All Buicks. All LeSabres.
There was just something about them.
They were simple, clean—a nod to a bygone era.
No screens. No computers. No sensors watching over your shoulder.
Just you, your steed, and the open road.
They weren’t “connected.” They were mechanical.
You turned the key, and the car came alive.
That low, honest hum from deep inside the engine—it wasn’t perfect, but it was real.
You could feel the machine breathing with you.
The ’91, my first, was the definition of old school.
Cherry red inside and out. Cloth bench seats. A dashboard that looked like it was made for a different world.
You didn’t sit in it—you floated. At 70 miles an hour it felt like gliding, not driving.
Those cars taught me more than I realized at the time.
Patience. Care. Simplicity.
How to listen to a machine. How to keep something running without relying on screens or sensors—with the help of my dad, of course. 😂
They weren’t flashy. They weren’t fast.
But they had soul.
And sometimes, that’s all a man needs to get where he’s going.