My 1970 Ford Mustang Convertible: Fun To Imagine, Tough To Live With – Many Lessons Learned

Overexposed photo of a blue 1970 Ford Mustang convertible with the top up

In early 2000, I was six months into my new position at a local software training materials company, having departed LCP in ‘99 after 10 years, one college degree, many different positions, and little upward career movement. With experience in printing, desktop publishing and design software as well as technical writing, I was now an acquisitions editor, evaluating software training created by third-party vendors, and partnering with new vendors.

The company was part of the Ziff-Davis publishing conglomerate, which owned several computer/tech magazines (and, at one time, Car and Driver). Using “grasping at straws” logic, I was convinced that I could parlay this connection into my long-coveted car magazine job. So, with job, marriage, and dwelling (temporarily) resolved, my mind began to wander.

I still had the Probe GT and no plans to upgrade to a later-model vehicle. Instead, I looked towards the past, which was not a good idea. I tended to romanticize things and mix  “ideas” with “reality.”

The “Idea” vs. The “Reality”

For example, I say that I like convertibles, and I do. But what I really like is the “idea” of a convertible: sultry summer evenings with the top down, the wind in your hair, being at one with nature as you breeze your way to . . . wherever it is that one breezes towards.

All about the “idea” . . .  and not a very good idea at that.

The “reality” of convertible ownership—the top is usually up; it may not be weatherproof; the experience of cowl shake and other undesirable chassis behaviors—are all things I am aware of but don’t always take into account.

My life could have been much more entertaining if I could have just borrowed or rented all the cars I’ve been interested in, similar to swimming in your neighbor’s pool. That was part of the reason I wanted a car magazine job in the first place.

When I was an adolescent, my father and I spent hours talking about all of the fun an old car would be, going to shows, and so on. We didn’t know it then, but we both meant how fun the “idea” of old car ownership would be. So much time had passed; now, it was 2000. At 71, his time to make it happen had passed by. But, I still wanted to do it for both of us.

The ‘Bird That Got Away

In May 2000, I found a ‘68 Firebird convertible in Hemmings just a few miles from us in Penfield, for $5,500. Wow, that was easy, I thought. The car, still with its original owner, was comfortably worn and showed some minor rust repair, but was largely untouched and stock. The owner took her Firebird to the Pacific Northwest in ‘70 or so. When she returned to Rochester in the early ‘90s, the car was long retired from daily driver duty.

1968 Firebird convertible in Verdoro Green. Nicer, but pretty close in spec to the car I looked at. / Future Classics LLC

Cautiously, I played this adventure by the book. First step: a look-see and test drive. It had a Pontiac 350 with a two-barrel carburetor and three-speed manual. For a mundane, regular-gas Pontiac 350, I was amused to hear a slight chop to the idle. The judda-judda-judda-tha-judda-judda-tha-judda-judda-judda of the stock exhaust was music to my ears.

‘68 Firebird Sprint interior in Ivy Gold. I have no qualms about driving a three-speed; it’s more appealing to me than Powerglide. / BarnFinds.com

The torquey Pontiac 350 was a good match for the three-speed; I even caught some unintended one-wheel peel as I left a stoplight. The car moved right along; stopping right along was a different story with drums front and rear. Power steering was typically over-assisted and numb. All in all, I liked this car—a lot.

‘Bird or Buzzard?

While its dull Verdoro Green exterior and faded Ivy Gold interior may have said “Firebuzzard” instead of “Firebird,” it was perfectly usable as it sat. Its black vinyl convertible top had been expertly installed; it fit like a Savile Row suit and was in impeccable condition. And the car had that “original owner/bought new in Rochester” provenance that appealed to me. After completing the pre-purchase inspection, my local old-school trusted neighborhood garage gave it the thumbs up.

In the end, we couldn’t come to an agreement on price. With foolish visions of “1968 showroom fresh” grade restoration work in my head, my thriftiness got the best of me. An out-of-town buyer got it for $4,500, and I resumed shopping.

The Consolation Prize

It took a year to find another suitable vehicle. This time, I focused on pristine body condition, and that’s what I got. And that was all I got, besides heartburn and ass pain, as you’ll see. Let’s travel back to May 2001 . . . .

1970 Mustang convertible: All about the look and sound. If your life was a movie, with all your time spent leaning up against, or sitting in, this car while it idled, you’d be the hero.

I found a 1970 Mustang convertible, another local car, in medium blue metallic with a white top and interior, two-barrel 302 and a three-speed manual. The body and underside were super clean; no corrosion to mention. This car had not been on the road in many moons, and it showed. Dried out early ‘80s white-lettered tires, flat paint on all horizontal body surfaces, old top, and so on.

The engine ran and the lights worked. Suspiciously, it had a fresh New York State inspection sticker but there had been no “inspection”— the tires alone would have failed it.

Gutsy, regular-gas 302 V8 tried hard, but needed a new carburetor.

A “test drive” of sorts (at about 20 mph) indicated all four manual drum brakes needed adjustment or replacement as they locked at random when the brake pedal was depressed. The three-speed manual had been swapped for a C4 which performed satisfactorily, if you ignored the time it went Ralph Kramden on me, inexplicably homina, homina, homina-ing back and forth rapidly between first and second a handful of times before settling on second.

Shopper’s Fatigue

But it had a great body. Super clean. And, I was tired of looking. So, I bought it for $7,500. Funny how a year’s worth of fruitless searching, combined with the promise of summer, is like 3-In-One Oil for opening one’s wallet.

Apologies—Some overexposed images in this installment.

That evening, I knew I should bail out when I encountered some rather eye-watering prices on replacement parts. But, being “thrifty,” I couldn’t bear the prospect of losing my $500 deposit. I normally would have done a $100 deposit, but not that day. A smart person would have kissed the $500 goodbye and walked, no, ran away. So, I proved, yet again, the tendency for my IQ to plummet at the most inopportune times.

But, remember, it had a great body. Super clean.

The Beginning of The End

I had the car flatbedded to my local trusted old-school neighborhood garage. Admittedly, I (very) briefly felt like a “big-timer” as I followed the flatbed from northwest Rochester on 590 South to Fairport on 490 East, excitedly pondering the promise of this acquisition.

White interiors always look nice. ‘70 convertible shows the beginnings of the  “Great Interior Plastification” and reduced detailing. I found it somewhat low-rent. Fox Mustang front seats were an improvement over OEM buckets.

Sidebar: Let’s pause briefly and summarize my automotive repair expertise: I have none. Sure, I’ve helped friends do lots of car work over the years, and I have (successfully) done work on my own cars. But, when it came to serious automotive work, I lacked The Three T’s: Training, Tools, and Temperament.

  1. Training: My father loved cars, but had zero interest in, or patience for, working on them. Growing up, I never fiddled with our family cars for fear I’d accidentally disable them and get bitched out. My Uncle John certainly knew his way around a car, but lived three hours away.
  2. Tools: Because my father never touched a car, we had no car tools, or any other kinds of tools, really. It was beyond pitiful. My juvenile mechanical life consisted of attempts to conjure repair miracles with a crummy crescent wrench, a pair of needle-nose pliers, and the “use once then throw out” tool included with offshore-made consumer goods requiring home assembly.
  3. Temperament: I don’t have the temperament at all for working on cars, especially rusty, crusty New York cars abused by years of road salt. I’m sure items 1 and 2 above exacerbated the effects of item 3, but I am just not a patient individual when it comes to certain things.

So, today, I am knowledgeable on how to do a lot of things, but largely inexperienced in actually doing them.

Off to the Garage

That’s why the car went directly to the garage instead of my garage. The garage was my only chance of getting it drivable that summer. It took them a few weeks to get the car, um, sorta-sorted:

  • Front-end rebuild: Check, planned on that.
  • New brake shoes and turned drums: Check, planned on that.
  • New wheel cylinders: Check, no more random lockups.
  • Tune-up: Goes without saying.
  • Tires: Of course; the ubiquitous BF Goodrich Radial T/A.
  • Carburetor overhaul: Check, I guess. Not surprised.

I took my father to the garage one Saturday to see the car. He was surprised but pleased, although he commented on the car’s overall weathered exterior. He was right, but don’t forget — the body was great. Super clean.

Hitting the Road or Hitting My Head

A work colleague dropped me off at the garage one afternoon after work. This was the big day — the car was ready to time travel! Let’s go!

In retrospect, the drive home fell between “underwhelming” and “primitive.” Was I ready for manual steering? Nope. Was I ready for manual drum brakes. Nope. At a stoplight, I could barely keep the car stationary with both feet jammed on the brake pedal.

I wonder if other motorists could see how stricken I was, as I piloted the beast back to its stall. What a handful.

At least one past owner drove this with a three-speed manual, I mused. The C4 was the only element that wasn’t working against me on that trip. The rest of the car was an unnerving handful.

Ford offered a plethora of appealing options in ‘70, as they had for every other year of Mustang. None of them made it to my car.

Plan B: “Burn” (More Money)

Disappointed but undaunted, I assessed the situation:

  1. I absolutely hated driving this car as it sat. The Probe was a warpdrive-enabled, interplanetary wondercraft in comparison. The Mustang’s daily-driver deficiencies exponentially enhanced my perception of the Probe’s dynamic delights.
  2. Those 1970 bucket seats made my back sad. When driving it, my lower back and left leg often ached with sciatica.
  3. There was only one thing to do: “Fix” its shortcomings! I may be thrifty but am also a man of action! Wishing won’t make it so; put that credit card to work, son!

This mentality made me very popular on a few Mustang forums and eBay, where I discovered that some GM F-body components were markedly cheaper than the corresponding FoMoCo Mustang equivalent. Lucky me.

So Many Purchases

First, I scored a set of white leather Fox-body Mustang bucket seats, which helped my back issue. I also scored a used OEM control valve power steering setup which, about a week after installation, leaked all over the garage floor like a torpedoed oil tanker.

Best part of the Mustang’s interior: The “Pony” silhouette for the high beams on the speedometer.

The ideal solution was aftermarket power rack-and-pinion steering, a compelling but stunningly expensive solution in 2001. So, I went the lousy control valve route and made my life “easier.” For a week or so.

Same with brakes. Why get a power booster for drums? Just do the power front discs. Again, the aftermarket kits were quite pricey, so I did the used parts route, with spindles, calipers, lines, etc. off a compatible model. It never was installed because the garage couldn’t find a used brake pedal with the appropriate stroke length to work with the booster. Ugh.

Bye-bye! Have a nice life in Minnesota.
Sitting in the car was a bit like sitting in a fish bowl.

Meanwhile, I drove it maybe two days a week to work because the Probe simply ran circles around it in every conceivable dynamic metric, including “fun” quotient. I wasn’t surprised by that; just floored over how much it mattered to me, I guess. Even my father and I only went out a handful of times.

But, in case you forgot, it had a really clean body. Super nice. Which never really mattered since we didn’t make it to the cosmetics stage.

Transmission Transition

Sometime in August, the C4 finally died, hanging in second, reluctantly shifting from second to third, then to nothing. The car was at the garage just a couple of weeks before; they tried in vain to get the transmission to misbehave. I wanted to put the three-speed manual back in, but figured it would then be undrivable to me until power brakes were installed. So, it got a rebuilt C4.

Original three-speed, all boxed up to travel to Minnesota with the rest of the car.

There was no “fun” in this for me. I spent the summer either toughing it out to/from work in the Mustang, or leaving it at the garage getting one thing or another fixed, replaced or installed while I drove the “wondercraft” Probe.

Goodbye Now

One September day, with the Mustang still as lousy to drive as ever, I’d had enough. More specifically, my patience and bank account, both dwindling, told me I’d had enough. Soon, I’d be paying to store it. Now firmly operating in reality, I couldn’t really stand the thought. I needed to “cut bait.”

I’d done many mechanical repairs that would make a potential buyer happy: rebuilt front suspension, new tires, new brakes, rebuilt transmission, overhauled carburetor, . . . on and on, but nothing cosmetic.

Bye-bye! Have a nice life in Minnesota.

So, it’s like replumbing a house: the buyer is glad you did it, but they have no intention of it increasing their purchase offer. I’d probably spent over $4,500 on parts and repairs alone, yet gladly sold the car on eBay for $6,500. Buy high, sell low . . . that’s how you “make money” in collector cars, haha.

Of course it sold; it had a great body. Very clean.

The Minnesota-based buyer sent payment first, followed by an enclosed transport trailer. We tucked every extra part we had in the car: the original three-speed stick and related items, the original front seats, and the incomplete front disc brake set. At a mall parking lot near our home, the transport driver drove it into the trailer, and That. Was. That. Whew! Gone!

Lessons Learned

The lessons learned were expensive, but also obvious:

  1. Things change. Cars have changed a lot over the years, both inside and outside. My expectations were too high and my romanticized notions distorted my perspective. I needed to lay off the Hollywood BS.
  2. The garage was not my personal mechanical restoration shop. Sometimes, things simply took longer to complete. Also, they had regular work to do for their other customers. They weren’t going to work on my car 24 hours a day.
  3. Money or time, take your pick. Doing it yourself takes a long time (even if you know what you’re doing). Farming it out takes a lot money.
  4. Buy the nicest example you can afford (!). In the interest of thriftiness, I burned up a good chunk of money. Sports Car Market magazine always says, “Buy the nicest example you can afford.” They are 100% right. It will be cheaper in the end.
  5. I bought the car because I liked its look and sound. And that was exactly what I got in return. But, I was obviously looking for more than  that.

I never regretted unloading the car, even with the financial loss. Later, when I relayed the lessons learned to my father, he replied, “To receive an education, you have to pay tuition.” Right on the nose, Confucius.

What’s Next?

For my next car, my feet were firmly in the present; I stayed away from manual drum brakes, carburetors, manual steering, and other automotive artifacts. Other than everything, there was nothing wrong with my next choice. The next installment will reveal all. Stay tuned.

Related CC reading:

Cohort Sighting: 1970 Mustang – Stripper Edition (by Paul N)

CC Capsule: 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1 – If You Can’t Take The Heat (by Perry Shoar)