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.
Finished the Cincinnati Oppo rally with the Crown vic. The suspension is no Town car, it squeaks like an old mattress on the glorious Midwestern roads (fixing that in progress), and only one door doesn’t have a dent in it, but it was a heck of a time and tons of driving. As long as it’s mechanically sound a few dents and scrapes are a part of life 🙂
I do like a car with not perfect paint maybe a few dents. It’s nice not to worry if it gets scratched. But some of the shitboxes and rustbuckets that you write about on here? No thanks!
This also goes for something higher end, especially if you’re doing it yourself. For example when my dad and I started building his cobra replica our mantra quickly became “It’s fine, it’s a racecar.” The only things we kept truly perfect until after he got to actually start driving it were the seats and the glass. Keeping the flaws as badges of honor/battle scars means that instead of building a trailer queen, he drives it to work whenever he can due to weather, and when he takes it to car shows he lets just about everybody sit in it because she ain’t perfect so lets make someone’s day.
I love this Jason. My first car was a rusty 40hp Karmann Ghia convertible. $200. Winter. Fuck that: wear a heavier coat scraping ice Off the inside of the windshield. More joy more memories, my first girl friend. When said gf and I set off for Europe, after trains but mostly hitchhiking we bought a VW van from some guys going home. ($150) This was the panel van no insulation pretty sure 3
Cylinders were working loved it. It is ow a chicken coop somewhere in Gloucester county. I don’t wrench but I continue to take in strays and have people. Backstory is always the best excuse. Peace out fellow member of the tribe
Can you do an article on how to title and register a salvage car bought from copart? I would have pulled the trigger years ago on one but the salvage title was the tipping point.
Ended up going with a police auction vehicle that was pinstriped and had deer damage. I love the freedom of previously damaged (cosmetically) vehicle.
It probably would be different in every state. My grandfather rebuilt totaled cars in Pennsylvania for many years.
You needed the salvage certificate, and an enhanced inspection from a regular vehicle inspection station to verify the safety of the car. You fill out and notarize an MV-6 form, and it all gets sent to Harrisburg.
Eventually, it gets approved and you get an R-branded title. There were caveats, up through the early 2000s, my grandfather would avoid buying cars from certain neighbor states because it was harder to get the title improved.
It sounds complicated but perfect for a weekly series of articles. Just like Mercury Mondays!
My last new car was bought in 1983. I remember being paranoid for the first two months until I had the first door ding. Then I could relax and enjoy it.
I bought one new car for my wife, she was all worried for about an hour until a golfball sized rock fell out of a truck on the freeway put a ding in the hood and poped the windshield. After that our toddlers leaving crap all over in it(including gummy bears that melted into the carpets) didn’t bother her.
I agree that having a car with scratches and the occasional dent frees,you from worry. Having some wrenching history creates a connection, and also an assurance that the car is basically reliable. Our current fleet are old, cheap, and have had wrenches applied. This also means I have performed the arcane ritual of Proxy Alignment on our Fiat after exorcising the Blue & Me.
I am irrationally jealous of whomsoever it was that took home the yellow Fiat 128. It may be imperfect, but it’s only flaw is that it gets mistaken for that Lada in the Trump tweet.
I had an $800 1981 Peugeot 504 diesel wagon 4 speed. It was my semi daily for years. A little battered, a lot faded, slow and smelly, it never failed to start and go. Rode incredibly well, super comfy seats, cavernous interior, and of course just weird as hell. It was a heap and I loved it.
Ah, that was my old Wrangler. Scrapes from offroading? Dents? Scratches? Bent back tailgate where I piled wood from a renovation in the back and slammed the gate? No big deal. It’s a Wrangler.
Also this article makes me feel better about my Saab 900 purchase. Few more safety changes then it can reside in the “it’s good enough” category.
That’s how I feel about my TJ – it’s a TJ, so it should be rough and flawed. My dents and scrapes are all from hard drops on rocks and rubbing trees on tight trails, but the sentiment is the same. I liked my JKs too, but I always felt their flaws were harder to accept than the TJ’s.
“Get yourself a crappy car that needs you.”
Well ahead on that front. I even have a crappy small pickup to haul any of my several crappy motorcycles when they crap out, a less-crappy larger pickup to pull the smaller one if needed, and even a crappy transit system I can get home with to fetch any of the above.
What you didn’t mention is the lack of a car payment, so you’re never underwater. If it’s truly a pile, it’s not worth anything anyway, and a car cannot be worth less than $0.
Due to equal parts reading myriad stories of crapcan cars on this site and my current financial situation, I am planning on getting rid of my beloved S550 Mustang in the next few days (I’ve said in the past that I’d always have a Mustang, but it dawned on me that I’d rather have a house to live in). Besides, I’m also planning on returning to live performance for the first time in about 20 years, and it’s not exactly the ideal vehicle to cart around a drum kit. In the short term, I’ll probably steal my daughter’s Mini (it’s technically mine anyway), but for some illogical reason, I find myself wanting another older GTI. Thankfully, my eldest son is a mechanic who dailies a Jetta Trek that’s almost as old as him.
HECK YEAH on playing gigs again. Hope you have time to rebuild your stamina, and hope your practice space isn’t a sauna this summer/fall.
Yeah, it’s time. Although I took a few years off from drumming about 15 years ago, I’ve been back at it for quite a while, in the comfort (and coolness) of my basement, so my ability to play a whole set shouldn’t be a problem.
I think.
Was chatting with someone a few years ago about why Portland Oregon had so many great drummers at the time, and he said, “you can get a house with a basement here.”
I definitely felt that way 8, maybe 10 years ago. I guess financial security and a little bit of margin in the budget easies the stress of keeping something perfect. I daily a GR86 with 8,600 miles that I bought new. The only mental anguish is the warranty keeps me from making the changes I want to. Its not a project when you can’t work on it.
I daily an FR-S and since it’s now 12 years old and on a salvage title, I know that it can take whatever may come its way and keep on going.
My FR-S I bought a few years back at only 18000 miles and have since gotten it to almost 50k in about 3 years. It was sadly totaled after hitting a deer, but since I was the one in the accident and I knew how bad the damage was and that it was properly repaired, I plan to keep driving it forever.
Having never bought a car for over $6K, this is true. I was even able to get an ’07 A8 that is simultaneously nice and crappy.
My metric is the coffee cup test. If a car is so nice that I don’t feel right about setting a coffee cup on the roof while I unlock it, I don’t want the hassle and stress of owning it.
There’s of course another angle to this: buying an even crappier car than your main project so you can feel better about your progress. I’ve done this and it hasn’t worked out that terribly yet?
I think my favorite detail that shows how it interesting of a life my main car has lived is showing people how someone clearly drove it through wet concrete at some point.
“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.