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Happy birthday, Model T: It’s smoother, yet trickier to drive than you might have thought

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I was a little excited about going out to see Mike Flynn’s Model T at first, just because I like old things in general.

I don’t know the first thing about cars, but like the people I talked to in the story, I’m fascinated by stories family members tell about “the old days.”

So when I talked to Mr. Flynn about coming to see his car and he offered me a ride in it, I jumped at the chance.

And it wasn’t only for my own personal, selfish reasons of wanting to ride in a car that’s literally right out of my grandparents’ childhoods. It was for you, the readers.

After all, it’s one thing to read a description of a car, but it’s quite another to read about being in the car. If I got a free ride out of it, I wasn’t going to complain.

We drove a little way up the street and turned down a few quiet roads and I was surprised at how smooth the drive was. The little car didn’t go very fast and it was clearly louder than a modern car, but with our speed keeping road noise to a minimum, we pretty much broke even.

But when we came back to Flynn’s house from our trip out on the open road and he asked if I wanted to drive it myself, I’ll admit I almost said no.

The last thing I’d want to do is hurt a car like that. I’d never forgive myself. Just that morning I’d left the headlights on in my own car and killed the battery, so I was feeling none too confident in my car-handling abilities.

But he assured me the car would be OK, that it was built to drive in rough areas like the grass, and I agreed to give it a shot.

From the driver’s side I could definitely agree with him. With just a couple of disorganized floor pedals and some kind of hand brake I didn’t know what to do with, I figured the car had outsmarted me. I couldn’t start it. We were all safe.

There wasn’t even any kind of shifting mechanism, unless that’s what was going on with the little sliding bar on the steering wheel, which I’d already been told worked on “arm strong” power steering.

Turns out that wasn’t what the little bar was for, and most of my other guesses were wrong as well, but after a quick lesson, we were ready to go on through the yard at break-neck walking speeds.

With the hand brake half-engaged and the car set to low gear, I was free to stomp on the far-left gas pedal all I wanted. My dubious effectiveness in maneuvering that steering wheel, however, kept me in check.

The other two pedals were brake and reverse pedals, Flynn said, so the car had no need for shifting at all. The little slide that threw me off at first sent gas to the engine, I learned, but unsure of what the varying measures on its track meant, I decided to let it well alone.

When we finally came to a stop at the end of the course around the pine trees and between the house and garage, I was half relieved and half disappointed.

Sure I’d miss my automatic windshield wipers and the pedals I’m used to, but I can see why people take to the Model T the way some do. It won me over just ambling around the yard.