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By Peter Egan , Editor-at-Large
August 2009
Road and Track
Normally, I'm a scientific person without a trace of superstition, but sometimes I feel like a character in a John Fogarty song, caught in the sway of unseen voodoo forces and a full moon on the bayou.
Late last month, for instance, a couple of strange things happened.
First, I went to a Chinese restaurant with Barb, and over a large plate of General Tso's Chicken (#27) we were discussing whether or not I should take advantage of big Ford rebates and buy myself a leftover 2008 Highland Green Bullitt Mustang that had been sitting — unbought and apparently unloved — through the long snowy winter at our local Ford lot.
As we talked, the waiter brought the check and we opened our fortune cookies.
Barb's said something typically generic, such as, "Your pleasant manner will win you many friends."
"What's yours say?" she asked.
I stared at the fortune for a long moment and then placed it in front of her.
It read, "Something on four wheels will be a fun investment for you."
Spooky.
I carefully placed this small slip of paper — suitable for framing — in my billfold.
I've seen only one other specific, laser-guided fortune in my lifetime. That was in 1990, when the loan was approved on our present home — an old mill house on a creek in rural Wisconsin. We went out to celebrate at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Newport Beach, California, and my fortune that night read: "Hidden in a valley beside an open stream, this is the type of place where you will find your dream."
And now this car fortune.
"Uh, oh..." Barb said.
She had good cause to worry. I fully admit I was obsessed with the Mustang.
Every Sunday afternoon, all winter, I visited the car — wind, snow or sleet. A few weekends it was 20 below zero, but I still went. I'd sit in my van with the heater running, like some kind of FBI stakeout guy, and reposition myself at several different angles so I could look at the green Bullitt. I loved that clean, unadorned shape.
Sometimes, I'd leap out and go read the window sticker — which I'd pretty much memorized — and then run back to the van before I froze to death. Rear spoiler delete; Dark charcoal leather; Highland Green Clearcoat; 4.6L 3V OHC V8 engine; 5-speed manual transmission; Shaker 500 Audio System; 3.73 ratio limited-slip rear axle, etc., etc. The EPA figures were 15 City/23 Highway.
This is how you could tell you weren't accidentally standing next to a Prius of the same color.
Once back home, I'd ritualistically examine page 46 of our February 2008 issue, which contained our First Drive photos of the Mustang on a wet, dark street. The car was almost devoid of external trim — except for a small "Bullitt" logo on the faux rear gas cap.
Now there's a concept: A faux gas cap emblazoned with the name of a movie character. Long live Detroit.
But this small bit of flash was offset by much good stuff. Such as 15 extra horsepower — thanks to a cold air box and free-flowing exhaust — along with upgraded suspension and brakes, dark green paint and the handsome dark charcoal 5-spoke wheels that resembled the old American Racing mags from the Shelby GT-350R.
Which — along with Minilites and Lotus wobbly-webs — are among the best looking wheels ever made.
The interior, with an engine-turned dash surface, also featured "Bullitt" logos on the steering wheel and doorsills. I admit to being a McQueen fan, but — for my extremely mature tastes — they could have left this stuff off. It seemed a little odd, like buying a Colt single-action .45 with "The Lone Ranger" on the handgrips.
But you can always change grips, and you could always "de-Bullittize" the Mustang, I suppose. You'd just have to keep the old parts, so as not to be excoriated by future collectors for desecrating History, like those hapless souls who removed their Road Runner decals in the '60s. Kitsch always becomes cooler with time; you just have to live long enough to benefit.
In any case, I was drawn to the car like a moth to a candle, and knew I'd eventually have to buy it. All I needed was a second omen, something to give me that final nudge.
It came about a week later. I drove my van into Madison to pick up some Lotus Elan door panels at an upholstery shop. I was writing out the check and said to the shop owner, "What's the date today?"
"March 4th," he said, "2009."
I started to date the check and then stopped and looked at the man.
Normally, I'm a scientific person without a trace of superstition, but sometimes I feel like a character in a John Fogarty song, caught in the sway of unseen voodoo forces and a full moon on the bayou.
Late last month, for instance, a couple of strange things happened.
First, I went to a Chinese restaurant with Barb, and over a large plate of General Tso's Chicken (#27) we were discussing whether or not I should take advantage of big Ford rebates and buy myself a leftover 2008 Highland Green Bullitt Mustang that had been sitting — unbought and apparently unloved — through the long snowy winter at our local Ford lot.
As we talked, the waiter brought the check and we opened our fortune cookies.
Barb's said something typically generic, such as, "Your pleasant manner will win you many friends."
"What's yours say?" she asked.
I stared at the fortune for a long moment and then placed it in front of her.
It read, "Something on four wheels will be a fun investment for you."
Spooky.
I carefully placed this small slip of paper — suitable for framing — in my billfold.
I've seen only one other specific, laser-guided fortune in my lifetime. That was in 1990, when the loan was approved on our present home — an old mill house on a creek in rural Wisconsin. We went out to celebrate at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Newport Beach, California, and my fortune that night read: "Hidden in a valley beside an open stream, this is the type of place where you will find your dream."
And now this car fortune.
"Uh, oh..." Barb said.
She had good cause to worry. I fully admit I was obsessed with the Mustang.
Every Sunday afternoon, all winter, I visited the car — wind, snow or sleet. A few weekends it was 20 below zero, but I still went. I'd sit in my van with the heater running, like some kind of FBI stakeout guy, and reposition myself at several different angles so I could look at the green Bullitt. I loved that clean, unadorned shape.
Sometimes, I'd leap out and go read the window sticker — which I'd pretty much memorized — and then run back to the van before I froze to death. Rear spoiler delete; Dark charcoal leather; Highland Green Clearcoat; 4.6L 3V OHC V8 engine; 5-speed manual transmission; Shaker 500 Audio System; 3.73 ratio limited-slip rear axle, etc., etc. The EPA figures were 15 City/23 Highway.
This is how you could tell you weren't accidentally standing next to a Prius of the same color.
Once back home, I'd ritualistically examine page 46 of our February 2008 issue, which contained our First Drive photos of the Mustang on a wet, dark street. The car was almost devoid of external trim — except for a small "Bullitt" logo on the faux rear gas cap.
Now there's a concept: A faux gas cap emblazoned with the name of a movie character. Long live Detroit.
But this small bit of flash was offset by much good stuff. Such as 15 extra horsepower — thanks to a cold air box and free-flowing exhaust — along with upgraded suspension and brakes, dark green paint and the handsome dark charcoal 5-spoke wheels that resembled the old American Racing mags from the Shelby GT-350R.
Which — along with Minilites and Lotus wobbly-webs — are among the best looking wheels ever made.
The interior, with an engine-turned dash surface, also featured "Bullitt" logos on the steering wheel and doorsills. I admit to being a McQueen fan, but — for my extremely mature tastes — they could have left this stuff off. It seemed a little odd, like buying a Colt single-action .45 with "The Lone Ranger" on the handgrips.
But you can always change grips, and you could always "de-Bullittize" the Mustang, I suppose. You'd just have to keep the old parts, so as not to be excoriated by future collectors for desecrating History, like those hapless souls who removed their Road Runner decals in the '60s. Kitsch always becomes cooler with time; you just have to live long enough to benefit.
In any case, I was drawn to the car like a moth to a candle, and knew I'd eventually have to buy it. All I needed was a second omen, something to give me that final nudge.
It came about a week later. I drove my van into Madison to pick up some Lotus Elan door panels at an upholstery shop. I was writing out the check and said to the shop owner, "What's the date today?"
"March 4th," he said, "2009."
I started to date the check and then stopped and looked at the man.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I went into the Army 40 years ago today. Flew to Fort Campbell for Basic Training...headed for Vietnam..."
"Huh," he said, not terribly impressed with this information. But I was. I've never forgotten that date, March 4th, because it sounds like a command from a drill sergeant.
On the way home, I said to myself, "I went into the Army 40 years ago today, and I'm still here. Still walking around upright; still looking at Mustangs."
This, in my universe, is what passes for an excuse to indulge yourself. A few years back, I walked out of a doctor's office after a health scare and immediately drove to a Harley-Davidson dealer and bought a new Road King I'd been looking at. Moments of mortal awareness are marvelous for clearing the mind and forcing you to buy neat stuff. So on the way home from the upholstery shop, I swung into the Ford dealership to buy the Mustang.
And my green car was — gone.
I went into the sales office and Eric Pamperin, the salesman I'd been talking to, said, "We sold it this morning. Shipped it to a buyer in Minnesota."
A buyer in Minnesota? What did he know about this car? It was my Mustang! How could he appreciate the car without standing around next to it all winter in a windy parking lot?
"Well, I guess that's that," I said to Eric.
"Not necessarily," he said. "There still are seven or eight of them at other dealers in the Midwest. I could check on them and call you."
"Okay," I said. "But I have to leave tomorrow on a couple of back-to-back press trips, so I won't be home until the end of the month."
"Well, give me a call when you get back."
I could have ordered one right then, of course, but I needed to think about it. When a car is sold out from under you, you feel temporarily rich and slightly liberated. You need to weigh your options and rebuild your resolve.
But when I got back home I still wanted a Bullitt, against all logic. The economy was tanking, Detroit was in big trouble, workers were losing their jobs and half our 401(k) was gone. And yet I wanted the Mustang — I was in the mood for an American hot rod, and nothing else would do.
And I had the money. I'd sold a motorcycle and my 2001 Boxster S. Yes, I'd parted with the Boxster, not because it wasn't the best all-around sports car I'd ever owned or driven, but simply because I wanted to try something different. Part of my decades-old "life is short" philosophy.
So last Thursday, I went to the Ford dealership to see if we could locate a Highland Green Bullitt Mustang. Eric found several 2008 models equipped the way I wanted them (no optional equipment except for Sirius Radio), but each time we called a Midwestern dealer, the car had just been sold. Spring was here, the rebates were good, and the cars were suddenly starting to move — quickly. Every one we checked on was sold yesterday, last Tuesday or this morning. They were suddenly melting away like road ice in the sunshine.
Finally, the only 2008 cars left in the computer were those equipped with the "Shaker 1000" sound system, which occupies about a third of your trunk. I like music, but creating seismic chaos at stoplights is not part of my M.O. Plus I like trunk space. "No Shaker 1000," I said.
"Then you're going to have to get a 2009 model," Eric said, tapping the computer keys, "with a slightly lower rebate. Here's one at a dealership in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin."
Ah, Prairie du Chien.
Mississippi River town, home of Stark's Honda and Sporting Goods, where Barb bought me a Honda CB350 for a surprise birthday present in 1973. We were recently married and I was just out of the Army, finishing college on the GI Bill. She took out a loan from her credit union at work because she knew how much I wanted the bike. The Honda was a beautiful dark emerald color. All good green things, it seemed, came from Prairie du Chien. Another favorable omen.
"Let's get it," I said.
I picked the car up on Friday morning. Signed the papers, called my insurance agent (the sainted Dorothy) and took off into the rural Wisconsin countryside for a drive. Warm and sunny, the first real day of spring. Windows down, that wonderful growl coming from the twin pipes. Nice taut suspension, yet not harsh. Great brakes, lots of ripping power, quick steering, good pedal placement and shifter, excellent seats. And that sound...
"This is a wonderful car," I said matter-of-factly to myself.
Then I slid one of my favorite discs into the CD player to test the sound system. John Fogarty's live album, Premonition.
Great stuff. Especially his version of the old Screaming Jay Hawkins classic, "I Put a Spell on You."
August 2009
Road and Track
Normally, I'm a scientific person without a trace of superstition, but sometimes I feel like a character in a John Fogarty song, caught in the sway of unseen voodoo forces and a full moon on the bayou.
Late last month, for instance, a couple of strange things happened.
First, I went to a Chinese restaurant with Barb, and over a large plate of General Tso's Chicken (#27) we were discussing whether or not I should take advantage of big Ford rebates and buy myself a leftover 2008 Highland Green Bullitt Mustang that had been sitting — unbought and apparently unloved — through the long snowy winter at our local Ford lot.
As we talked, the waiter brought the check and we opened our fortune cookies.
Barb's said something typically generic, such as, "Your pleasant manner will win you many friends."
"What's yours say?" she asked.
I stared at the fortune for a long moment and then placed it in front of her.
It read, "Something on four wheels will be a fun investment for you."
Spooky.
I carefully placed this small slip of paper — suitable for framing — in my billfold.
I've seen only one other specific, laser-guided fortune in my lifetime. That was in 1990, when the loan was approved on our present home — an old mill house on a creek in rural Wisconsin. We went out to celebrate at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Newport Beach, California, and my fortune that night read: "Hidden in a valley beside an open stream, this is the type of place where you will find your dream."
And now this car fortune.
"Uh, oh..." Barb said.
She had good cause to worry. I fully admit I was obsessed with the Mustang.
Every Sunday afternoon, all winter, I visited the car — wind, snow or sleet. A few weekends it was 20 below zero, but I still went. I'd sit in my van with the heater running, like some kind of FBI stakeout guy, and reposition myself at several different angles so I could look at the green Bullitt. I loved that clean, unadorned shape.
Sometimes, I'd leap out and go read the window sticker — which I'd pretty much memorized — and then run back to the van before I froze to death. Rear spoiler delete; Dark charcoal leather; Highland Green Clearcoat; 4.6L 3V OHC V8 engine; 5-speed manual transmission; Shaker 500 Audio System; 3.73 ratio limited-slip rear axle, etc., etc. The EPA figures were 15 City/23 Highway.
This is how you could tell you weren't accidentally standing next to a Prius of the same color.
Once back home, I'd ritualistically examine page 46 of our February 2008 issue, which contained our First Drive photos of the Mustang on a wet, dark street. The car was almost devoid of external trim — except for a small "Bullitt" logo on the faux rear gas cap.
Now there's a concept: A faux gas cap emblazoned with the name of a movie character. Long live Detroit.
But this small bit of flash was offset by much good stuff. Such as 15 extra horsepower — thanks to a cold air box and free-flowing exhaust — along with upgraded suspension and brakes, dark green paint and the handsome dark charcoal 5-spoke wheels that resembled the old American Racing mags from the Shelby GT-350R.
Which — along with Minilites and Lotus wobbly-webs — are among the best looking wheels ever made.
The interior, with an engine-turned dash surface, also featured "Bullitt" logos on the steering wheel and doorsills. I admit to being a McQueen fan, but — for my extremely mature tastes — they could have left this stuff off. It seemed a little odd, like buying a Colt single-action .45 with "The Lone Ranger" on the handgrips.
But you can always change grips, and you could always "de-Bullittize" the Mustang, I suppose. You'd just have to keep the old parts, so as not to be excoriated by future collectors for desecrating History, like those hapless souls who removed their Road Runner decals in the '60s. Kitsch always becomes cooler with time; you just have to live long enough to benefit.
In any case, I was drawn to the car like a moth to a candle, and knew I'd eventually have to buy it. All I needed was a second omen, something to give me that final nudge.
It came about a week later. I drove my van into Madison to pick up some Lotus Elan door panels at an upholstery shop. I was writing out the check and said to the shop owner, "What's the date today?"
"March 4th," he said, "2009."
I started to date the check and then stopped and looked at the man.
Normally, I'm a scientific person without a trace of superstition, but sometimes I feel like a character in a John Fogarty song, caught in the sway of unseen voodoo forces and a full moon on the bayou.
Late last month, for instance, a couple of strange things happened.
First, I went to a Chinese restaurant with Barb, and over a large plate of General Tso's Chicken (#27) we were discussing whether or not I should take advantage of big Ford rebates and buy myself a leftover 2008 Highland Green Bullitt Mustang that had been sitting — unbought and apparently unloved — through the long snowy winter at our local Ford lot.
As we talked, the waiter brought the check and we opened our fortune cookies.
Barb's said something typically generic, such as, "Your pleasant manner will win you many friends."
"What's yours say?" she asked.
I stared at the fortune for a long moment and then placed it in front of her.
It read, "Something on four wheels will be a fun investment for you."
Spooky.
I carefully placed this small slip of paper — suitable for framing — in my billfold.
I've seen only one other specific, laser-guided fortune in my lifetime. That was in 1990, when the loan was approved on our present home — an old mill house on a creek in rural Wisconsin. We went out to celebrate at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Newport Beach, California, and my fortune that night read: "Hidden in a valley beside an open stream, this is the type of place where you will find your dream."
And now this car fortune.
"Uh, oh..." Barb said.
She had good cause to worry. I fully admit I was obsessed with the Mustang.
Every Sunday afternoon, all winter, I visited the car — wind, snow or sleet. A few weekends it was 20 below zero, but I still went. I'd sit in my van with the heater running, like some kind of FBI stakeout guy, and reposition myself at several different angles so I could look at the green Bullitt. I loved that clean, unadorned shape.
Sometimes, I'd leap out and go read the window sticker — which I'd pretty much memorized — and then run back to the van before I froze to death. Rear spoiler delete; Dark charcoal leather; Highland Green Clearcoat; 4.6L 3V OHC V8 engine; 5-speed manual transmission; Shaker 500 Audio System; 3.73 ratio limited-slip rear axle, etc., etc. The EPA figures were 15 City/23 Highway.
This is how you could tell you weren't accidentally standing next to a Prius of the same color.
Once back home, I'd ritualistically examine page 46 of our February 2008 issue, which contained our First Drive photos of the Mustang on a wet, dark street. The car was almost devoid of external trim — except for a small "Bullitt" logo on the faux rear gas cap.
Now there's a concept: A faux gas cap emblazoned with the name of a movie character. Long live Detroit.
But this small bit of flash was offset by much good stuff. Such as 15 extra horsepower — thanks to a cold air box and free-flowing exhaust — along with upgraded suspension and brakes, dark green paint and the handsome dark charcoal 5-spoke wheels that resembled the old American Racing mags from the Shelby GT-350R.
Which — along with Minilites and Lotus wobbly-webs — are among the best looking wheels ever made.
The interior, with an engine-turned dash surface, also featured "Bullitt" logos on the steering wheel and doorsills. I admit to being a McQueen fan, but — for my extremely mature tastes — they could have left this stuff off. It seemed a little odd, like buying a Colt single-action .45 with "The Lone Ranger" on the handgrips.
But you can always change grips, and you could always "de-Bullittize" the Mustang, I suppose. You'd just have to keep the old parts, so as not to be excoriated by future collectors for desecrating History, like those hapless souls who removed their Road Runner decals in the '60s. Kitsch always becomes cooler with time; you just have to live long enough to benefit.
In any case, I was drawn to the car like a moth to a candle, and knew I'd eventually have to buy it. All I needed was a second omen, something to give me that final nudge.
It came about a week later. I drove my van into Madison to pick up some Lotus Elan door panels at an upholstery shop. I was writing out the check and said to the shop owner, "What's the date today?"
"March 4th," he said, "2009."
I started to date the check and then stopped and looked at the man.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I went into the Army 40 years ago today. Flew to Fort Campbell for Basic Training...headed for Vietnam..."
"Huh," he said, not terribly impressed with this information. But I was. I've never forgotten that date, March 4th, because it sounds like a command from a drill sergeant.
On the way home, I said to myself, "I went into the Army 40 years ago today, and I'm still here. Still walking around upright; still looking at Mustangs."
This, in my universe, is what passes for an excuse to indulge yourself. A few years back, I walked out of a doctor's office after a health scare and immediately drove to a Harley-Davidson dealer and bought a new Road King I'd been looking at. Moments of mortal awareness are marvelous for clearing the mind and forcing you to buy neat stuff. So on the way home from the upholstery shop, I swung into the Ford dealership to buy the Mustang.
And my green car was — gone.
I went into the sales office and Eric Pamperin, the salesman I'd been talking to, said, "We sold it this morning. Shipped it to a buyer in Minnesota."
A buyer in Minnesota? What did he know about this car? It was my Mustang! How could he appreciate the car without standing around next to it all winter in a windy parking lot?
"Well, I guess that's that," I said to Eric.
"Not necessarily," he said. "There still are seven or eight of them at other dealers in the Midwest. I could check on them and call you."
"Okay," I said. "But I have to leave tomorrow on a couple of back-to-back press trips, so I won't be home until the end of the month."
"Well, give me a call when you get back."
I could have ordered one right then, of course, but I needed to think about it. When a car is sold out from under you, you feel temporarily rich and slightly liberated. You need to weigh your options and rebuild your resolve.
But when I got back home I still wanted a Bullitt, against all logic. The economy was tanking, Detroit was in big trouble, workers were losing their jobs and half our 401(k) was gone. And yet I wanted the Mustang — I was in the mood for an American hot rod, and nothing else would do.
And I had the money. I'd sold a motorcycle and my 2001 Boxster S. Yes, I'd parted with the Boxster, not because it wasn't the best all-around sports car I'd ever owned or driven, but simply because I wanted to try something different. Part of my decades-old "life is short" philosophy.
So last Thursday, I went to the Ford dealership to see if we could locate a Highland Green Bullitt Mustang. Eric found several 2008 models equipped the way I wanted them (no optional equipment except for Sirius Radio), but each time we called a Midwestern dealer, the car had just been sold. Spring was here, the rebates were good, and the cars were suddenly starting to move — quickly. Every one we checked on was sold yesterday, last Tuesday or this morning. They were suddenly melting away like road ice in the sunshine.
Finally, the only 2008 cars left in the computer were those equipped with the "Shaker 1000" sound system, which occupies about a third of your trunk. I like music, but creating seismic chaos at stoplights is not part of my M.O. Plus I like trunk space. "No Shaker 1000," I said.
"Then you're going to have to get a 2009 model," Eric said, tapping the computer keys, "with a slightly lower rebate. Here's one at a dealership in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin."
Ah, Prairie du Chien.
Mississippi River town, home of Stark's Honda and Sporting Goods, where Barb bought me a Honda CB350 for a surprise birthday present in 1973. We were recently married and I was just out of the Army, finishing college on the GI Bill. She took out a loan from her credit union at work because she knew how much I wanted the bike. The Honda was a beautiful dark emerald color. All good green things, it seemed, came from Prairie du Chien. Another favorable omen.
"Let's get it," I said.
I picked the car up on Friday morning. Signed the papers, called my insurance agent (the sainted Dorothy) and took off into the rural Wisconsin countryside for a drive. Warm and sunny, the first real day of spring. Windows down, that wonderful growl coming from the twin pipes. Nice taut suspension, yet not harsh. Great brakes, lots of ripping power, quick steering, good pedal placement and shifter, excellent seats. And that sound...
"This is a wonderful car," I said matter-of-factly to myself.
Then I slid one of my favorite discs into the CD player to test the sound system. John Fogarty's live album, Premonition.
Great stuff. Especially his version of the old Screaming Jay Hawkins classic, "I Put a Spell on You."
