That's some white whale, Murilee.

Best shot is the interior, with that tiny, delicately thin gear shift lever that somehow manages to control all that elegant power.

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After getting the new bike for my birthday, I was out trying to set a new top-speed record on our residential street, heading towards our house, and the busy cross street at the end of the block. Having reached terminal velocity, and closing in on 45 mile per hour cross traffic, I stopped kicking the spurs and attempted to brake.

Unfortunately, not all my neurons where firing at that age and I stupidly started backpedaling the thing, throwing the chain off its sprockets which distracted me further. I started heading for the curb, still at a dangerous clip, and right toward the impending doom of being skewered on the by-then unfashionable, but still sharply pointed, tailfin of my mom's Caddy. I bounced to a halt against the curb mere inches from its gleaming chrome projection.

I was panting from the adrenal rush of my close brush with death at the hands of a '50s fashion hold-over when my dad came rushing over from where he had been mowing the lawn to check if I was okay. He too had imagined my demise due to impalement on the massive car's signature body feature and told me to be more careful next time. That's what dads did back then; they didn't take you inside to separate you from the observed danger, they just told you to be more careful, and let you attack the problem until you had mastered it, or required a quick trip to the emergency room. Those where better times.

I re-engaged the chain and took another run in the opposite direction with the longer and safer run-off, and kept at it until I was using the hand brakes as second nature. It was one of those watershed moments in growing up, that transition from coaster to hand brakes, but I missed those long sliding skids that backpedaling and locking up the redline slick back tire provided.

I have fond memories of that Cadillac more so than this time that I tried to kill myself on it, but this story is already too long.

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Besides fixing the droopy bumper, I'd want to grab some flat-disc wheel covers to replace the wires. But otherwise, this is a real beauty. Nice find!

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rock on.

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Because the power-nothing steering difficulty of an irate mule wasn't enough, the mind-boggling wiring harnesses and vaccuum tube systems needed more incomprehensibility to thieves... You need The Club!

Honestly, if the thief knows how to hotwire a classic caddy, he's probably taking it because he needs a donor car for his own. In which case, I say, let him have it. This is one way to keep the LeMons cost down! Thievery!

Wankelin'

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How big is this thing, Murilee? Big, I know, but compared to what I think of as a standard sized car, like a Crown Vic?

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