Fun with a Mustang: Slow in, Fast out
In college, I spent a lot of time thinking about Mustangs. On too many occasions, when I should have been studying or paying attention in class, I was reading about Mustangs. On the last day of class, I bought myself a new 1988 Mustang GT as a graduation present. With 225 horsepower, 300 lb.-ft. of torque, and a 0-60 acceleration time of 6.4 seconds, my Mustang was faster than most cars of the time. I treated it like my most prized possession.
For the first six months, I washed it every day—literally. Our garage was filled with a wide variety of soaps, waxes, and polishes. I had so many car-care products that I could have opened a detail shop. There were chemicals for treating and polishing chrome, plastic, leather, and vinyl; windshield wax to repel water; wheel wax to repel brake dust; scratch removers; dirt and grime removers; and a "detailer" to remove fine exterior scratches that were barely visible but irksome nonetheless.

My burgundy red car was cleaner-than-showroom clean, and it attracted a great deal of attention—sometimes of the wrong kind. My friend once told me that he could see me coming from a mile away because the car was so shiny. I was peppered with questions at gas stations, at the beach, and at the mall: What kind of wax do you use? How do you keep it so clean? And sometimes by the police: Do you know how fast you were going, son? Is there a reason why you were going so fast? Are you late for an appointment?
When no one else was around—or at least when I thought no one else was around—I drove it like it was meant to be driven. Each time I entered the car I imagined I was qualifying for the Indy 500. I laced my sneakers as if putting on racing shoes; I fastened my seat belt as tightly as possible; I adjusted the mirrors carefully; and I remained ready to out-accelerate anyone who I thought (read: imagined) was trying to pass me. One time I took my dad for a ride, and from that point forward, he refused to drive with me.
I found out first-hand that the Mustangs of that era were better at going fast in a straight line than going fast around a corner. In one memorable incident, I exited an unfamiliar off-ramp way too fast with predictable results—I slid straight off the road. As racers know, it is far better to enter the corner slowly and accelerate out of the corner. They call it slow in, fast out, and I wish I had known this before I took that fateful corner.
Since the car was still drivable after the "incident," I drove it home. The next morning, fearing the worst, I took the car to my mechanic who surprised me with the news that all I needed was a front-wheel alignment. Apparently, the suspension was heavy-duty enough to absorb most of the impact. The next day, I was back in my garage, fussing over the paint and touching up numerous little rock chips that covered my car from my first and only off-road journey.













