Perfection is a trap.
I’m not saying that perfect, beautiful things don’t have a place in our lives; of course they do! They’re perfect and beautiful, after all. But they’re also a burden. And in the automotive world, I think this is even more true. You know what I’d do if I had a Singer 911? – sorry, a Porsche Re-Imagined by Singer? Probably develop an ulcer. A horrible, painful ulcer, because I knew that if I even looked at that absolutely perfectly engineered and designed machine too hard, my moist sub-par eyes would somehow be de-valuing it with their vision-rays, or however eyes work.
Every trip in that perfect Singer would be a tense journey of worry, every parking job would be a mild crisis, each large curb would be a cruel adversary, hungry to scrape the clams out of your wheels. I’m sure there’s people who enjoy their Singers and other beautiful, perfect cars, but I’m going to go out on a rusty, musty-smelling limb and say that when it comes to just pure, raw, visceral enjoyment, a genuine shitbox beats a perfect car hands down, every single time.
I know what you’re thinking, thanks to a service Amazon offers to Prime members, and you’re quite skeptical. Very likely, you’ve been conditioned by culture and society to believe that, somehow, good things are good and lousy things are, you know, lousy. I’m here to tell you this just isn’t the case.
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This is something I think I’ve always known, deep down, but became wildly clear and obvious during our whole adventure driving our $800, 375,000-mile ex-NYC taxi across the country. That car was an absolute, unadulterated, unrepentant, uncouth, unclean heap, and that is precisely why I ended up loving that filthy yellow hunk of crap. Copart, our partner on this journey, had a lot of much nicer cars we could have bought, but we all found this one deeply appealing because of its deep imperfections.
Look, here’s a video about the whole remarkable and grueling experience!
If that taxi was perfectly preserved and came into my life gleaming bright and running like a well-oiled top, then I doubt I would have cared about it at all. Because why would I need to?
I think that may be at the root of the appeal of the quite imperfect car: it needs us. Without you, the car will likely end up as many steel cylinders containing a small volume of soup on a store shelves. You’re a direct part of this car’s continued existence and future.
It’s not fine when it comes into your life. In fact, it’s often a basket case. You want your friends to see it and shake their heads in disgust and dismay when they see what you’ve dragged home from the junkyard. You want them to believe that you’re a fool, and this car will never run, and maybe you want one of them to take you aside and tell you, in somber, hushed tones, that perhaps you should seek the counsel of your clergyperson.
All of that, though, those reactions of disbelief and rolled eyes, those are all seeds that you’ll be planting and growing, and then will harvest the fruits of glorious satisfaction when you do, eventually, get your heap running. An imperfect car offers these opportunities, ones that just going out and buying something perfect can never provide. There’s no real satisfaction in just buying something perfect; it’s done, it doesn’t need you to believe in it or have a vision, it just needs you to have money, and what kind of story is that?
Imperfect cars come with stories, both from their own, often murky pasts and creating new stories the moment you get involved with the imperfect car.
I keep coming back to the example of our taxi, because it really is a sort of textbook example: it had a past, one that we only knew about in general terms. It was a hardworking taxi in New York City, and the sheer volume of miles and the incredibly worn condition of its interior told that tale. The shattered subframe and suspension damage and leaking crankcase all hinted at some manner of violent end, and this all just added to the lore.
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Then, once we purchased the taxi, chance immediately started writing new chapters in the Tale of the Taxi, like when it rolled off the tow vehicle and smashed into a tree. While this is objectively terrible and could have actually been downright tragic, we got lucky and no one was hurt, so the end result was this blighted machine had a new level of tragic backstory applied to it, which just added to the car’s character and story.
It took a lot of work on the taxi to get it running and driving again, and that is also part of the appeal of an imperfect car. The work is the process! It’s how you bond with the car, it’s how you earn the perverse pride you’ll feel when you actually get to drive it around!
And that, of course, is the purpose of a car: to drive it. Imperfect cars can be some of the best driving experiences – well, maybe “best” is the wrong word here – let’s say engaging driving experiences, because an imperfect car is inherently full of strange quirks and idiosyncrasies that keep your drives from ever being, you know, boring.
An imperfect car – once you get it safe enough and all that, of course – is one that you can enjoy almost more than any “nice” car because you’re freed from the burden of being careful. You can push it, abuse it, do whatever feels fun at the time, and if something gets scratched or dented or breaks then oh well! That’s part of life! And you go on, still delighted.
Don’t believe me? Look at the obvious joy of this man has about his entire yard full of imperfect cars:
This lightly unhinged freedom that you see exhibited in that video, this is at the heart of the joy of an imperfect car. An imperfect car is like a bonkers, charming dog that runs flat out into a wall, rolls around, shakes it off, and keeps going, delight not even remotely impacted by the impact. A car that you can use for anything, that you can leave parked anywhere without worry, that you don’t fret about if it gets full of beach sand or mud or confetti or whatever, that’s the essence of an enjoyable car.
Plus, the almost guaranteed unreliability of such a lovable heap all but guarantees more adventure injected into your life. Getting stuck places is just an opportunity to see new things and meet new people, after all, and a pleasingly crappy car can act as a sort of serendipity-generating machine, if you approach it with the right sort of accepting and relaxed attitude.
I also tend to think the best ramshackle imperfect cars are ones that started life as the opposite; luxury cars brought down multiple pegs, thanks to the cruel, unrelenting abuse of time and the powerful hammer of depreciation. Look at something like this, for example:
That Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow there is currently at a bid of $1,700 and while, yes, it’s objectively a terrible idea, this would make a truly fantastic imperfect car. The contrast is what would make it so good, of course, driving something that was once the pinnacle of luxury and is now a battered, dusty heap with rust spots, but still retaining some ghosts of its former dignity.
The options really are limitless, and with some careful and judicious lowering of your standards of quality – standards that only serve to disappoint, if we’re honest – you can find yourself with the opportunity to experience some really remarkable cars. Cars with 12 cylinders, boxy Italian wonders, under-appreciated Americans, forbidden fruits, and old favorites. And all you need to do is make peace with owning and enjoying an imperfect example. It’s not only rewarding, it’s also likely going to be a lot cheaper.
It’s easier than you think, really. Our brains seem to be wired to find affection and sympathy for the underdog, and the right kind of ramshackle car can tick all those boxes. A car is meant to be enjoyed and driven, and, once freed from the shackles of status and quality and perfection, it’s something that can be truly and completely enjoyed.
Get yourself a crappy car that needs you. There’s happiness there.
“That Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow there is currently at a bid of $1,700 and while, yes, it’s objectively a terrible idea, this would make a truly fantastic imperfect car.”
An imperfect car that’s perfect for all your terrible ideas to drive it into a swimming pool.