When my grandparents—proud, independent, Greatest Generation types—consented to move into a retirement community, they offered to give one of their cars to us grandkids. They didn’t need and couldn’t keep two cars, and they offered this vehicle free of charge. It was a lavish gesture, especially coming from my grandfather, a generous but fair man who draws up contracts detailing interest rates and payment plans when his grandkids ask to borrow money.
Which is how my parents, siblings, and I ended up staring open-mouthed at the 2006 Lincoln Town Car in the driveway, even as we politely smiled and profusely thanked our benefactors. We had expected their other car, the almost-sporty red Saturn Aura. Instead, we got the old-person car.
It’s my family’s instinct to fight for ownership, but nobody wanted the Lincoln. Whoever is in the driver’s seat—more of a sofa, really—looks ridiculous and out of place, like Judge Judy in swimwear.
The Town Car once held the distinction of being the longest production car in the Western Hemisphere. So my father deserves some sympathy; he shouldn’t have to drive Cleopatra’s barge to work at peak-midlife-crisis age, while his peers are buying the fast cars they wanted when they were 18. My two youngest siblings are in the throes of awkward adolescence. Imagine being seen at school in a gold sedan the length of a strip mall. Then there’s my sister, who just earned her license but was never trained to fly cargo. (You can see where this is heading.)
Surveys say the average Town Car owner is 67 years old. And indeed, everything about the Town Car is designed with the elderly driver in mind. Its rear-bumper parking sensors have probably saved more kids than the polio vaccine, and the extra set of peripheral headlights illuminate the road in a very wide arc as the vehicle is turning. It was the first sedan in the world to earn a five-star safety rating, meaning Grandma can drift from lane to lane with impunity, dreaming of Reagan and Sinatra.
But if they do those surveys again, they’ll find the average owner’s age is now being dragged down by this 22-year-old.
At first, I drove the Lincoln reluctantly, bitterly even. But last week, on a five-hour trip to Pennsylvania, I sensed a slight rumbling on the left side of the car. I ignored it for more than a mile before pulling over and realizing the tire was completely flat. I noted this with admiration. Like hospice care, the Town Car is committed to your comfort even when everything is breaking down. Sparks could have been flying off all four rims, and it would still have been the most comfortable car I’ve ever driven. In a hurry to beat Labor Day traffic, I set about changing the tire—something I’d never done before.
Looking in the glove box, I found the owner’s manual, a thick collection of books organized in an elite-looking black leather case. Primal man recognized a test of his prowess and buckled down for a fight. But the Lincoln explained things slowly, using plain American English and helpful illustrations. I needn’t have worried. It was as if I had acquired a butler, discreetly whispering in my ear: “One must loosen the lug nuts before raising the jack, if I may be so bold, sir.” Suppressing a feeling of gratitude, I was quickly back on the highway.
Hoping to make up for lost time, I put the pedal to the floor and . . . took flight. The Lincoln is surprisingly fast, with a 4.6-liter V8 engine under its mile-long hood. I turned this horsepower into a kind of game—first, affirm the stereotype by driving in the slow lane or leaving a turn-signal blinking, wait for some unsuspecting motorist behind you to try to pass, then burn rubber, and teach a little respect for the elderly. All this power is stowed under a blue-haired, Sunday-hat exterior that gives you a second chance with highway police and irate drivers. I even rolled through a cash-only tollbooth without paying and never received a fine.
Lincoln discontinued the Town Car in 2011 and is currently in a panic to attract younger drivers to the brand. It took me a while to come around, but I really do love my Town Car and have come up with a slogan: Test-drive old age. Grandparents have the advantage of knowing exactly what they want—in this case, three ashtrays, middle seats for the grandkids, and wood paneling—current trends be damned. At 22, I’m far from sure what I want, but floating around in someone else’s dream car is a good start. For now, it’s what a luxury car should be.
