driver and it just wasnt happening for women in those days. As children, Dad regularly took us to the midget races in San Carlos and to the drag races in Half Moon Bay. Uncle Roger, our mothers brother, was a car fanatic and we would also watch him race somewhere in east San Jose, occasionally. But racing never peaked my interest, until I found myself behind the wheel of my Goat that day. When I stopped at the bottom of the Woodside Road off ramp, I turned right and headed for one of my favorite, windiest roads Kings Mountain Road. It is still one of my favorites and I still try to drive it annually. Starting in the back roads of Woodside, going past Huddart Park, it is like performing gymnastics with a sports car, and my Goat could perform with the best of them. I came around one of the sharp corners, on the outside of the turn, passing an open Jeep just as the left front tire on my car blew into shredded pieces. It was loud and the guys in the Jeep took pity on me and stopped to help. Before I could even absorb what had just happened, they had my tire changed and I was on my way. I dont know why the tire blew; the tread was fine. And, as I continued on my drive to the top of Kings Mountain, I reflected on the consequences of what could have happened if that blow out had happened 10 minutes earlier. I never drove that fast again and the call of the race track went silent. This was not going to be my last brush with death for me and my Goat. One rainy day, Suzi and I went shopping. It wasnt raining especially hard, but it was steady. As I approached the end of the on ramp, going south onto 101 from Whipple Avenue, I increased my speed to merge with the traffic. I have always been excellent with merging. My high school driving instructor said I was the best hed ever taught. Im sure it had everything to do with towing that boat on the freeways every summer. I digress. As I moved from the slow lane, into the middle lane, the car began to fishtail. I became frightened and did the wrong thing. I had no idea of what to do. They didnt teach this in school. I let up on the gas and it got worse. In slow motion, the car was
4|Page

turning 180 left and then right. I was out of control and I panicked. I told Suzi to hold onto the handrail that sat between the dashboard and the glove compartment and said Get ready! Are you ready? She grabbed the handrail and screamed, Yes! As I turned my head at the farthest 180 fishtail, I looked toward the oncoming traffic behind us, and I saw that they had slowed down, undoubtedly having seen the trouble I was in. I took this as an opportunity to slam on my brakes. Of course, we started spinning like a top and I prayed that we wouldnt end up in the ditch on the side of the road. It was a huge ditch. When we finally came to a stop, the next day, the car was in the middle lane facing the oncoming traffic. But we were alive and not in the ditch! I remember a lot of nervous laughter between us. But, my laughter abruptly stopped when I realized that my left leg was shaking so hard from fear that I couldnt put the clutch in to move the car from this precarious location. The motorist who saw what happened had now passed us and we were being approached by cars who didnt know we were there. After all this time, what happened next has all by disappeared from my memory. But, were both still here, so it must have turned out okay. Lesson learned bald tires are a bad thing. Yes, they are a very bad thing and will be avoided for the rest of my life, and probably Suzis, too. I drove the GTO ruthlessly. I was a crazy woman in that car. Did I mention that I achieved scratch in all four gears early on and often? At the end of the third engine, a 402, the gas lines and seven miles to the gallon convinced me that I needed to change my ways. In 1974, I put an ad in the paper to sell it for $750 or best offer. I didnt get one call. I owed Dad $350 for the last engine he put in and offered him the car in lieu of payment. It was Mom who said, Yes. She drove it to the store for a few years, but eventually, something happened and it became yard art. I wonder if she drove it like a crazy woman, too. Its not as though I could have warned her. I couldnt tell her about the near death experiences, could I? My Goat was replaced by a brand new 75 limited edition Bug, of all things. I became a new woman. Many, many years later, Mom opened a letter from the original owner of the GTO. He made her an offer she couldnt refuse - $3,000, as is. The interior of the car was in pretty good shape except the dashboard, which had rusted through due to an undetected windshield leak. The body was in decent shape, too. He sent it to Los Angeles for restoration. Several months later, Mom received another letter and pictures of the new Goat. The letter informed her that it was recently appraised for more than $30,000 shed been cheated! It made me very happy, and I didnt even cry.

5|Page