The first problem with Operation Breakout was the 'Stang sported a 302 V8 with after-market dual exhausts. Today's cars, with their little 4-banger engines or smaller, need you to be either in them or in very close proximity to hear them running.
In stark contrast, when I cranked the 'Stang, 302 cubic inches roared with a low, resonating rumble you felt in your bones. When the engine revved, windows rattled, neighborhood dogs commenced a howling chorus, and for a quarter mile around, startled birds flew away from tree-borne roosts.
There's no way I could start up the 'Stang in the driveway without waking the whole house. My genius solution was to push her back out the driveway and roll her down the street before firing her up. This led to the second problem with Operation Breakout.
A 1970 Mustang coupe was over 3,100 pounds of Pittsburgh steel and Detroit attitude and overcoming her rolling resistance became an exercise in applied physics. After shifting into neutral, I had to put all my weight onto the hood to start her moving backwards out of the driveway.
Once in motion, I quickly ran to the open driver's side window to grab the wheel, maintain traction with the pavement, and keep a grip on the car.
Turning the steering wheel was another challenge. The 'Stang had power steering, but only when the engine was running. So now, Breakout's mission parameters were: don't slip on the pavement, keep a grip on the car, and strong-arm the wheel into a turn so I didn't wind up running over the mailbox across the street.
Once on the street, it was just a matter of getting far enough down the road before turning the ignition key. Nosy neighbors, roused from their slumber, peered curiously from behind curtains at the source of the chest rumbling noise. But snitches get stitches, so back to bed they went.
Operation Breakout was successful, and now all roadways in the bustling metropolis of Long Beach were fair game. The possibilities arrayed before me put a smile on my face.
Perhaps I'd head down to the strip and hang out with some friends. Maybe I was in the mood for a solo speed run on I-10 so the 'Stang could stretch her legs. A more sedate cruise down Highway 90 with the boombox in the passenger seat cranked to 11 was another option. Or I might just park down at the harbor and enjoy the expanse of the night sky above and the brine scented breeze coming off the water.
The hours ticked away, and with my need for mischief sated, I cruised on back home, simply running Operation Breakout in reverse.
Years later, I can't help but chuckle at the lengths I went to on those late-night escapades. Operation Breakout might not have been the most sophisticated mission, but those sorties were rites of passage rewarded by the thrill of the getaway as much as the freedom of the open road. Sometimes, as I think about those nights, I imagine I can hear that rumbling V8 echoing through the quiet streets of Long Beach, a mechanical lullaby to my misspent youth.
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