It’s hard for me to get this across without sounding like a kook, but I feel like bonding with your car is a very real phenomenon. Easier with older cars, for sure. And the strength of that bond is seemingly directly proportional to the time you’ve spent up to your elbows in automotive guts, until the tears of frustration and the droplets of oil become one and the same. What I’m saying is I’ve pored over every inch of the car pictured above, and as a result I know the bloody thing inside out. I have spent days swearing at it, but I also love it to bits.
I love the way the box arches make it look tough as nails. I love the oh-so-80s pop-up lights. I love the utterly tasteless beige pinstripe velour interior, which perfectly complements the gold paint (that’s Kalahari Beige Metallic, thank you). I love the way the doors still close like a bank vault, despite being 35 years old. I love the way the car rewards you for pressing on, without actively trying to kill you if you make a mistake.
I hate the long throw from first to second. I hate the fact that I still can’t find a replacement rear wiper because the fitting is made from unobtanium. I hate the way the sunroof leaks. But most of all, I hate that I’ve been without it for three weeks. A kind soul decided to sideswipe me, which has resulted in an extended stay in the body shop for my pride and joy.
But you know what? While it’s in there, I’m going to get them to fix all the little bits of paint that have been bugging me. All the little dents caused by my stupidity. It’s probably going to cost me well into four figures. But she deserves it.
“She” being an inanimate object. Madness, innit?
However, let it go on record that giving your car an actual name is insanity of the highest order and is a crime so heinous that humanity has not yet found a harsh enough punishment.
