In 1986, I bought my first car. It was a 1964 Ford Fairlane 2 door sedan with a 260 V8 and 2 speed Ford-O-Matic transmission. I worked for a full year to save up the money, and bought it for the princely sum of $400. For the next year and a half, I spent many hours driving up and down the highways from home to school and back, and I loved every minute of it. My car was in great condition, but despite its sweet jet-engine taillights, it was one of the slowest vehicles on the planet. In comparison with the Super Bees, GTO’s, hopped up Mustangs, and Buick Rivieras that my friends were driving, I wasn’t even in the same time zone, much less a contender. But my Dad and I had a plan.
We put together a 302 and a C4 transmission to go into the Fairlane, and I learned the joys of snapping off bolts in the intake and other valuable lessons that every teenage boy should have. At last, it was ready to go in, but we decided to wait till spring, as the garage was unheated and we didn’t want to freeze off any important body parts finishing our project.
Sadly, that’s when disaster struck. On the way back from school in a blizzard, an elderly gentleman in a Caprice Classic ran into the back end of my Fairlane, shoving the rear bumper almost up to the back seat. It was curtains for the old girl. No one in those days would straighten the frame or fix a ‘cheap old car’ like mine, no matter how much it meant to me.
Despondent, I began to look through the newspaper classifieds to find a replacement, so I’d have something to drive the 30 miles to school. Nothing stood out. There were no interesting cars that I could afford at all, and my sixteen year old heart ached from the loss of my cool little Ford. About that time, my Dad came in. I explained why I was so bummed, and he said “Let me take a look.”
Soon he pointed out that there was a Cougar for sale. Now keep in mind, at this time, my father was not very intelligent. Like many fathers, he didn’t develop any appreciable wisdom or smarts until I was sometime in my 20s. I remember saying something like “Dad, why would I want a big ugly luxury car?” - thinking of the mid to late 70s Cougars that I was familiar with. (no insult intended to anyone here that owns one of them!)
“No,” he said, “the first few years of these were more like Mustangs! Why don’t we take a look?”
Humoring him, I sulked in the passenger seat until we reached a dilapidated house with junk strewn around it. A rangy old Hippie with long grey hair came out of the house and sidled up to his garage. It had one of those old-fashioned one-piece wooden doors that doesn’t fold up, but lifts straight up and back to open, and I remember that the white paint was peeling, and it was covered in dirt, cobwebs, and dead bugs. I really had no hope, but was determined to see my father’s lunacy through to the bloody end.
When he opened the door, trash just rained down. I dreaded what might be inside his garage. But as it rose, wide Goodyear Eagle 235/60 R15 rear tires, and a pair of gleaming exhausts were revealed. The taillight grilles spoke to me, and my eyes fell upon the car’s muscular haunches. Light shone down from heaven, and angels sang. I remember the Hippie saying “Well, she doesn’t have an engine or transmission…” but I don’t recall a thing anyone said after that. The price was right, and this car had to be mine. It was love at first sight. Not a fleeting fling with some ratty old metal floozy, but a full-on romance for life.
I loved everything about this '67 Cougar, and after putting the ‘project’ engine and transmission that we’d built for the Fairlane into my Cougar, I drove it for many years. I had many adventures in that car, and though it was never the nicest vehicle, I will always remember it with deep affection.
My current Cougar, Veronica, is not the same car. But I’ve owned her since 2000. She’s been through a lot with me too, including an engine fire back in 2005 that has sidelined her for many years. Despite going through two divorces and many personal hardships, I’ve managed to hold onto her.
My (now much-more-intelligent) father is a Vietnam vet, and sadly, due to Agent Orange exposure, he has Parkinson’s. In this last year, I’ve managed to pick up a job with the Census Bureau, and I’m saving money to get Veronica back on the road. My plan is to take some road trips with Dad before his condition gets so bad that he can’t enjoy it anymore. I still have a lot of hurdles to overcome, and I hope I’ll get it done in time, but I’m sure working hard towards that goal. It seems appropriate to me that the man who instilled in me such appreciation for cars, and the aptitude for working on mechanical things should be able to enjoy this neat old ride too.
No matter how it turns out, I’ll do everything in my power to make my car the ride I’ve always dreamed of. I’m one of the fortunate few that got to grow up in another time, doing bootlegger turns and doughnuts, and having burnout contests for distance with my friends out on the bridge near my house. We fishtailed through fields with the windows down, grass hanging from every point of the suspension, and seeds filling the back seat. When things broke on my car, it was me that had to fix it, so I learned to appreciate what I had in a way that many “rich” kids my age couldn’t comprehend. I have always been financially challenged, but perhaps that is a blessing in disguise.
I miss my old Fairlane sometimes, but if it hadn’t been for that strange set of circumstances, I’d never have found the true love of my life. I’m eternally grateful for the privilege of being able to own and enjoy these magnificent tin cats for so many years. There is no car I would rather drive in all the world.
