A Ford Mustang was an intentional and sentimental choice.
My dad’s first car was a 1967 Ford Mustang. It’s still in the family and taken out regularly to keep the pipes from getting stale, but otherwise it’s stored in a garage in California.
Buying an American car for an American road trip seemed an obvious choice. I also knew I wanted white after owning dark-colored cars and spending a lot of time cleaning them.
My heart wanted stripes.
From an insurance and law enforcement point of view, however, it didn’t make sense. Even I can pick out Mustangs with stripes from a mile away.
One week after landing in California, doing a bunch of research and getting a tip from a coworker, I found my bad boy.
No name yet, but I sometimes toy with the idea of Mustang Maximus. Here it is outside Colorado. It’s a fun car to drive, and it effin’ roars!