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This article was first published in 2001.
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Ordinarily, if somebody were to criticise a car I was currently driving, I would take the time to passionately dismiss the criticism. I could explain that the engineers involved know a hell of a lot more about designing cars that the critic or I do. I could explain that the criticism is misdirected, or that they just don't understand that the rest of the car is so shit-hot that a few niggles can be easily forgiven for the rest of the stunning package.
So when Julian in a recent article criticised the ride of the Volvo 850 T5, I was ready to launch into a detailed explanation of the wonderful attributes of the 850 and the not so wonderful and possibly untraceable parentage of Julian. Unfortunately, he is dead right. My 850 has an awful ride.
Actually, it's not just awful, it's appalling.
There is no excuse for the kidney-punishing, chassis-thumping harshness that the T5 offers up as ride. If there are springs under that car, they are for decoration only. OK, it does corner with a reassuring flatness, but there are plenty of cars that do that without making your brain rebound off the top of your skull every time you change lanes and hit a lane marker. I can tell already that this is the attribute that will see me trading the car in a couple of years on some other shiny toy. In the mean time, the wacky, turbo thrusting, awkward power delivery is proving entertainment enough that you forget your brain bruises between sets of traffic lights - but not for long...
I was certainly like that with my first car. I was pointlessly proud of the (almost) rallying heritage of the Chrysler Galant. It didn't bother me much that it was actually the previous model - or the later Lancer - that were the actual rally heroes. Same chassis, right? Same engine?
Not really.
With the benefit of hindsight, the Galant was a fairly nasty, typical Seventies Japanese economy car. If you think the initial Korean offerings were bad, you obviously haven't driven the Japanese equivalent. Mostly slow, prone to rust in odd places, with a combination of chassis nous gained from either the UK or the US. That means bad.
I think Mazda must have been the only company that ever had half an eye on the continental Europeans at the time (who designed the best small cars of the period). Pity though our French, German and Italian friends didn't hear about rust-proofing until 1982. That'll be the only reason that there will be more Galants polluting our roads in 2010 than Fiat 124s - but I'm digressing.
All this led me to thinking, why did I ditch all those other cars that I suddenly fell in love with, only to find them irksome after 12 months? I'm an otherwise steady guy, not prone to sudden changes of mind or taste. The answers came to me in a 'flu-induced state today, the ghosts of my old cars haunting me through the pages of old magazines piled up next to my bed.
What if your old cars could get back in contact with you? Would you want to talk to them? Hear what they're up to? Not me. I'm sure they all hate me deep within their (sometimes literally) twisted metal souls...
1974 Chrysler Galant
You could never accept me for what I was. First with the manual gearbox. What was wrong with fixing the automatic? OK, so we enjoyed the extra urgency. I was cool with it up to then. But the L300 carburettors? Even you thought that was stupid - not much extra power for that wasted $150 and all those problems with your home-rigged accelerator cable. I burned my rings out, you ran me so rich and never changed my oil.
Then that damnable 2.6 engine.
Good lord, that wasn't me at all. I'm really more the shy, retiring type, not a fast one. Didn't you notice that my doors were unseating from the seals when we went over 140? I was never designed for that. Ditto for the axle tramp you never managed to cure.
The Weber was the last straw. Too much, too soon.
That accident we had in the rain when you stuffed me into a fence: all your fault. After we parted, I met up with another try-hard like you, who proceeded to do even worse things to me, only to discover himself that, underneath, all I wanted to do was sleep. So that's what I'm doing, in his backyard, under half a load of bricks and four feet of weeds. Don't bother trying to contact me, I won't be listening. I've hooked up with a 6 foot brown snake who crawls in the hole you made for the gear lever. He doesn't like visitors.
1977 Ford Cortina
Hello Bastard.
I can't believe you traded me on that Saab. After all I did for you! After you ran my oil completely dry and parked me for 2 months until somebody pointed out that it was merely the oil pressure sender that was broken.
I started up straight away, didn't I? Still ran for another two years without complaining.
Remember when you and Tina were at University and had no money? Did I ever ask for anything that whole time? Nope. Just started every day and chugged around without complaining. So I used a bit of fuel and my heater didn't work - no crime was it? Do you have any idea what those other guys did to me after you drove away? No shopping me around to other dealers, nothing like that.
They drove me straight to a wrecker.
So what if my door handles were broken! What's a little rust between friends when it's barely structural? You'll be, no doubt, horrified to hear that I was rescued by a kindly young hoon with a MIG welder, a spraygun and a spare 302 Windsor who has lovingly nurtured me back to better than my former, barnstorming 4.1 glory.
Nyaaah.
Next time we see you, you shall be left in a cloud of dust and rubber chunks!
1987 Suzuki Swift GTi
Zing we went here, and zing we went there,
an angry bee sound in a hurry for nowhere.
Chirp went my tyres and clang went my doors,
No rules of the road, no time for road laws,
Smitten one instant and bored the next day,
You'll be happy to know I felt the same way.
1977 Alfetta GTV
Thanks a bunch for leaving me behind the smash repairer after that Volvo totalled me. I gave you everything, my life included. You know they wrote me off, don't you? Or don't you care? Don't tell me you've forgotten our passion for back roads and high revs? It didn't matter how hard you threw me; I never let go. Ever.
You treated me like dirt; a day didn't go past when you didn't hit the redline, didn't howl my tyres into red welts. You broke me, beat me, thrashed me and I came back like a wild vixen with eyes ablaze ready for more. Your parting words were nothing but cruel. I thought nothing could cut deeper than our torrid past but you merely flicked the keys to the tow truck guy and walked off, trying to pretend nothing had happened.
I could see you were shaking, part rage and part shock. You couldn't look back. You know it wasn't our fault, getting rear-ended like that by an inattentive driver. I saw you briefly, years later, I felt your eyes on what was left of my rear three-quarter, but you didn't recognize me.
Come back, come back - you will be forgiven the first instant our eyes meet...
1986 Saab 900i
I breathed a deep sigh of relief the day we parted - you and I were never really compatible. Your foot mashed into my carpet all the time while I leisurely putted along at my own pace. If you'd only been more sensitive to my needs, we may have had a longer relationship. When I slowly started to chew my own oil pump housing? I did that as a gentle reminder that I was never meant to be pedalled so hard.
I'll bet that $3000 bill hurt, didn't it?
I'm a gentle, highway cruiser, not one of those tarty sports cars. I blew that radiator hose deliberately you know, just to see what would happen. I didn't quite expect you trade me so quickly, mind you. I mean, the same day? Just because the dealer didn't have a radiator hose to fit me?
A bit rash wasn't it?
1993 Mazda MX-5
I wasn't at all surprised when you decided we needed some "space". It was typical of you, as I found out talking to all your ex cars. Same old pattern dearie, getting very boring now that you're over 30.
Initial lust followed by a rather rapid cooling off period. I was slumming when I was with you, you realise that? Your hamfisted skills could never hope to adjust to my delicacy. All that sliding around wasn't your skill: it was me.
I was just faking it...
1973 Alfa Spider Veloce
I hear you're now seeing a Spider who's almost identical to me. Feeling lonely little man? Couldn't cough up the finances for a baby and a car at the same time?
Apparently you can now.
You could have cut down your beer budget a bit, but no. It was over between us apparently. No racy cars for the family man. But it was just an excuse, wasn't it? That's a rhetorical question, by the way. That means that you don't have to answer it - do I have to explain everything?
I hope you and your new Spider are doing well. I hear that she's a little, er, rustier than I was? You've spent over ten thousand dollars and still can't drive her?
Pfffft! Really saved some money, didn't you?
1989 Alfa 164
What you failed to understand throughout our relationship was that I wasn't unreliable, it was your expectations that were high.
Simple fact is, electricals on old European cars fail. They do! Talk to any old BMW and ask them how healthy their climate control is feeling after eight years and they'll all groan and creak the same thing: damn cheap Bosch plastic gears driving everything. Usually busted.
I know you loved my polished intake pipes, and that spine-tingling yowl I could make when revving out. There isn't a car alive that can sing NASCAR and Ferrari under the same engine bay like me. Being sold off, in an underground carpark - for cash - was the dirtiest deal that's ever been done over my depreciating carcass. It was just plain demeaning; something I've never fully recovered from.
Since you were my 23rd owner, you'll be forgiven eventually, but don't expect a warm welcome. But if you bring money.... this guy is starting to run out and I need some new stepper motors.
1996 Jeep Cherokee
Woof! Woof! Slobber!
SSHHHLLUUUUURRRRRRRRPPPP!
(Down boy! Down)
aaaaaaAAARRRRUUUFFF! RUFFF RUFF!
(Didn't we get that thing neutered? Get it off my leg!)
1992 BMW 320i
Who? The Rubies? Wasn't me old boy.
See? The papers say I was a company car. Nope, not the Rubies. Couldn't possibly have been.
Looking at them, they couldn't have afforded me anyway.
I think you'll find I was the company director's car if you dig a little deeper. Spent most of my time in the garage with a snifter of Mobil 1. Occasional jaunt to the wineries, you know the thing. Frankly, I'm a little insulted you even think I was their car.
I've never had snotty brats in my back seat, not my thing, old man...
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