FINDING AMERICA, IN A RENTED MUSTANG CONVERTIBLE

MYRTLE’S CAFÉ STILL BEARS ADVERTISING from the days before Henry’s gasoline carriages. Under its antique tinned ceiling, hot coffee and a gratuitous wedge of raspberry pie staved off the aftereffects of a nine-hour flight. Across the street, my Mustang rental car waited in the shade of a red brick store. Princetown, Illinois, is just one small town off Interstate 80. I reminded myself I had a Mustang and the whole Midwest to go play in. It created a strong desire to hit the road again.

I was back in the States to write a story about a family and a car, but two days before the wheels of my Boeing touched down, that story fell apart. I didn’t have anywhere to be and had no plan to follow. Some people would see this as a disaster. I thought otherwise. After all, what does a car guy from England do with two spare weeks and a rental Mustang?

Sure, it was a convertible, which for some is inexcusable, and no, it wasn’t a 5.0. I say beggars can’t be choosers. Compared to the neutered, heavily taxed, four-cylinder shopping cart I had left on the other side of the Atlantic, this car