For about a year, I had been looking for a classic car.
Not a specific model I’d dreamed about since I was a kid — but something from the mid-’60s, maybe older, that I knew I could truly love. Not just admire. Not just justify. Something I wouldn’t have to talk myself into.
I talked about it a lot.
One day my older brother Jim said:
He was right.
Thinking is safe. Looking makes it real.
But the truth is, this story started a long time before that.
The Beginning
I grew up in Sherwood Park. In the ’70s and early ’80s it was still a young community, and car culture was a big deal.
My brother Jim is six years older than me, and when I was about fourteen he had already started teaching me how to drive along with my dad.
One of the first cars I ever drove was his black 1979 Trans Am.
I could barely see over the steering wheel.
Just imagine it — fourteen years old, driving a black ’79 T/A, and in my head I’m picturing myself wearing a cowboy hat with East Bound and Down playing on the stereo.
The seed had already been planted.
The Meteor
My first car was a 1967 Meteor convertible.
I bought it from Jim when I was about fifteen or sixteen.
He gave me the little-brother discount.
The car was already about sixteen years old, very used, and far from perfect. The original 390 was shot.
My dad was a car guy and knew a 289 was a great motor — reliable and more than enough for a young driver.
So the 390 came out.
My dad and I found another Meteor parts car and swapped in the 289 one afternoon. The swap went smoothly.
The car also had side pipes when I first got it.
Loud. Flashy. Exactly the kind of thing a teenager thinks is the coolest thing ever.
My dad took one look and said:
The Meteor became a project.
Jim helped. My dad helped.
There were lots of little things we worked on together along the way — fixing things, figuring things out as we went.
I even worked part-time at a carpet store back then, so I brought home some carpet and Jim and I cut and sewed the interior carpet ourselves.
All of this happened before I even had my driver’s license.
The First Ride
Before the engine swap, when the Meteor still had the 390 and the side pipes, I did something that makes me laugh now.
I was about fifteen.
Parents out. Friends over.
Stupid kid logic kicked in.
Top down. Big V8 rumbling.
My buddy Randy is in the back seat yelling up to the front:
Then I hit the brakes.
Somehow we rolled it back home without hitting anything.
My parents never found out.
The Meteor Years
Eventually the Meteor hit the road.
And something funny started happening.
Older car guys would sometimes give me that little nod when they saw the car.
Picture a guy leaning against a tuxedo black ’70 Chevelle. Blonde hair, arms folded, just watching.
He looks over at the Meteor, gives a slow nod like everything checks out…
…the kind of nod that just says:
When you’re sixteen, that felt pretty cool.
And let’s be honest. In high school all you really think about are girls.
A full-size convertible had a certain reputation.
People wanted rides.
And yes — girls especially wanted to ride in Bill’s convertible.
Around that same time a buddy of mine had a red ’67 Fairlane hardtop.
I remember thinking how perfect the size of that car was.
That thought stayed somewhere in the back of my mind.
The Camaro
There used to be a bar in Sherwood Park called Frisbee’s.
In the summer of 1987 they ran a contest to give away a red 1987 Camaro — five-speed manual.
Every night they drew a name. Months later everyone came back for the final draw.
Each person got a key.
One of those keys would open a locked box containing the Camaro keys.
My name had been drawn earlier, so I was there.
The place was packed.
I didn’t even have money for beer. My buddy and I were actually annoyed we had to be there.
I remember leaning against the cigarette machine watching people try their keys.
They must have gone through eighty people before it was my turn.
I walked up and slid my key into the lock.
It turned.
A brand-new red 1987 Camaro.
I was nineteen.
For a couple days afterward K-97 kept saying it on the radio:
My buddy Darren and I walked outside afterward and looked at the Camaro sitting up on a display with a WIN ME sign underneath it.
And we just stood there staring at it.
Trying to understand what just happened.
The Charger
Not long after that I sold the Meteor and used the money to buy a red 1970 Charger.
Beautiful car.
Fast too.
Probably my favorite car.
Before I got married I ended up selling it.
Looking back now, that might have been the dumbest move I ever made.
But life has a funny way of circling back.
The Comet
On February 13, 2026, I found a ’66 Comet Caliente with a 289.
Nice paint. Nice interior. Good color.
It had a lot going for it.
But the wheels were boring.
It was a small-block.
It checked some boxes — just not all of them.
When I mentioned it to Sandy, she said it looked really nice…
…but she kind of liked a convertible.
That stuck.
It was like a little nod on the shoulder.
My first car had been a convertible. I hadn’t consciously connected that, but she surfaced it.
Convertibles feel different.
That’s how freedom first felt to me.
I set up a time to see the Comet.
It sold before I got there.
I was pissed.
Not because it was perfect — but because I realized I’d been too casual about showing real intent.
Lesson learned.
Finding the Fairlane
On February 19, 2026, around 10:30 p.m., a brand-new listing appeared.
Everything lined up.
A real number. A serious number.
Because it was a brand-new listing, I messaged the seller immediately.
He lived an hour outside the city — out in the boonies.
Not everyone wants to drive an hour to look at a car.
I did.
The First Look
It was freezing when I first went to see the car, so we couldn’t even start it.
First impression: the paint looked good. Strong presence.
The convertible top needed replacing.
Then we opened the doors.
Ugly door jambs. Overspray. Weatherstripping tired. Doors and trunk didn’t shut properly.
Driving home I was slightly disappointed.
But I didn’t panic.
Then I crawled underneath.
The car had lived most of its life in Hay River, Northwest Territories.
Dry climate. No road salt.
Solid bones.
Paint is surface.
Structure and engine are core.
The Test Drive
We met again in a heated shop a couple days later.
He started it.
The 390 idled beautifully — smooth, deep, confident, no smoke.
Inside was a brand-new convertible top in a box.
The seller didn’t even know it was there.
We went for a short drive.
One of the biggest expenses I thought I had ahead of me suddenly wasn’t such a big deal anymore.
The Deal
I offered the asking price.
We shook hands.
He said he could deliver it the next day.
February 26.
At 11:40 a.m. he called from his truck.
That gave me just enough time to walk outside and sit on my doorstep.
Like a seven-year-old kid on Christmas morning.
Then I saw it.
My car.
On a trailer.
Coming down the street toward my house like it was Santa Claus.
At noon, the Fairlane was sitting in my driveway.
The Meaning
February 27 marked one year since my father passed away.
One day after the Fairlane came home.
Buying this car somehow has a lot to do with honoring him.
He was a huge car guy.
A huge Ford guy.
Every time I drive it, I know I’ll be thinking of him.
And my mom.
The Best Part
The next morning I went out to the garage just to make sure it was really there.
It was.
Right meaning.
Sometimes you don’t search for a specific car.
You search for the one you won’t have to convince yourself about.
And when it shows up…