My Imperial (1986)

Over the years my friends and acquaintances have gotten into the habit of asking, on a more-or-less regular basis, what kind of car I'm driving. They know that my peculiar brand of automotive goofgeist, combined with a naturally fickle disposition (at least as far as these things go), is likely to yield a response that's both offbeat and different from the one they got six months before.

These days any such acquaintances who happen to be environmentalists are well advised to keep their curiosity in check, for these days I'm fortunate: I can choose from among three cars, and unless it's top-down weather the one I'm likely to be found driving is a white-on-white Imperial Crown Coupe, vintage 1966. In fact, the present number is my second '66 Imperial. The first was a funereal black LeBaron that I chased down a Brooklyn street in 1976 and bought on the spot.

In those days the then-decade-old Imperial was still considered a fairly big car, but it swam in a sea of big cars. New DeVilles and Town Cars still weighed in at close to 5000 pounds, with plain-vanilla Impalas and LTD's not far behind. The term "full-sized car'' had some meaning. So when I ran my LeBaron's power seat back on its tracks, adjusted the tilt-and-telescope wheel, and reveled in all of that room, it was within the context of simply enjoying what seemed to be my birthright as an American. Indeed, when I sold the LeBaron a year later, the shiny new Volvo wagon that replaced it felt like a toy.

Times have changed. The automotive world has downsized, and it now takes two spaces to fill a garage with two-and-a-half tons of new car. My present 1966 Coupe seems a latter day Moby Dick, battling the twin Ahabs of public opinion and OPEC; and Volvos — still sensible — are now considered to be quite large. Parking has become a problem, for it's tough to fit 18 feet of car in a space that's been vacated by a Hyundai. I've changed, too: The current Imperial's six-way bucket is as far forward as it goes, and I still marvel at how far away the windshield is.

And why an Imperial? Why not a Caddy or Lincoln of similar vintage? It's hard to say, for each is arguably a better car. But neither calls out to my soul, and let's face it, what other reason could there be to drive a twenty-three-year-old leviathan. Maybe it has to do with a chum whose father and stepfather — one in Brooklyn, the other in Philadelphia — both owned new Imperials when we were in high school. Intended to overwhelm, they did their job especially well on impressionable schoolboys, and I vowed that one day I'd own such a car. Most of my teen-age tastes and fantasies were, thank heaven, shed long ago. But perhaps not all of them.

There are, in fact, some solid, practical reasons for choosing to own an Imperial. For one thing, (and this makes no sense) Chrysler's flagship was generally the last car in the line to reflect the company's "technological innovations." That being the case, the interior is adorned with precious little plastic of any kind. To paraphrase a statement Mercedes once made in its literature, the look of fine wood and leather is achieved by the use of fine wood and leather. Construction techniques were similarly archaic. Instead of being stapled and glued, most of the body, interior, and trim parts are attached with screws — machine screws. So, even after more than twenty years, most everything on the car still fits and works properly. The air conditioner, even without the optional second unit for the rear seats, can still cope with New York City summers, and the Auto Pilot's firm helping hand (actually, foot) maintains whatever speed I dial up on the dash mounted knob.

It still looks good, too. Elwood Engel's styling, which echoes his 1961 Continental, has aged well, and the car has a combination of dignity and elan that no modern mini-limo can pull off. Fortunately (for there's nothing sadder than a beautiful car gone to seed) the carcass has aged almost as well as the design. The brightwork, being stainless steel, still shines; and because most of the outer panels are protected by a second inner body, there's been no major rust.

Mechanically there's no question but that the old Imperial stands head and shoulders above most contemporary iron. Not in terms of sophistication, mind you. The meanest third world economy car is more sophisticated than my Imperial, as it must be in order meet current emission and mileage rules and still run. The rules were simpler in 1966: there weren't any. Pollution curbs of any consequence were years away, and a full tank of gas left enough change from a ten dollar bill to buy lunch. Or dinner.

The Imperial's mechanical superiority derives from its simplicity. You say you need to move 6000 pounds of car and contents across America at 75+ miles per hour? Simple: just stuff a whopping big V8 under the hood and hit the Interstate. That's what America was about in 1966. And when folks whine "what about the MILEAGE" I smile and explain that an Imperial doesn't get mileage; it gains yardage.

When I bought Imperial Number One it was because I liked it as a car. In the decade since then, I've bought and sold a dozen other cars. An additional eight or ten have come, and sometimes gone, during the Crown Coupe's tenure in the garage. Some of them were interesting in one way or another, but most of them were sold without much regret. Imperial Number Two, my great white whale, is somehow different. I'll sell it, eventually, because it's been around for a while, and that's what I do. It'll be time for something new (and, most likely, old) and different.

But I'll miss the Imperial when it's gone, because it is more than just a great ride. It's a constant reminder of a time when America was not only in love with cars, but reveled in that love. The Interstates were still new, we were allowed to use them properly, and bigger wasn't merely better. It was normal. And as good as today's cars are, the likes of the 1966 Imperial will never be seen again.