Rode the back seat of a Continental sedan. Entry is awkward. Take care that you don’t hook your cheekbone on the door window frame as hips go in upper body leans outward. The experience was familiar. Built on the same platform as the full size Ford it shares maybe 90 percent commonality. Badge engineering. The seats are stuffed and there is a liberal application of plastic wood veneer. And, of course, the Lincoln emblems are prominent but it is a weak attempt at disguise. Warning! It’s still a FORD!

yet another, but since I’m using a West Virginia dialup access I promise to keep the narration short. Our chauffer, with the pen hanging down between the headband of his baseball cap and his temple immediately begins his life story as we leave curbside. Included are ramblings about ex-girlfriends and a ’59 Lincoln sitting in his front yard. He says the car is all original (i’d love to understand his definition of that automotive description) except the ‘mirrors are mis’n and the radio aerial is broke’. I’m more interested in the ’91 FORD sedan taxicap in which we are riding by luck (bad) of the draw. It is a claped-out, rusty million mile beater. The RR door gasket next to me is blown out and there is a draft howling wind keeping the air fresh inside. This is a good thing as I note that the window sw is a mere hole in the armrest and the exhaust is rumbling like the muffler is swiss chesse. I’m am being saved from the noxious poisons. I just pray that the brakes (being applied with his left foot) are in better shape as we descend into south city.