The auto show isn’t what it used to be, but my love for the Mustang remains true

My first love was a Ford Mustang, but alas that love was destined to be unrequited.

I was reminded of the pain of that impossible relationship when Jeff and I attended the North American International Auto Show in Detroit a few weeks ago. My Boomer mentality will shine brightly today because the first thing I’m going to say is, “The car show is not what it used to be.”

I first became aware of cars in 1964 when Ford introduced the Mustang. The distinctive lines and sporty aura swept me up in an ecstasy of envy. Even though I was only six at the time, I had caught pony fever. All my life I have envisioned myself at the wheel of a 1964 1/2 Rangoon Red Ford Mustang convertible with white interior.

My parents never bought one. We were a Chevy family, for starters, and in those days, people didn’t drive outside their kind. Also, the Mustang wasn’t big enough for Dad to schlep his tools to and from work. Of course, buying a car because it was cool was simply outside their entire range of understanding.

My parents bought me my first car, a used 1971 Chevy Chevelle. Not a cool SS model, just a basic Chevelle. It was not a gesture of wealth. My mother was simply tired of ferrying my sister and me to school and work. This way she was free from transportation duties.

The Chevelle was a terrible color I called puke green; it rattled when it went over sixty miles per hour; and it had so little personality that I never bothered to give it a name.

Still, I loved that ugly, rattly, bland coupe. It meant freedom.

(I will gloss over the times I should have gotten speeding tickets on my summer runs to Warren Dunes and how many times I nearly gouged out the undercarriage barreling over the hilly roads in western Michigan. Please don’t ask if we used seat belts.)

I was not a good steward of car care. I don’t think I even knew what an oil change was. It never got washed unless I wanted to parade around in my swimsuit in the driveway to impress the neighbors. A Mustang under my supervision would have been a travesty to behold.

That poor Chevelle faced its demise during my junior year in college when I spun it during an ice storm and smashed into a guardrail. It was never quite the same.

My first job enabled me to buy my own car without input from my parents. Did I buy a ‘Stang? Nope. By then, the fabled car had reached its ugly adolescent years. A 1980s model Mustang is forgettable. So, I went with a practical, inexpensive used Buick Opel.

After that was a used Plymouth Scamp, a used Chevy van, and a used Mercury something. The first new car Jeff and I purchased was a K-car station wagon, the very epitome of functional Dullsville. Then came our minivan years. I have never in my life felt cool enough to be a Mustang Mama.

I suppose I could buy one now that I am retired, but my creaking knees object to the low profile of my vehicular love. Plus, I don’t think I can fit two car seats in the back for the grandchildren.

But the dream remains: me driving a 1964 ½ Rangoon Red Ford Mustang convertible with white interior.

And that dream comes to the forefront every year at the auto show.

The auto show isn’t what it used to be

In my youth, people waited with bated breath to see the new car models. The glistening paeans to American manufacturing genius took up both floors of the immense Cobo Hall in downtown Detroit. Even though it was held in the middle of January, the crowds were as immense as the hall. The main floor was stocked with automobiles from all over the world. The domestic manufacturers were of course well represented, but everyone was there to unveil their new selections: BMW, VW, Honda, Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Peugeot.

Downstairs had the original and the weird. Custom vans complete with shag carpeting and enormous sound systems held sway. The Batmobile, the Monkeemobile and the Scooby Doo Mystery Van were there along with low riders, hydraulic monsters, and souped-up dune buggies. And the owners were there to answer questions about their prized possessions.

It was overwhelming, tacky, and wonderful.

Plus, there was Aunt Ryba’s fudge.

Our kids had a great time clambering in and out of the show models. And speaking of show models, that was always some eye candy for the menfolk, too.

As our boys grew up, they did not develop a love for cars. Getting your driver’s license on the day you turned sixteen didn’t have the same panache as when I was a teen. A car was simply a vehicle to get to and from school and hockey practice.

COVID changed the auto show as it did so much in our lives. The organizers tried holding it in summer so people could be safer outside, but the magic did not transfer to the wide-open spaces of downtown Detroit.

This year, they went back to the tried-and-true January format. Let’s forget about the frigid outdoor temperatures and step into the cars. Dream about summertime, when you can roll down the windows, blare your music, and let the hot winds of summer blow through your hair.

Not so much this year.

The bulk of the main floor was taken up by large driving trails. Instead of the spiel from the models on rotating platforms detailing the glories of each car, we heard the constant squealing of tires as each demonstration took off.

The foreign manufacturers were few and far between. VW was there with its new electric VW bus. Kitschy but expensive. Their display was near the display for Poland. I don’t think I can name a Polish car.

I did manage to sit in the new Mach-E Mustang, but the electric pony is not the same. A muscle car needs to go vroom-vroom. There is no substitute.

Downstairs at the auto show was appalling. The cars were lined up two by two, held away from the attendees by steel bars. No owners were there, no cars were jumping up and down, and I didn’t see one strand of shag. It had the drama and excitement of the hold of a car ferry.

If the goal were to entice people to yearn for a new car, this failed miserably.

Especially since I couldn’t find the fudge.