My ’67 Mustang is imperfect, just the way I want it
When we drive our cars, they collect signs of that use—patina, in collector-car speak. The latest issue of Hagerty Drivers Club magazine, in which this article first appeared, explores the delight found in such imperfect cars. To get all this wonder sent to your home, sign up for the club at this link. To read about everything patina online, click here.
Once, on the way to school, I looked over at my father in the driver’s seat of our battered Suburban and asked him how he knew the past was real. He snorted a laugh, his eyes never leaving the road ahead, and said, “Because I have the scars.” It was the kind of answer that tumbles from a tired father’s mouth without a second thought, laden with heavier truths than he likely realized. Over the years, I’ve found it applies to more than busted knuckles. When it comes to cars, so much of our fascination is wrapped up in questions of authenticity and honesty. In proof of the past. Did Fangio sit here? Did Chapman put his hand on this panel? Does the machine have the scars that prove it suffered the slings of time and survived anyhow?
When I brought home my ’67 Mustang, I knew better than to believe it would ever be concours perfect. The original straight-six and three-speed automatic had long vanished. The cowl and floors had been carved out and replaced with cheap patch panels. There were at least eight layers of paint, some of it covering finger-thick Bondo. There was rust. There were dents and dings. The interior looked like someone had loaded a 12 gauge with self-tapping screws and pulled the trigger, but despite all of that, I loved it immediately.
I didn’t want a $100,000 pony car with mirror-finish paint and panels straighter than anything that ever came out of Dearborn. I wanted something I could use. Something I could beat on with a hammer without batting an eye. A canvas for spray paint and cut springs that I could street-park with the windows down or fling at a curled mountain pass in the rain. I wanted a car that would remind the world why we all fell in love with these things to begin with, back when they weren’t investments or heirlooms. When they were simply the key that unlocked the brightest moments of our lives.
***
The idea was pretty simple: What would a former Trans-Am racer-turned-PI drive in 1974? Probably a hammered notch. The day after I got the car running, I unbolted the pony from the grille, pulled off the crooked fender emblems, and discarded the rocker trim, not bothering with the holes left behind. I tossed the dog dishes on a shelf in the shed and was left with a car that looked half a shade less grandmotherly than it had an hour earlier. Over the next few months, I threw a rash of speed parts at it, the only concession to modernity being a five-speed gearbox from a Fox body.
I raided Shelby’s cupboard for handling tricks, relocating control arms and cutting down coil springs with a hacksaw until the front hunkered low and right. A pair of reverse-eye leaf springs in the rear brought the back down, the car suddenly hunched over tall rubber and 15-inch Torq Thrusts sprayed gray. Magnesium 15s are a king’s ransom, but Rust-Oleum is still cheap as chips. I rolled the fenders, hammering them out until the body filler popped and the arches accommodated the Mustang’s new posture.
But this wasn’t just an aesthetic exercise. Sure, I’d spent hours scrolling through images of grainy SCCA events, the Terlingua cars hammering through corners. I’d watched and rewatched Bullitt. But I wasn’t building an Eleanor or some cosplay racer. My garage is half an hour from the Tail of the Dragon, U.S. Route 129. I needed this car to be capable of hounding a tourist in a new Corvette up and down the hollers between Tennessee and North Carolina. That meant Porterfield pads and a Borgeson steering conversion, gracing the car with a steering ratio quicker than a Miata. It meant an aggressive limited-slip differential and a 3.55 gear. An aluminum driveshaft and a 13-pound flywheel. Tri-Y headers breathing out barely muffled side-exit pipes. It meant giving the car all of the menace that the exterior promised.
Inside, I abandoned the factory gauges. I wanted the Stewart-Warner dials found in the Cobra, but modern reproductions don’t have a sterling reputation, so I settled on AutoMeter’s take on the same. And because this car pulls double duty as both back-road weapon and road-trip darling, it needed to have a decent stereo. I sent the previous owner’s gross single-DIN CD player to the dumpster, sourced a factory FoMoCo FM unit, and had its innards replaced with an Aurora Design Bluetooth system.
So much of modifying a car comes down to feel. Sometimes that’s the physical touch of the thing. Does the sideview mirror telegraph cold chrome or cheap plastic? Does the shifter notch into gear or flop over, lifeless? Other times, it’s what the components evoke inside you. The emotions they stir up in your chest in spite of yourself. When you’re behind the wheel, your field of view narrows to a handful of bits: the gauges, the wheel, a mirror or two. Get those wrong and it’ll feel like a poorly tuned guitar. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to find a steering wheel.
Having spent some time in a friend’s 289 Cobra, I knew I wanted a Moto-Lita, but a wood-rimmed hoop seemed out of place in the all-black cabin. Half a bottle of Willett and some eBay scrolling returned an immaculately hammered leather-wrapped tri-spoke. All black, with the cursive “Excalibur” barely visible just below the horn. Perfect.
***
Somewhere along the way, I accidentally built something I hadn’t had since I was 20 and sold my street/track Civic to buy our first family vehicle: my car. A machine built expressly around how I enjoy spending time. My wife, Beth, and I began taking it everywhere. Finding excuses to pile in and head off for the hills for impromptu overnights in Highlands or Asheville in North Carolina. Daring January snows and mid-June rainstorms. Arcing this ancient, hammered Mustang from one glorious apex to the next, the tired 302 shouting at the river and trees along the way. Or picking up our daughter from school, letting her slot that cue-ball shifter from one gear to the next from the passenger seat.
The shock is not how well the car drives or the wide smile of everyone I put behind the wheel. It’s how the world responds to this tattered old Mustang. It is universally loved. Regardless of age, gender, race, or creed, people smile at it. Have a kind word for it. The old guys who had one in high school see something more accurate than the Barrett-Jackson beauties that clog our Instagram feeds. The baristas see something more genuine than the usual parade of Teslas. In all my days of driving, I’ve never experienced anything like it. Sure, the Mustang is an American touchstone, a bit of the blood and bone of us, but it’s more than that. This car shows its faults and bruises, and despite its black hat stance and antisocial exhaust, that makes it approachable.
Makes it a thing worth loving. Maybe that’s what all of this chipping paint and dented metal offers us: a measure of honesty. Proof of the past. In a world so obsessed with the appearance of perfection and brighter futures, that’s more valuable than any concours trophy.
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Bowman, back in the Autoblog days you were working on a turbo 4-cyl Fox called Project Ugly Horse. Whatever became of that project?
Ah, the project the internet won’t let me forget. I moved it on to a friend who runs a technical school. Last I heard, he and his students were in the process of moving everything over to a much cleaner notch.
Good article. My first car was a 67 Mustang “driver”. Luckily it was a fastback with a V8 (a 302 was installed, but it came with a spare 289 engine) and had a C4 automatic, and drum brakes on all 4 corners. The original white exterior had been painted blue by a previous owner and the original two-tone aqua interior with fold down seat and AM radio was still there That car was my daily driver for years. Only modifications I could afford were dual exhaust, gas shocks, and some 14” magnum 500s with trim rings off a junkyard car. Drove that car in rain, fog, etc, Definitely not a trailer queen. Loved that car.
John Wick asked to borrow your car.
The only way to improve on a Zach Bowman piece of writing with pictures by Cameron Neveu would be if there was a Sam Smith interlude somewhere…more of this please Mr. Editor…
Is M. for Mushman?
Funny, Smith was on speed dial in the event the ’67 decided to throw a fit on the shoot.
Ha…it is for Mushman…my real name, I promise. And there needs to be a shoot with this Mustang and a ratty white 2002 bombing around the mountains or road tripping somewhere. And a lot of writing to go with it for a book or two. Still think you should publish your truck camper adventures from The Drive way back when too…
Zach, I think recognize some of those mountain roads! I’m on the other side of Asheville, towards Lake Lure, and I’ve got a ratty ’68 fastback with a 302 and five speed. It’d be great to meet up and talk Mustangs over a Sierra Nevada.
Let’s make it happen!
I bought a well abused ’70 Mach 1 when I was 15, just before the muscle car boom really got going. I daily’d it as an absolute wreck of a car, fixing and rebuilding things along the way, the way I wanted, as I could. But for “reasons” I stopped driving it and let it sit for years, until I decided it deserved a proper restoration. I figured because every old muscle car seemed to have become worth actual money, I was somehow obligated to restore it to OEM perfection. Awful word, perfection. Anyway, it was the worst idea ever, leading to the car sitting for more and more and more time because I lacked the resources to fulfill the delusional (and stupid) idea of restoring it “to perfection.” Now, after 35 years of ownership (yes, I still own it), it’s sat languishing in pieces for longer than I got to spend driving it, and I’m f’ing done with the idea of perfection, and with the car’s value. I’ve come to realize that the reason the car is valuable TO ME (which is all that really matters) is because I have the memories of all those years of driving it, and fixing it, and going on roadtrips in it, and doing dumb (and dangerous) things in it, and the people I met because of it, and the kind of person I became because of it. So now, I’m moving on past the idea of perfection to just getting it back on the road so I can make new memories, go on new roadtrips, do more dumb stuff, and more than anything, do it with my kids and wife, because they’ve never known the car as anything more than an abandoned lawn ornament. There’s no dollar value that could approach the value that has for me.
This is the way.
That stance is perfection. I’m not a Mustang guy, but if I were to have one, this would be the way I went. The older notches just lend themselves great to looking a little worse for wear.
I suggest you replace the limp tied fru fru shifter boot with an accordion.
Yep, that would nail it.
Ah, I had the accordion, but it didn’t last a year. Worse, when it was below freezing it was stiff enough to kick the trans out of second.
The boot that’s on there is out of a ’70, which is… fine? Dunno. Always hunting something else. Right now I’m fighting a shift cable and tri-y headers that don’t play nice.
Great article! Love the car.
I am the proud owner of 3 mustangs. My first was / is my 67 Convert which I have had over 25 years, my second is a 2006 GT that I factory ordered in the same color as my 67 / Lime Gold/Legend Lime, and finally my garage find 64000 Mile unmolested original 1970 Fastback that I acquired in the midst of the Pandemic that I refer to as my Covid Project. I drive them all fair weather days. While the 70 will remain as original as I can keep it, my 67 is a clean non numbers matching good looking summer mobile. The 06 I use a lot in summer too for all its creature comforts of its era. I love this story and this car for everything that it is or has been built for. There is so much to be said for what this car is. The car was built for pure enjoyment and as much as I love my machines and what they are, I can see a car like this in the stable too. Good for you Zach, love the story and love the car.
You wrote:
“Once, on the way to school, I looked over at my father in the driver’s seat of our battered Suburban and asked him how he knew the past was real. He snorted a laugh, his eyes never leaving the road ahead, and said, “Because I have the scars.””
Sounds like a song, hmmm…..
Scars
by Papa Roach
I tear my heart open
I sew myself shut
My weakness is
That I care too much
And my scars remind me
That the past is real
I tear my heart open
Just to feel
Drunk and I’m feeling down
And I just want to be alone
I’m pissed ’cause you came around
Why don’t you just go home?
‘Cause you channel all your pain
And I can’t help you fix yourself
You’re making me insane
All I can say is
I tear my heart open
I sew myself shut
And my weakness is
That I care too much
And our scars remind us
That the past is real
I tear my heart open
Just to feel
I tried to help you once
Against my own advice
I saw you going down
But you never realized
That you’re drowning in the water
So I offered you my hand
Compassion’s in my nature
Tonight is our last stand
I tear my heart open
I sew myself shut
And my weakness is
That I care too much
And our scars remind us
That the past is real
I tear my heart open
Just to feel
I’m drunk and I’m feeling down
And I just want to be alone
You shouldn’t ever come around
Why don’t you just go home?
‘Cause you’re drowning in the water
And I tried to grab your hand
I left my heart open
But you didn’t understand
But you didn’t understand
You fix yourself
I can’t help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I’m sorry but I gotta move on with my own life
I can’t help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I’m sorry but I gotta move on with my own life
I tear my heart open
I sew myself shut
And my weakness is
That I care too much
And our scars remind us
That the past is real
I tear my heart open
Just to feel
I tear my heart open
I sew myself shut
And my weakness is
That I care too much
And our scars remind us
That the past is real
I tear my heart open
Just to feel
One of the better articles on Hagerty. And if that 302 gets real tired you can always slap in a small block Chevy super cheap.
I have a 65 mustang coupe. I purchased it in 1977 in North Carolina when I was in the 82nd Airborne Division. I was 20.
It was and still is my first car.
I got my drivers license in it. Back in those days no computers so I put a friends plate on it and took the road test.
But first I took the 20 question permit test 20 minutes before the drivers test, ahhh the good old days. The test was on the fort. Fort Bragg.
The guy who road tested me failed me, said I didn’t stop properly at the intersection.
I drove back to my barracks put on civilian clothes drove into town and retook the permit test and drivers test 40 minutes later. Ahh the good old days.
This time I passed and the rest is history. I love my Stang. It’s my baby.