CHAPTER ONE: My Introduction As I sat in the living room, sipping coffee and searching for a "new" car, Eliza walked in. In our ten years of marriage, we had never once gone a Saturday morning without atleast a mutter about cars. She had learned to accept my obsession with American iron, and the smell of leaded fuel was no longer a bad one to her. "What are you looking for this time?" "Just something a bit diff..." My voice trailed away like it had so many times before, and Eliza knew just what to do. "I'll go get the keys for you. What do you want to take?" "The G.T. 350, I guess.." "What are you looking at? It's not a picture of the Comcast version of the SuperBowl, is it?" "What?" I was still making attempts at lifting my jaw off the floor, but it wasn't working. "Oh my God. No. Way. There's no way it's that cheap!" "I-I don't understand... Go get the keys before it goes away! Write down the guy's number, I want to call him on the way!" I was just able to make out a faint smirk on Eliza's face as she walked over to the family room and grabbed to keys to one of my Mustangs. I needed the help of a few blue oval brownie points on this one. And most likely a second mortgage on the house. "So, how'd you find out about the car?" Jim Morgan was a thin, older man. His silver hair was slicked back, and the black belt cinched tightly around his waist held up a pair of Dickies. He'd be a tough nut to crack. "Actually, I saw it in the paper this morning." I still coudn't believe I had. "What are you looking to pay? You know, the car's all original; I've never restored it in the 42 years I've owned it." Oh, no. The original owner. Tack on another 20K right there. "The ad price isn't half bad at all, but I'd like to pay a bit less." "How about 210?" "Deal." I saw my wife svelt figure hunch over in agony as she heaved out the checkbook. If you had judged it's weight by the struggle Eliza had with it, you'd swear my banking was done exclusively on lead paper. The ride home was a different story. Eliza finally got to drive the Wimbeldon White G.T. 350; and I finally got to drive the very car I had dreamed about since high school. It was loud; it was mind-blowingly fast; it (by some sort of miracle) had a big-block; and by God, it handled well! I was completely dumfounded that the car wasn't an oversteering pig. Sure, first was useless, but second at least had a safe amount of traction at half throttle. It was finally at my control; a legend. Heck, the plans I had for this car were already swirling around my head. That's right. I had acquired a '67 Shelby Cobra 427 S/C, and I wasn't going to park it. Some call me crazy, but I just say I'm using the car the way Carroll Shelby himself intends. "Honey! It's time for dinner; I made steak!" Eliza must have been calling me for at least ten minutes, but I was in the middle of my supercharger install. The big Weiand would miraculously fit under the hood with a set of low-rise engine mounts, even with the notoriously tall deck height of the 427. It was all coming together. "Babe, let's go!" "Alright, alright." I gave in, but not before getting a faceful of Goodyear's best rubber, circa 1967. "Damnit!" I really wasn't used to working on cars with such wide front tires, and by the time the World Classics series rolled around the following Sunday, I would most certainly had a permanent script of the tire size on my forehead. Hey, at least I'd never forget what size slicks I'd have to buy, right? __________________________________________________________________________________________ Coming soon: Chapter 2, The First Race.