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Today, I was invited by a friend from work and her husband to take their recently adopted viper red ’65 Mustang for a spin with them.

Please hold the line while I *faint*.

For those out there who are not familiar with this magnum opus of a car, here’s what it looks like:

(click on image for source)

The funny thing about this picture (which I googled) is that my colleague’s car also has those dice dangling from the rear view mirror. I’m not entirely sure but maybe that’s a required original part? I don’t know.

All I know is this: Once you set foot and then butt in this car, you’re instantly californicated and it becomes virtually impossible not to be completely blown away. Also, it seems improbable to be in a bad mood in a car like that.

Don’t get me wrong here – I’m not a car nut or anything (I drive a Suzuki, for crying out loud – more on that at a later time; Update: or maybe not), but this baby is just so perfect, I can hardly stand it.

The steering wheel is made of some sort of wood, all of the handles, and knobs, and switches are made of chrome, the gas cap is very much not conveniently located at the very back of the car (motor in the front) – and there are no safety belts! The first thing I did when I sat down in the surprisingly comfy black leather seat was reach for the belt – alas, to no avail! This is one of the very few actually dangerous things that are allowed in Germany: Having no safety belts in a vintage car if they’re not originally there. While everything else is strictly regulated here, the law has not dared to advance into this domain and ruin everything. I was actually very careful not to touch the car door when we were going around a bend, for fear of falling out, but even though it was painfully unusual for me not to be wearing a safety belt, it had a very liberated feel to it, adding to the whole Californication experience.

And the sound! You should hear the sound! There are a few hiccups when you turn the key in the ignition, and then there’s a roar, a short but full-bodied, dangerous roar before the engine finally settles into its rumbling growl.

Also, today being my first time actually sitting in one, I finally understood why a Mustang needs to be called a Mustang: It squirms and prances and skips and bounces, just like a wild horse.

Golly, gee, fellas, he’s so dreamy.

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