A Weekend Of High Hopes

Another venture into buying the classic car

I've learned cash is king

Well, of course I’ve been looking. I’m always looking.

Something had caught my eye. It looked too good to be true, and you know what they say. Well, it was worth a look, and after a brief chat with the owner, I was heading south to see it in the flesh.

An hour-plus drive quickly turned into two and a half hours, maybe a little more. I was in good company, though. Colin had spared me his Saturday afternoon to ride shotgun and ask the questions I was sure to miss. He’s done this many times before. For me, well, this was my first American buy. Or was it?

Colin and I set off late afternoon, Saturday. Boom. The M25, er, not today, thank you. An hour-plus drive, normally, but it seems no matter when you hit this road, it’s a chore, watching the red lights blinking on and off, on and off. 40, 60, 50, 40.

Two and a half hours later, give or take a few minutes, we arrived. The owner was expecting us, the car sitting deep in the back of the warehouse.

I’m liking what I see. It’s certainly got some beef about it. Every panel the size of a coffin lid. If elephants use coffins, that is.

Pictures can tell a thousand stories, but some stories just don’t get finished. On first impression, this 1957 Coupe de Ville looked like a great introduction to the classic American scene. The description was fair and to the point, and the pictures and short video I’d received the night before were positive too.

Let’s get it out of this warehouse and into the daylight.

Colin and I gave the car the once-over and listened to what the owner had to say. There's no one better to have alongside when contemplating the buy of an American Classic. Colin has featured in other blogs here and has vast experience.

The Cadillac was no longer in its original black. A rose repaint over the body, with a grey roof, had turned this once-masculine Brutus into a more feminine Rosemary. The body was in good shape and virtually rust-free, and the two doors lined up well, opening and closing solidly.

Some of the masculinity returned when the owner started the 365ci 6.0-litre V8. Running on choke, it sucked in fuel before vaporising it out the back. The engine ran fine, a little smoky but nothing unusual for its age and high mileage.

The owner slowly reversed the car out of the huge doors and into the sun. The chrome, a little tired, shone in the bright skies, and the bodywork became less impressive. I went round the car again, looking at each panel. Mm. This Caddy was the business from thirty yards, but up close it was going to need a lot more money thrown at it.

Don’t get me wrong, the price was right, just not right for me. Sure, it would make someone very happy, but I just kept seeing flaws and work. New tyres all round, for a start. Another repaint, for sure. Sort the pool of transmission or power-steering fluid growing underneath, and a few electrical issues. The interior, good but grubby, was an easy fix.

In the pictures, the car looked fit for the prom this evening. In reality, it was ready for a little cruise when the lights were dimmed, and the sun was touching earth on the horizon.

Strangely, thinking about it, if the car had looked a little rougher, a wing in primer and some rubbing down here and there, it might have appealed to me a little more.

So, no champagne tonight.

Not for me, at least.

The search continues.

Philip (The Rascal)

Editor