Coming of age in the 70′s (lucky me), Cadillac represented everything I didn’t like about American cars. Like its lesser-priced sibs, it was an anti-sports car. With the possible exception of Lincoln’s Continental Mark My Words This Car is as Good as a Cadillac, a Caddy was THE anti-sports car. The idea of hustling one of those land yachts around a corner was laughable. And for me, it was all about the handling. (Driving a Dino had changed my life.) I remained contemptuous of America’s love affair for Caddy’s “sofas on wheels” right until the moment I met a girl in Aspen who drove a meticulously maintained 1962 Cadillac convertible like the one shown. Suddenly, all the curves I needed were inside the car. You know that song Slow Hand by the Pointer Sisters? It was on the Caddy’s radio during one especially memorable drive. I got it. And Caddy, I reckon, has lost it.
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