Taming the Mustang

The snow falls regularly, maintaining the brilliant white wintery landscape. Fresh layers compact on the roads and sidewalks until they are flung in uneven heaps at the edges of both. Each new dusting hides previous sins of neglect by disguising uncleared ice and unshoveled walkways.

I was not made for this. I can go 0 to 60mph in under 7 seconds in dry conditions, but on these roads I'm lucky if I can get 50 feet within 7 seconds after the light turns green. In the summer my engine purrs like a kitten, but in temperatures below freezing it sounds more like a grumble. This pony was born to run free, not vault obstacles and traverse hazards like a whipped steeplechase horse! And I'm not a draft horse pulling your wagon around town. I'm a rear-wheel-drive, sunshine-loving, Mustang convertible! Tie your hair back, drop my top, and peel out around the corners while the sun warms your skin and the open breeze makes you feel like you're flying.

But not today. A convertible in Michigan in February is like a palm tree shivering on the tundra, or a colorful toucan in Siberia—the correct answer to “Which of these things just doesn't belong?” I'm stuck at the bottom of a hill, my doors are too wide to open next to a snowbank, and my low chassis won't glide through unplowed snow.

Someday the spring will come, someday we'll meet again. And the wild 'Stang will run free again. Someday when my dreams come true.