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.
When I bought my E28 BMW, I paid money the same day and asked old lady seller for the car to be left in the garage until i pick it up. i think mentally I wasn’t ready and just pulled the trigger as the owner was so nice.
It took me 4 months to finally make up my mind and take it out and oh my it was worse than I thought.
When I called her and said i am coming she chuckled: “Hehe, I thought you are not coming for it and you changed your mind, I would have given you your money back”.
She is just so sweet.
Cleaned it, did maintenance and it is PERFECTLY IMPERFECT. paint has few blisters here and there, diveboard bumpers, some dings here and there…
and it is exactly how I love it now, 4 years later. Kids play in it, slam doors, help me wash it (scary picture), roll windows up and down and I make memories. i take it portaging and camping without worrying too much. we can use the trunk lid as a table to eat, all kinds of stuff.
and all of that for a 2 week’s worth of pay which is amazing. even if something catastrophic happens, I will let it go and still be happy.
I have E38 in a very mint condition and every time i worry too much about it hence it mostly sits under the cover.
when i was young, i had that OCD that every car I have must be perfect and no other way. I am glad I am over it now.
Absolutely. My last vehicle purchase was intentionally imperfect for the reasons you stated. I wanted a cheap fullsize 4WD SUV to be able to take out on local off road trails, tow my race car, and camp in, but without worrying getting a few scratches or dents on it. $4500 got me a 2004 Sequoia with roached clear coat, some dents, a torn up leather interior, but good mechanical shape for 250K miles. I put a couple grand of repairs and upgrades on it and it still looks kinda worn but runs and drives great, and I love that I don’t care if some brush on the side of the trail scrapes the paint, or if the dog yacks in the back seat. I just clean it off and move on. It’s a very freeing feeling.
That’s a special kind of comfort: not having to freak out when the dog pukes the backseat. 🙂
I didn’t even have to click your link to know your “cheap V12 example” would be a Jaguar. They are quite simply unloved, and that makes them the cheapest way to get a 12-cylinder count. Ask me how I know.
I get it, I’ve got a really nice ’65 c10 that I really wish was rougher. It’s not perfect, but close enough that it can get in the way of really enjoying it the way I want to.
I had beater accord in several colors. Had been in a fender bender and adequately repaired. Clear coat gone. lots of small dings and scratches. GF asked “why do you drive such a crappy car?”
I took out my keys and carved a line down the side of the car. “That’s why.”
I get it! My 1999 Porshe 911 is mechanically in excellent condition, but it has a few dings, a couple of scratches and a scrape on the hard top that appears to have been repaired by a blind guy (or girl). What this means is that I can drive it anywhere, park it anywhere, and just enjoy it. Sometimes it gets dirty a couple of days before I can wash it – that is OK too. And if my wife jumps in it and parks next to a rusty Econoline van, no problem. When I bought it I assumed that I would fix the boo-boos in the paint – eight years later this has still not happened. So for me this is the perfect sports car.
Once again, I have to marvel at Jason’s ability to put into entertaining words something I myself have thought about for years, but seldom verbalized.
I revel in the imperfection of my current trio of cars. All were purchased well-used for reasonable sums, so imperfection is to be expected. Rather than begrudgingly accepted, I welcome it for all the practical reasons Jason mentioned. Each scratch, blemish, or ding is almost a badge of honor: evidence of survivor status and a thing serving its intended purpose.
My favorite ‘beauty mark’ is the spot on the tailgate of my most recent aquisition, a 167Kmile ’89 Volvo 240 wagon (manual, w/AC) where the evidence of a prior owner’s Jesus Fish is plainly visible. Most of the clearcoat has long since baked off my silver car, leaving it looking like the back side of a roll of aluminum foil. And here’s the spot where the fish used to live:
https://imgur.com/a/9N0MPMB
I recently went from two daily drivers to a single car because in reality one of the cars was a commuter and the other did all the trips, weekend errands, etc. and I had changed to a job with a public transit commute so the commuter was just sitting.
We bought used and ended up with a 4 year old car with only 9000 miles on it in beautiful condition. I put seat covers on the rear seats as general protection for 2 frequently muddy dogs and got a Canvasback cover for the cargo area but 3 weeks into owning it I had 12 bags of mulch and 4 bags of soil loaded in the back after a trip to Home Depot. I certainly am not trying to abuse my cars but having a single car drives home the fact that we bought a comfortable expensive tool and if it can’t do what we needed it for then we should admit that we bought the wrong tool.
I just bought a 2007 Audi S8 with131k miles, 5 previous owners and no service history from a mechanic, It has oil leaks from the everything. I have never owned an Audi before. OMG what have I done……..
I’ve never driven a car I worried about putting garage stuff on the hood or trunk.
The problem with my 2005 Grand Cherokee is at this point I know the ins and outs of it so well I fear that if I do buy another car I’ll probably just buy another one from a southern state that doesn’t use salt.
The devil you know kind of thing.
The 03 G35 Coupe burns a little oil but it’s still fun, has low miles and I don’t care if the wife dings the door when she gets out of the prius. A ding in the hood from when my daughter dropped the bike on it yanking the bike of the garage hook it was hanging from. These things happen. I bought a dent puller kit from Amazon but have yet to give it a shot cause frankly it doesn’t bother me that much.
IMO cars are tools and as long as you aren’t worried about your safety or it not getting you from A to B….you’re golden.
I totally agree with the sentiment behind this article, and I love a car with history and charm. But my feelings change when I depend on that car to get me to a job everyday without fail. Then unreliability isn’t “adventure injected into my life” but an unexpected burden on my time and finances.
Though most people think I am crazy, I have unique ritual after I buy a new car. I get home and put on my hard shoes. Then walk out to the driveway and kick the driver side door as hard as I can.
I then never worry about any scratch or dents. I don’t walk out of the store and worry my car might have been dinged and I will never know who’s to blame.
I know who did it!
If you can’t emotionally afford to get a scratch on your toy, you can’t afford it, period.
The first scratch on a car can be so freeing.
Thank you, squirrel who knocked a miter saw off a shelf and scratched my months-old Juke’s door.
Squirrels are jerks…
Yes! Wife was so happy when I curbed the wheel of our new GTI. “Now I can parallel park it!” as I had already done the first damage.
Now it’s 13 years later, I have FlexSeal tape on the moon roof opening, and I don’t care.
My 1956 Lincoln was shabby but 100% functional. I was the one at car shows encouraging people to go ahead and sit in it. How better to get the next generation into the car culture than allowing them to experience a 50’s boat and a turbo Miata and take them 4 wheeling and ice drifting. For most of these you need a car you don’t really care about messing with.
Teach someone to drive a standard in your car. The clutch can probably take it and it may just change their life.
One of my favorite cars of the past was a bare-bones 1997 Jeep Wrangler. It had some rust, only a soft top, no AC or anti-lock brakes (it was originally sold in Canada), and had its share of mechanical issues. However, I would park it anywhere, never lock the doors, and didn’t care if the side curtains weren’t on when it rained. It was the perfect urban runabout because it could park anywhere, didn’t care about potholes or door-dings. I truly hated the 2012 Wrangler 4-door my partner inherited because it had all the worst parts of being a Wrangler and, since it was basically new, had none of the benefits that were the reason I loved the old one.
I used to get incredibly frustrated by paint chips and imperfections in my Mustangs. It was bad, basically overkill.
I purchased myself a brand new Boss 302 in GHIG as my “graduation” present. It was to be my ‘forever car’, starting as a daily, then when paid off, it’d be my track car. I’d perseverate over every little imperfection. It made me very anxious to use the car.
Then one day I went to a race and walked the pits. Every single racecar had paint chips galore. It was then I realized that they’re prideful badges of honor. It meant the car had been driven and used for its intended purpose.
While I still hated things like bird poop, seeing new paint chips meant my car was living its life to the fullest. I embraced the scars it received at track days. Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be my forever car (thanks American “healthcare”). But recognizing imperfections like that made ownership less stressful and more enjoyable.
The sweet spot is below “I have no payments”, and above “I have no pride”.
Exactly! 😀 Well said!