go.Jimmy.go

I recently came across a post on a vintage Mustang forum where someone shared a photo of his beautifully restored 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback. Along with the picture, he mentioned that driving the car had become a form of therapy, helping him cope with PTSD. He never explained the circumstances behind his struggle, and in many ways, it didn’t matter. His words stayed with me.

A few days later, on a dreary July morning here in the Northeast, I decided to take my own 1965 Mustang coupe out for a drive.

As I pulled onto the road, I found myself wondering about the man from the forum. Maybe, like me, he grew up around these cars. Maybe he spent cold winter afternoons handing wrenches to his father or uncles in an unheated garage. Maybe his father had been gone for years, and every turn of the ignition brought back memories of a simpler time.

I often tell people my Mustang isn’t really a car. It’s a time machine.

Not the kind imagined by H.G. Wells or the DeLorean that Marty McFly needed to push to 88 miles per hour. Those belong to fiction. This Time Machine is real. It never actually takes you anywhere physically in time, but mentally… that’s another story.

The journey begins the moment you open the door.

The first thing you notice is the unmistakable scent of an old car. It’s difficult to describe. Imagine a compartment of 60 year of metal, vinyl, wiring, motor oil, and gasoline blended with the faint aroma of an old attic. To some people, that probably sounds unpleasant.

To me, it smells like childhood.

Scientists have long known that smell is one of the strongest triggers of memory. We often rely on photographs to remember the past, but odors have an even more powerful connection to the brain’s memory centers. One familiar scent can unlock moments we thought had been forgotten forever.

It was one of those classic July mornings when summer seems to slow down. Lush green trees lined the roads, their branches stretching overhead beneath a soft, overcast sky. The world felt peaceful and unhurried. As the Mustang rolled along, I found myself drifting somewhere I hadn’t expected to go.

I wasn’t just driving. I was traveling backward through time.

I passed sidewalks buried beneath fallen leaves and suddenly saw myself as a young boy walking toward the school bus stop. I could picture the bright red jacket I wore every autumn, feel the crisp October air against my face, and remember the weight of my green Trapper Keeper stuffed with half-finished homework.

One memory led effortlessly to another.

I thought about my father working on old Mustangs in my uncle’s garage just up the street. I remembered rainy summer drives to the campground, evenings spent playing Uno around a picnic table, the smell of burning kindling and roasting marshmallows drifting through the air, and looking up at a sky overflowing with stars.

Other moments surfaced just as vividly—family picnics at my aunt’s house, neighborhood football games that stretched until dinner, and the comforting feeling that life was somehow slower, smaller, and wonderfully uncomplicated.

For a while, I forgot what year it was.

The memories felt so immediate that it seemed impossible they had happened nearly fifty years ago.

All the while, the Mustang continued to idle, shift, and cruise beneath me. Physically, I was driving through the present. Mentally, I think I was somewhere around 1978.

It wasn’t until I made the final turn toward home that I slowly returned to today.

Back in the garage, I pulled the parking brake, switched off the ignition, and sat quietly for a moment. The familiar smell of warm oil and gasoline lingered in the air, delivering one last memory of standing beside my father while he turned a wrench under the hood of an old Ford.

I disconnected the battery, hooked up the battery tender, and prepared the car for its next outing.

As I closed the garage door, I couldn’t help but smile.

Some people look through old photo albums when they want to revisit the past. I’m fortunate enough to have something a little different.

I have a time machine.