By now, caught in the fading twilight of a slightly chilly evening, my stomach was in full revolt, rumbling like the Brougham’s exhaust. Though I’d planned on lingering in Bennington, I decided the best course of action would be to prove that I’d been to Vermont, then head on to my final stop for the evening.
Here’s the obligatory Vermont shot, pulling into the Creamery Covered Bridge in Brattleboro. It’s 80-foot span was completed in 1879 and it’s just wide enough for a 1958 Cadillac.
After (just) making it through the bridge, I buried the accelerator for Massachusetts. Normally, I drive antique cars like there’s an egg under the gas pedal: carefully, gently, and with utmost respect. Caught in the wilds of the Northeast with a rumbly stomach, I started driving the Brougham like I stole it.
For a 51-year-old car, she handles pretty well. The suspension and steering felt firm. I zoomed up and over many mountain grades. The brakes didn’t fade or protest, despite some downhill runs that exceeded 8%. I promised myself, at the outset of this trip, that I wouldn’t break the speed limit. And though I didn’t break that promise, I did get pretty close.