A few friends have asked, “What is it like driving a 1958 Cadillac? Are you uncomfortable?”
Good Lord, no. Driving a 1958 Cadillac Eldorado is like getting injected with Novocaine, wrapped in a ball of Fluff, and rolled down a Serta highway. I’m not feeling anything. Just big, fluffy Cadillac.
Sure, she wanders a little bit here and there. The wind noise is probably somewhat higher than in your DisLexus LS430, and I imagine that your radio probably works.
But you don’t have fins, now do you? My tailfins are cutting a streak through the Northeast. The blue flash! Zoom, baby.
“Aren’t you scared to be driving a car with drum brakes and lap belts?” everyone asks. Well, yes. And that’s why I am driving the speed limit and giving myself a quarter mile between me and the car in front (no kidding).
Of course, what scares me more is all the little micro cars zipping about. I mean, I have more metal in one hubcap than a Kia has in the entire frame. If I hit somebody in this Cadillac, they’re going to know it. I’ve hit mosquitos bigger than the Prius. I don’t care how many airbags you have–if you get walloped by a tractor trailer and your car weighs less than the average thimble, you’re dead meat. I wouldn’t want to be the firefighter trying to use the jaws of life to saw into an electric car. Batteries and giant table saws just seem like a bad mix . . . .
Don’t believe me? Look at this crash test of a “Smart Car.” This little toaster-shaped vehicle actually leaves the ground when it gets hit at 30 mph. Jumps like scared rabbit! Who drives 30? Most people get up to 30 getting out of their driveway. Think about this little car getting hit at 60 or 70.
Today, I had a great interview with the Rochester Democrat Chronicle. You can read the piece here–and if you like it, by all means leave a comment.
The Brougham just passed the 3,000 mile mark and the fins didn’t fall off. What a testament to GM.
Passed the 3,000 mile mark in rural New York.
The best things in life are free?
Better still, I managed to repair the driver’s side power window. Granted, I had to give the passenger-side window the short shrift, but hey, it didn’t work anyway. As I dug into the door panel, I discovered that sometime in the past, someone repaired the driver’s window switch with a wood screw. Evidently, one of the small steel posts had fallen or broken off, so a mechanic created a makeshift replacement.
One of these things is not like the other.
No wonder the power window only went down and not up.
Since the passenger-side window doesn’t seem to be getting any power, I plugged the driver’s side wires into that slot. It isn’t the best repair, but now I don’t have to hang out the rear window at every toll booth in the Northeast.
A makeshift repair–but hey, now the window works.
Toll booths are everywhere up here. Get on the highway, booth. Get off the highway, booth. Stop for gas, booth. Stop for lunch, booth. Get on a new road, booth. Arrgh!
To drive from Birmingham, Alabama to New Jersey was free: not a single toll in more than 1,500 miles. To drive from one end of New York to the other cost me $43.35 in tolls. Truly, that gives new meaning to the term “highway robbery.”
It would be one thing if the gas here didn’t carry more tax than the average pump. Or perhaps if the roads were in better condition. But sheesh. To pay $43.35 to bounce across the state–man, that’s expensive.
As I was paying the last toll, the heavens opened up on the Brougham. It was the first true rain I’ve experienced on the Great American Road Trip, and wouldn’t you know, the wipers croaked. Thankfully, I’d thought ahead and coated the windshield with Rain-X, which works fairly well.
Still, I’d like to get those wipers operational.