Dad had a Model B we used to call the Boodle Buggy. He put a V-8 in it, flathead Merc I think but I'm not sure. Mom made him leave it back east when we moved out to California on account of she didn't trust the mechanical brakes going all the way across country from New Jersey.
When my brother and I grew up enough to realize what a great hot rod that would have made, we never let Dad off about having to leave it, as in give it away, behind.
My brother has a '34 Ford panel that I've ridden in once, when we finished moving him up to Santa Ynez. We'd towed it up there on a dolly since they wouldn't rent him a car trailer with just his El Camino to pull it. I remember some guy going by us up north of Ventura, yelling and waving his fist at us. When we got there we found out we'd lost the muffler.
I think I know why he was yelling at us.
I've had the pleasure of riding in a fully restored '29 Model A Pheaton. 50 mph is downright scary, especially when you're told 'Don't lean on the door, it might open.' It wouldn't have kept me from falling out as I was sitting higher than it's upper edge anyways, or so it seemed.
The oldest Ford I've gotten to drive is a '56 T-Bird that a good friend had restored.
It totally blew my desire to have a '57 T-Bird in my garage since it drove like, well, an old Ford.
Here's Dad's Boodle Buggy out in the snow of New Jersey, or it might be Connecticut, I'm not sure, it was a long time ago. We lived in both states before coming out west.
