Reposted from Automobiles de Luxe

By Gunnar Heinrich

Ah, fair Toronto. My sojourn was fun, but time rolled on and so too did I. Seeking to avoid cross-border traffic, I woke at the ripe hour of 5:30AM - yours really isn't a morning person. Still, when I approached the 'Stang in the underground garage, a thrill ran through me. In black, the profile is electric.

Pop in a CD, fire up the engine and my senses responded as though I had received intake of caffeine - which of course I hadn't - but it was that cool.

Turn out from beneath the Holiday Inn and Toronto was still sleeping under a blanket of stars. The CN Tower - more Canada's symbol than the Parliament Building in Ottawa - was sleeping too. All those lights that had shone brightly against the night's sky were gone leaving just the standard aviation reds to blink quietly against the dark.

Back onto the QEW and as I looked across Lake Ontario towards America, I saw that the initial glow of dawn hinted that the sun was somewhere on the other end of the horizon.

A brisk wind was catching the Mustang broadside and rippling the lake's dark blue waters. I made constant steering corrections to combat this air current, which caused me some concern as one of Ontario's finest elected to tail me for a spell.

This time, I decided to return through Niagara Falls. Never before had I seen the natural legend that attracts visitors from both sides of the border it separates. I thought this the appropriate time.

Pull into Niagara, ON and I see a baby CN Tower (actually several lookouts that tower over the Canadian side of the falls). It's as tacky a town as any American tourist trap. A small sign points to "U.S.A." and I take a sharp left hand turn that directs me onto a bridge.

Farewell, Canada.

Midway cross the bridge I slowed to look to the right as I saw nature's force pour water some 160+ feet down into the river that feeds Lake Erie. From what must have been half a mile away, lake water misted the windshield. I rolled down the window only to be greeted by this most delightful spring, dew scent.

I don't think I could do the Falls verbal justice herein. Because despite the virtual Atlantic Cities that yelled "gauche!" from either side, the natural wonder itself did not disappoint.

There is such majesty there. And as the sun began to shine - a rainbow appeared.




I nearly cried.

Maybe it was the early hour, but as I reflect back on the sight now, my eyes grow as misty as the 'Stang's windshield.

Anyway, after a pause in Niagara, NY, it was on to the business of putting some miles behind me.

And eager was I to do so. But, unfortunately, the other noteworthy characteristic of black Ford Mustangs came home to roost.

You see, whereas Ontario's finest suspected that I was up to no good, New York's own was convinced.

"State police," the officer announced, politely.

"Do you know why I stopped you?"

Unsure, I asked why he stopped me.

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

Unknowing, I asked how fast he thought I was traveling.

"81 in a 65," claimed he.

Well, everyone has a right to their opinion.

The Empire State's traffic tickets aren't so much tickets as they are broadsheets of thin, legal paper that you have to fold into fours in order to store - anywhere.

Despite this setback of time, I still made good time homewards.

Hours past, and I elected to take some twisting secondary and cross-country roads to throw some curves into the mix. In Duchess County, this took me past some scenic farmland that was interrupted periodically with tiny villages that were mildly depressing to behold midst their midday slumber.

Were we out west, I'm sure I would have seen tumble weed.

And just as I was exiting one such sleepy hamlet, I saw a sight that shook the foundation of all my beliefs that I had garnered from a rewarding weekend with the Ford.

Parked deep in the high grass of a neglected lawn in front of some rusted camper rotted a late 80s Mustang.

I grimaced.

Would this, my rented pony that had rolled up the highway between New England and New York and so captured Toronto be nothing more than that sad wreck in a matter of two decades? Where would be the honor in the Mustang's lineage if that's all there was to be found -rusting heaps in Middle-America's weedy lots?

Then, I remembered. Before the 80s and even the 70s, there were the 60s Mustangs which are still treasured and revered and eminently collectible. Whether this modern-day retro Mustang will continue down the original's hallowed path, remains to be seen. But it is so much the better car than what wore the Mustang badge in the 80s and 90s.

Therein lays the hope.

And so, when evening once again fell and I was back where I had started - in the Taurus-stuffed parking lot of the rental company from whence the Mustang came, I paused in reflection and let the car idle for a minute. The green instruments glowed before me as the engine idled smoothly from behind the dash.

I smiled.

Off clicked the ignition. And off was I from my Mustang with fond memories to tell you, dear reader.