You know how it is with people and cars. Some folks couldn’t care less—as long as it’s got four wheels and doesn’t explode every Tuesday, they’re happy. To them, it’s just a box to get from A to B without getting arrested. Others? They treat cars like rolling symphonies. Every curve is sculpture. Every exhaust note? Beethoven’s Fifth with a turbocharger. They’ll wax, poetic about the oil stains on their jeans as if it’s Eau de Castrol.
Me? I’ve been through all the phases. I used to memorize engine specs like they were football stats. Then I got a Volkswagen and suddenly thought, “You know what? This’ll do.”
But the story of my cars isn’t so much a journey as it is a bumpy, flaming, occasionally vibrating saga. Take Saudi Arabia. I lived there once, and while the locals were busy cruising around in land yachts the size of small countries, I had a Toyota Tercel. A car so small it felt like I was commuting in a Pringles can.
The Saudis love their monstrous American tanks—Suburbans, Yukons, the kind of thing you drive when your primary goal is to blot out the sun. I tried to be cool in my Tercel. Put in Bose speakers. Played Beastie Boys. Wore Oakley’s like I was auditioning for Top Gun: Riyadh Drift. But no. Still looked like a schoolboy who borrowed his mom’s sewing machine on wheels.
One day, I’m sitting at a red light when the car starts vibrating like it’s trying to escape reality. I look around, expecting maybe a small earthquake. Nope. Just a Suburban in front of me, revving its V8 so hard it was probably trying to summon Thor. My Tercel? Shaking like a small dog in a thunderstorm.
When I left for England, I decided to keep the Bose speakers. Took them out and shoved them in my suitcase like any normal person who’s never heard of international security protocols. At the airport, the X-ray techs saw “two elliptical objects with wires.” Which, in airport lingo, is code for: Something that go Boom!
Next thing I know, I’m being “invited” into a room that smelled of rubber gloves, death of dignity and suspicion. I couldn’t speak the language, so I did my best game of charades. Big sound! Music! Not boom! Thankfully, their boss came, and he spoke English and had a sense of humor. Giggled, even. I was released, albeit with a note to self: never fly with anything that looks like it could trigger World War III.
Back in England, I got a Mazda 323. A five-door, which in the UK they call a “touring car”, —which is what they say when they want to make a hatchback sound cool, but it’s really just a smaller version of a station wagon. It was reliable. So reliable, I once drove it from Hampshire to Germany and back on a single oil check and a half-hearted prayer.
But then came a snowy morning. I’m heading to work when a taxi driver decides to turn directly into my path. I hit the brakes, but the Mazda decided to do a holiday on ice. Slid gracefully—and directly—into the side of his cab. I jump out to check if he’s alright. He says, “Unscathed but mildly terrified.” I tell him I tried to avoid the crash. He replies, deadpan: “Well, you didn’t do a very good job then, did you, old boy?” Ah, English humor. Cold as the snow I crashed in, but damn if I don’t miss it.
After the Mazda, I decided it was time to “learn car maintenance.” So naturally, I bought a French car. Because nothing says “I want to suffer” quite like a second-hand Peugeot that smelled of indifference and garlic. It started well. I learned about fluids and filters. I even wore gloves that made me look like I knew what I was doing.
Then I got ambitious. Bought a book about engine maintenance, the kind with diagrams and terms like “torque specs” and “timing marks.” So I tore the engine apart. Every bolt, every hose. Did I label anything? No. That would’ve been smart. I figured I’d just “remember.”
After cleaning the parts with a toothbrush and blind optimism, I reassembled the thing. The book said “use a torque wrench.” I said, “Nah, I’ll just feel it.” Miraculously, it started. For one day.
The next morning, halfway down the road, the engine let out a BANG loud enough to scare the pigeons into therapy. I popped the hood (bonnet). A piston, an actual piston from the engine, came out like it was trying to say hi to the traffic. The tow truck guy looked at it, scratched his head, pursed his lips and said, “How the heck did that happen?” I told him, “Well, it just had a full engine service.” He laughed. “Done by who? A chimp with a hammer?” I shrugged. “I know the guy.”
And then came the Italians.
Yes, I had the distinct pleasure—and horror—of owning Italian cars. The first was an Alfa Romeo. Now, an Alfa isn’t just a car. It’s art. A sculpture that happens to move. In fact, one was accepted by a fine arts museum in Scotland, and honestly, it’s where they belong—on a plinth, under lights, never being driven.
Because here’s the thing. It was beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy in the way that Sophia Loren smoking a cigarette in the rain is sexy. But—and it’s a big but—the electrics were clearly designed by someone who looked at a malfunctioning haunted house ride and said, “That’s far too reliable. Let’s make it Italian.” One bulb would burn out, and the rest would follow like lemmings off a cliff. Headlights, brake lights, even the cabin light—gone. Like a disco that lost the will to live.
And then there was the key. Oh yes. This wasn’t some old-school bit of metal and plastic. No, this was a sleek, stylish, wireless fob that you inserted into the ignition like you were launching a missile. But if it ever, for even a millisecond, lost connection with the car—bam, engine off. Not gradually. Not politely. No warning. Just dead. Doesn’t matter if you’re on a quiet country lane or halfway through a rallye stage with a screaming Italian in the passenger seat—it’ll just stop. Like the car suddenly decided it hated you and wanted you to die. A rolling game of Russian roulette, played with espresso and bad wiring.
Honestly, I’m convinced it wasn’t engineered—it was designed to kill.
And then, in a moment of either continued optimism or outright madness, I got myself a Fiat Punto.
Now, the Punto isn’t trying to be anything it’s not. It’s honest. A proper A-to-B machine. No thrills, no nonsense, no risk of spontaneous combustion—well, at least not daily. I picked a cherry red one. Because, why not? It’s Italian! It should look like it was dipped in Campari and passion. And to be fair, it did. A neat little car, plucky as a terrier and just as eager to nip through traffic.
Then came the night shift.
It was a slow summer evening at work, the kind where you find yourself alphabetizing your inbox out of sheer desperation. I looked at the Punto, sitting there in the car park, and thought, “Let’s give her a bit of love.” Now, being an industrious sort, I borrowed the cleaning supplies the other department uses for the big work vans and industrial trucks. Which, in hindsight, was the first red flag.
Scrubbed it down. Buffed it. Gave it the full spa treatment. Stood back, proud as a peacock with a power washer. Left it overnight to dry in the parking lot like a fine wine airing itself under fluorescent lighting.
And in the morning?
Well, let’s just say the Punto wasn’t cherry red anymore. No. It had turned like a bad shade of a ginger kid’s hair. That sort of blazing, confused orange that shouldn’t exist outside of Halloween wigs and overcooked prawns. I nearly screamed. People stared. One guy dropped his coffee. It was as if the car had gone out for a tan and come back with third-degree burns.
Panicked, I drove it—under the cover of darkness, like a man sneaking away from a one-night stand—straight to a detailing shop. The guy took one look and said, “You used industrial degreaser on this, didn’t you?” I told him I wasn’t sure, but I had borrowed something called “Truck Beast X-900.”
To their credit, they managed to restore the paint. But they did it using some sort of boutique wax imported from the Swiss Alps and priced like it was spun from unicorn sweat. The wax job cost more than the car. I wept. Quietly. In the corner. While the Punto sat there, smug and shiny, like nothing ever happened.
Eventually, I moved back to the States and bought a BMW. Lovely to drive. Like gliding on buttered velvet. But every time something broke—and something always broke—the bill was never less than $1,200. Plastic doohickey? $1,200. Fan motor? $1,200. Glovebox light bulb? Let me guess… yep, $1,200.
So I did what any sane person would do—I drove it straight next door to a Mini dealership, threw the keys at the car guy and said, “You can have the BMW. Just give me one of those.” He agreed, probably because he saw the wild look in my eyes.
And the Mini? Brilliant little thing. Zippy, clever, surprisingly roomy. I moved house using just that car. Not the sofa, obviously, but everything else? Mini handled it like a caffeinated ant.
The only downside? On the interstate, every Ford F-150 thinks it’s NASCAR qualifying. Semis roar past you like you’re a traffic cone in their death race. I’d say a small prayer every time I found myself between two trucks—usually something along the lines of “Please let me live long enough to regret this.”
Now? I’m older, wiser, and frankly out of patience. I bought a midsized silver SUV. Not because it’s cool. Not because it’s fast. But because, frankly, it has seats, a roof, and doesn’t explode when I look at it funny.
And you know what? That’ll do.
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