I think I’m in the market for a new car.
Sometimes the universe just slaps you in the face & says “ Hey Arsehole! I’m talking to you!”
At first, you don’t see the signs. A little bingle here, a little break down there…get rear ended here, Spend 3 grand on the piece of shit to go on holidays and it still overheats there, … the list goes on.
But as a bloke who mainly uses his car for work and not pleasure, if it starts in the morning… that’s good enough for me.
If I look back over my life with cars I can honestly say… in the relationship, I am the abuser.
My first car at 17 was a beast. The family car, Bertha. Ford Falcon 500. She was a big iron clad tank.
I drove this car into the side of our family home. (Figure that one out.)
Mum and Dad’s front bedroom was destroyed and Bertha, well, she had a smashed indicator and a little scratch up the side. She was invincible. In her, I was invincible! Once, coming back from the bike races, I was pulled over by police. They discovered my cargo of 10 people, including one person sitting on the dashboard. Mexican people smuggling? Not quite… just a bunch of pissed mates. I thought I’d get the designated driving over & done with. Bertha would cast her Jedi mind powers on to the police. “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”
I was told to keep my limbs inside the vehicle and go on my way.
I had many adventures in that car and my respect for Bertha was unlimited. Although I didn’t show it in upkeep and maintenance, I hope she realises just how much I loved her. (I say this as she slowly rusts in
A disused paddock.)
By the age of 22 I finally saved enough money to buy my own car. Some sort of European thing. Fifteen hundred bucks for a car that stank of petrol and lasted 3 months before it finally caught fire. As Bon Jovi would say… “It went down in a blaze of glory”.
Renault: it’s French for “lemon”.
From there I received a hand me down Toyota corolla. You could drive that baby to the ends of the earth. She may have been small but she had guts and determination. Sure, my mates took the absolute piss out of me. But look who’s laughing as their magged up utes and beefed up Monaro’s were disappearing without trace. My girl could sit anywhere unlocked, doors open, bonnet up, keys inside, money in the console… you get the picture.
That relationship ended as a corolla sandwich.
So now I’ve returned to the bigger cars. I wanted a vehicle that would say, “Look at me… I am a man. I drive a commodore.”
It’s been great for the past few years; I’ve even grown a beard. But as in all relationships, sometimes you just have to move on. The arse has dropped and become a little saggy, the cracks around the headlights are beginning to show, she’s become temperamental as if everyday is her “cycle” and her transmission could prolapse at any time.
So to all the cars I’ve loved before…
I think it’s time to update to a younger model.