"My Mustang Is Making People Think I'm an Asshole"
Lucas Bell’s Mustang Story:
“Of the nine cars I’ve owned, only the Mustang has made me a hooligan.”
“I’ve always had quite a soft spot for American muscle cars, but I’ve never been in the right place in life to stick one in my garage. That changed this past November when I purchased a 2002 Ford Mustang GT to replace my daily-driven Volkswagen. And while I’m enjoying my muscle car experience, it has become evident that my Mustang might be turning me into someone I’m not.
I’m not traditionally a Mustang guy. In fact, I had purposely been excluding the nameplate from my search for a new car. This was mostly due to my partner and her loathing for all Mustang styling, but also due to my preference for GM’s small block V-8s. That said, when this GT Deluxe from the New Edge Era came across my screen, those concerns were knocked aside. It had only done a tick over 44,000 miles since mid-way through Bush Jr.’s first term, undertaken by a pair of elderly brothers who owned the car from new. The lack of time on the road was evident from the first time I saw the car, right down to the traces of mice living in the often-stored pony car’s trunk. Rodent residues aside, the Mustang seemed to be in better shape than I was at 20 years old. The 4.6-liter “Modular” V-8 felt strong on the test drive, and matched the five-speed TR 3650 manual gearbox well. While it wouldn’t register anywhere near quick by today’s metrics, the car felt exactly as powerful as I’d hoped. As glad as I am that the last owners felt the need to save this thing, I fully intend on using it. A lot.
Since November, I’ve put just under 3,000 miles on the Mustang, which hasn’t batted a single eye at its first real exposure to a Michigan winter. Working from my Metro Detroit home has prevented me from really having to use the thing when the weather doesn’t agree, which has kept my personal mileage figure down. That said, I’ve spent enough time behind the wheel to know that the Mustang does something to me. More than any of the nine vehicles I’ve owned before this, the Mustang goads me into misbehaving.
Something happens to me as soon as that two-valve engine fires to life. I’m incapable of puttering around town as peacefully as I once did in my VW. Every stoplight presents an opportunity to prove to that minivan in the next lane that several children's worth of ballast is bad for one's racing career. Every shift is paired with a chirp of the tires or thunderous rev-match. The gas pedal remains in constant motion whenever I’m at a drive-thru, the opportunity to hear the V-8 bouncing off a building is more important than making sure others in the line can order a latte in peace. Even my least-enthusiastic neighbor can surely identify the sound of 260 horsepower and 302 lb-ft of torque being fed through aging rubber at this point. If not for the unending fear of raising my insurance premiums while still under 25, the whole neighborhood would as well. There are also plenty of places to let off some tire smoke around Detroit without raising too many eyebrows. Unless you’d like to, that is.
The Mustang also makes me act differently on the highway, albeit not in the same way. Thanks to a far less compliant suspension set-up, the Mustang isn’t as comfortable at speed as my VW was, so I’ve found myself driving slower in an effort to retain my fillings. Because of this, I no longer embrace changes in traffic as willingly. Combining that with the belief that most of the people around me can’t drive has led to a shocking increase in passes and lane changes on my end. The Mustang is also loud on the highway, which has become helpful in informing folks that they are in my spot. This has understandably led some to believe that I’m goading them into a race. That’s especially true of the many Mopar owners I encounter, who are always quick to remind me the Mustang can’t hang. They’re usually correct, but not always.
The Mustang is a tool built for shenanigans. It’s a rowdy V-8 snuck into a road car. As a result, it has ignited a guttural part of my automotive enthusiasm in a way that my other performance cars have not. Unfortunately, it’s also been great for embracing the sort of behaviors that normal folks would use to label you an asshole. Feel free to ask me how I know.
And yet, every time I get out of that old Ford I can’t help but smile. The experience provided by this near-vintage pony car is exactly the sort of thing folks are going to miss most in our impending electric future. It’s all centered around that wonderful V-8, the part responsible for my recent attitude adjustment. The rest of the Mustang isn’t particularly good, with a rear end so easily upset that it seems impossible to have come from a place with roads as miserable as Michigan. The interior so closely resembles my 2001 F-150 that it actually makes me laugh. But what the Mustang lacks in finesse, it makes up for with an unabashedly red-blooded American spirit. That makes me okay with being a bit of an asshole.”
(photo credit: Lucas Bell)
