Moms and Muscle Cars

Mom, Teenage Driver, and Muscle Car—It Can Be a Winning Combination
by Jane T. Tolbert

Getting a driver’s license represents a transition in family life. For the teenager, it signifies freedom and perhaps a car. For the parents, it raises a question about safety and insurance rates. Parents have good reason to be concerned. First, we remember our own experiences behind the wheel. Second, we know the grim statistics.

But teaching kids to drive takes time and is probably one of the most important skills to develop. Together, Alex and I logged many hours of driving in cities as well as on highways and Interstates. We started our long drives in my old Mazda with manual transmission about nine months before he turned 16. After an initial peel out from the library parking lot early one morning, we had a delightful drive. Our conversations ranged from things like his dream car or college plans to his involvement on the crew team and even my dream cars, those from the 1960s and 70s when I was growing up. Our trips had no destination. Neither of us knew the area of Melbourne and the beachside communities, so we used these drives to explore but mainly to talk. I learned some of the jargon—“ghetto” car means a cool but shabby car. Pimped refers to the body work, rims, exhaust pipes, paint, or spoilers—the visual accoutrements rather than a prostitution ring.

We liked to go south on U.S. 1, which runs along the Indian River Lagoon, or take A1A, along the beach. As we neared the time for Alex to get his license, the drives took on a purpose. We began to look for “his” car. We parents joked that we would like to buy our kids an older station wagon that would only go 35 miles per hour. At my son’s school, many kids inherited their mothers’ cars. A few got new cars. We skimmed classified ads and notices of car auctions, and we visited local car shows. Our maximum price was $4,000. He wanted a muscle car, preferably a Mustang GT from the late 1960s or 1970s, but he would settle for a Camaro or Firebird. Body style and engine size seemed to be his criteria along with a car that was easy to repair and transform. I was concerned about things like horsepower and stopping distance. One of the local mechanics who raced Mustangs called us with some leads--a 1970s Firebird parked south on U.S. 1, a 1996 Mustang GT in Satellite Beach, a t-top Camaro. But the cars had flaws—an automatic transmission, too pricey, or too much rust.

Although the car hunt excited us at first, after months of combing the car lots, the experience soured. Then the mechanic told us his 1988 Mustang GT was for sale, a car he used for drag racing. A former drag car?
The lines were nice, and the exhaust sounded throaty. While Alex found the car to be “cool” in the ghetto sense of the word, for me the car had ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes, crackling paint, and brakes in need of repair. But the Mustang offered numerous possibilities for a kid interested in auto mechanics. It turned out to be the best investment of my life.

Other parents tried to dilute my enthusiasm. A drag car for a teenage driver! One in need of mechanical work. A single mother with no mechanical abilities. What was I thinking!

But for more than seven years, this Mustang has offered an excellent learning experience and provided a wonderful avocation. Alex, armed with a car repair manual and on the phone with the mechanic, began with the simple tune-ups (radiator flush, oil change, belt replacement, timing) and interior work (carpeting), and quickly moved to more substantial repair: radiator replacement, brakes, struts/ shocks, and rack and pinion, motor mounts, and heater core and ac replacement, and electrical wiring. Later modifications were for aesthetics rather than necessity—such as the x-pipes (exhaust) and racing seats. These skills have enabled him to get part-time work at auto parts stores to help defray university expenses.

Naturally, our drives became less frequent now that he had the car and his license. But one day as we waited in the left turn lane of a major intersection, a 1988 Mustang 5.0 rag top pulled up beside us. Four big tattooed guys inside looked past me to Alex, in the driver’s seat. The big guys revved the engine. Alex responded with a challenge, showing off the new x-pipes, and made eye contact with the other driver. Both cars continued to rev their engines and inch forward toward the starting line, waiting for the light to change. But we weren’t at Speed World! We were in an urban area.

“He can’t race. I’m his mom,” I called to the driver as Alex gave that look of “Oh Mom.”

“We just finished restoring this baby,” the big guy laughed. “I’m not taking any chances.”

Two years later when I was pondering the astronomical bills on my import, Alex dropped by.

“I was just test driving some Mustangs. With the new 05s coming out, there are a lot of 02s at the dealerships.”

“I can’t afford it, and besides. . .,” I said.

But I agreed to look. We went from one Ford dealership to the next. And here we found a black Mustang with tinted windows and tan leather interior, which, in Alex’s words, looked “bad.” We took a test drive. Alex negotiated the sale price and the trade in.

When we finished the paperwork, the salesperson said to him, “You’re lucky to get such a car at your age.”

Alex grinned. “It’s not for me. It’s for my mom.”

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