I want to buy a classic car. Something cool and unique from the ’70s, like a diesel Mercedes sedan. I love the idea of sliding behind the wheel of something like that and heading out for coffee on a sunny Sunday morning.
Like many others who grew up in southeastern lower Michigan, where allegiance to either Ford or Chevy was far more critical than any political leanings, I regularly entertain fleeting fantasies of vintage car ownership. Cars from that era are to modern vehicles what vinyl is to digital downloads. They require more attention, but the experience is a pure one that connects with the soul in a way the latest tech-laden, stability-controlled wündercars never will.
