I have this dream of buying a car made in 1967, the year I was born. I’d drive it across country meeting up with Gen Xers along the way. I’d be like a circuit rider!
Hmmm. Never thought about that much myself. Let’s see. In 1967, the second-generation Buick Riviera was one year old: it wasn’t the gamechanger that the ’63 had been, but it was almost as gorgeous, and it consumed highway miles with wild abandon. (Unfortunately, it consumed gasoline the same way.)
But I was fourteen in ’67, so I don’t get to play with the Riv: it’s gotta be a ’53. And no way on God’s green earth anyone is going to let me have a Skylark, despite my manifest desire to have people ask “Where are the portholes?”
I suppose I could go look for a Nash like Ruben’s, but I’d be afraid someone would hurl my best white shirts with the Mr B collar onto the lawn. Besides, all those Nashes had skirted front wheels, which gave them a turning circle slightly smaller than that of a school bus.
So I’d keep an eye peeled for any of the ’53 Studebakers, although the Starliner hardtop was the best-looking of the lot.