It was a good car. Heavy in the fenders and clean in the back, the way a fastback coupe ought to be. When you sat in the driver’s seat, you knew exactly what you had. The clutch was firm, and the 346-cubic-inch L-head V-8 didn’t shout; it just worked.

It idled with the steady, quiet breathing of a seasoned horse in the morning. Fortunately the red pegasus signs were a highway staple in ’42.

By the Summer, America was on the brink of change, and the shiny bits—the chrome, the brightwork—were going away. But the metal beneath remained honest. It handled the winding mountain roads with a quiet, dependable grace, holding the curve and taking the bumps without any fuss.

It was a true machine, built to travel the long road when the weather was clear and a man had somewhere to go.