I also remember nursing her back from Thousand Oaks with a radiator repaired with an entire roll of duct tape. The steam caught up with me in Calabasas, and I surrendered and called the Auto Club.
"You've got a black-plate '66 Mustang?" the operator said. "Man, I've always wanted one."
I was tempted to hand over the keys in exchange for a ride home, but I kept my cool and my troublesome car.
Ultimately, she broke down too many times and cost too much to operate every day. So I got a boring Honda Civic that never gives a hint of trouble and retired Katherine to weekend duty.
Proud of her status as a cruising car, she's never messed with me since.
She's not perfect. Her electrical system's touchy, there's a gash on her hood, and her passenger-door lock never works right. She gets 19kpg at her best, and I cringe every time I think of what she pumps into the atmosphere each time I touch the accelerator.
But there are also the good days. Those beautiful, sacred moments, when sun's glinting off the wax on the hood, my wife's at my side, and the street's wide open.
The light's about to change, and I stomp that stiff clutch down and lean hard on the gas. The eight cylinders start cracking off like a tommy gun, bam-bam-bam-bam. I yank my foot off the clutch, and it hangs for a moment, just a little moment, before the engine catches and Katherine kicks me in the ribs. We thunder forward like a stampede.
And all is forgiven, Katybelle. All is forgiven.
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