I admit.I kinda like luxury. Driving around in my Audi feels like warping to a destination in a plushy environment. Great sound through the countless speakers. Air cushioned suspension, enough power to propel a pound of red meat in an orbit around Alpha Centauri and a small army of high tech to keep the thing on the road… Safe. Smooth.
I’ve been in a plethora of nice cars lately. The new Jaguar. The Audi R8. Porsches battleship Panamera, the new Land Rover, the new Maserati. They’re all nice. They’re all fast. They’re all beautiful. And yet, none of them does the trick.
You see, I like the old ones. The terrible beasts of the past. Cars with history, character, and murderous potential. I like the smell of old leather, and planet unfriendly oil. I like the ridiculous decibels of exhausts of petrolhead friendly times.
Cars that you have to drive by the seat of your pants, that accelerate as a tsunami on a bad day, and stop on a peseta. I like having to fight to keep the thing on the road, to muscle it into curves, to explore the adhesive quality of the tires well beyond any reasonable limits.
I love to feel in control, without the nanny mentality of the countless electronic safety features that the new cars have. I do not want a sissy engineer in Dusseldorf deciding what the speed limit should be, I do not want ESP, ARD, SAR and tutti quanti to take over control. I do not want ABS to make braking easier… I want full control of an old muscle car, and my destiny. Driving oldies gives you this brainsplitting certainty: it’s between you, the car, and the road. No quarter asked, nor given… And solid trees, stone bridges and merciless concrete to judge.
Having my own destiny in my hand, cruising through dust, sun and wind… it makes me, silly old boy, very happy…
