Disgusted with gridlock and the politics of Washington, DC when it comes to the infrastructure spend, I headed into it and towards it. On a hot and humid Wednesday morning in May I began the shlep through Boston’s morning rush. As I rolled onto the Mass Pike I felt the glare of workers starting their daily driving grind. Peering out of hermetically sealed cockpits, where music was streaming and the AC blowing, they looked like they’d seen the ghost of commuter’s past.
I was traveling alongside them in Mrs. Martin, a 1949 Hudson Commodore 8, wondering if they felt me the fool or themselves. Me because old cars are driven on the weekends. Me because I was all ass-and-elbows shifting, clutching and otherwise working the old girl through traffic. Me because I was sweating on the mohair wool front seat which resembles a living-room couch of the 1940s. Or was it them because they have the infrastructure they deserve rendering them and their modern automobiles as useless in traffic the 65-year-old rusting antique mocking them to demand better.