Somewhere in the Metuchen, NJ Ford factory, on the Mustang line on Feb. 28, 1968, a worker pulled rotation number 300, a sparkling new Wimbledon White Mustang Convertible, out through a large set of doors and onto a parking area. He found an empty space to park where he clicked the transmission to "P", switched off the growling engine, and gave the black parking brake handle a generous tug. Pulling on the small knob under the ash tray, he watched anxiously as the new power top quietly rose up from behind the back seat and nested itself over the windshield like a proud mother hen. The worker then latched the pristine handles above the windows for the first time against the elements of the outside world. Opening the door, he stepped out into the cool air and absentmindedly swung it shut behind him where it latched with a satisfying clunk. The sound of a man's work boots on asphalt echoed and faded away toward the tall factory walls. Rotation #300, quietly parked among a kaleidoscopic array of hundreds of its siblings, awaited it's new life.
Meanwhile, a young lady in a small town in New York lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, imagining an afternoon drive on a Summer day; the wind in her hair, the warm sun's caress on her smiling face.