I get it, my car looks like an overripe banana that’s been sitting in the sun. My best guess is that the Earl Scheib special paint job on my 1968 mustang was likely applied sometime before 1977, as that’s when it was last on the road. Whoever last sprayed the car either didn’t know what masking tape was or did not care to disassemble the car prior to painting it. There’s a distinct possibility it was a combination of both.
The obnoxiously bright yellow paint is discolored, there’s chunks missing, dents everywhere, and the shadow of some Boss 302 stripes can still be seen on the sides.
Did I mention that there’s at least 3 different shades of yellow paint on the car? Or that that the hood is white? Or that the quarter extensions are completely different colors? I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
I’m not going to be winning any awards for best paint anytime soon, but that’s also one of the reasons why I love driving this car so much. I’m never concerned about scratching the paint or if I should use synthetic versus natural carnauba wax. I’m convinced that people don’t park next to me because they assume I either don’t have insurance or that I’m simply off my rocker.
We’ve established my paint is garbage, there’s no denying it- but that doesn’t answer why people have the need to rub their paws all over my car.
As aforementioned, part of what’s great about driving a car with patina is not being concerned about the paint. I’ve washed my 1968 fastback once since I’ve owned it simply because I was tired of ruining white shirts every time I brushed up against it. I dabbled with trying to polish the turd, but eventually came to the conclusion that I like the paint looking ugly instead of appearing to have a half-ass looking polish attempt. I use the term “cleaning” very lightly, but it usually revolves around vacuuming sand out of the interior and wiping the dead bugs off the windows.
I’ve now gone to several car shows where I’ve seen attendees putting their hands on the door to peer inside, touch the steering wheel, fondle my turn signal hood wiring, lean on the fender, and even touch hot engine parts. It happens regardless of my proximity to the car, so hovering vigilantly next to it won’t really help.
This might raise a question with you, the reader. I’ve already mentioned my happy-go-lucky attitude towards my horrendous paint, why would I care about someone else touching it?
Because I do.
It’s not your car, get your hands off of it, and show some respect. As classic car owners, we demand the same reverence given to polished trailer queens as we do our beaters. This isn’t a perplexing topic and it does not have a perplexing answer. On behalf of all classic car owners, next time you’re at a car show, just keep your hands to yourself.
To end on a brighter note, I can almost guarantee that classic car owners won’t mind you touching their cars if you simply ask them first.