You lousy beat-up quirky weird-looking car with your disproportionately high number of Scottish fans.
You were weak, but you tried and you tried hard when I needed you to move quickly. I could tell you were less than pleased at the pedal being against the metal, but you without hesitation (after a transmission delay) would drop a gear and tear time and space apart (slowly) revving up hard and clocking up the kilometres slightly faster.
You’re kinda broken, and you faint sometimes, because your fuel gauge is about as accurate as a drunk panda trying to predict the weather. Yet you march on anyway. You’re cranky as hell in the morning, but once you warm up you drive like a (slow) dream.
You’re basic, but you’re relaxing to drive. You’re simple, yet you’re flexible. You don’t care if you’re on motorway, fire trail, dirt or gravel, you power through anyway and never fail me. You’ve taken me on dates, holidays, road-trips, ice cream runs, you’ve shuttled friends covered in blood to the hospital, you’ve even once pulled a car out of some slippery grass. You’ve put up with all my kerfuffle and my nilly-willy without complaining once.
You’ve even had a drunk twat dance on your bonnet. The dents he left broke me. You’re like my child, damn it. No mother can watch their kid get beat up.
You look weird, but you’re proud of it. No other car looks like you, and nobody drives cars like you, so you’re unique on the roads, yet you manage to look modern rather than some antique. You were my first car, and I remember the moment I set my eyes on you for the first time I had fallen in love with you (fullhomo). I couldn’t wait to do my research on your history and go to the bank and get money out so I could bring you home. The four days it took for all this to happen were unbearable, I was itching to just hurry up and get you home.
I remember my first drive in you. Your steering was heavy, yet pleasant. Your throttle pedal was heavy but just right, I settled in immediately. Your side mirrors, they were small, but they did the job. I felt comfortable driving you, and I can attest to this by the fact I drove you for sixteen hours straight without getting a sore arse or arms.
Your suspension is crackers and you bounce for a kilometre when you drive over a grain of sand. You’ve spun out of control a few times because you like to oversteer, but otherwise you handled anything I threw at you excellently. You’ve got a crack in your posterior and your front bumper looks like a child painted it, but you’re so fine. You’re a worn car, you’ve endured so damn much, but most of you still work. You still start up before I’ve finished turning the key. You still feel like the day I met you, though thankfully you smell far better now. You’ve gotten me to uni in time so many times, you’ve rescued my friends, you’ve cheered me up, you’re damn basic but my gosh you made me so happy.
But it’s time to let you go. Like a child with a trunk full of toys who can talk and walk, its time to move on, grow up, and give you away to someone more deserving of you. I know you know this and I know you’re sad, just like the toys were, and you’ll go through some rough times getting to deal with it. I can feel that when I drive you on these final days and it absolutely breaks my heart and I am full of guilt. You and me both, my dear friend, you and me both are shattered. You don’t know how much I want to just keep you, but you and I both know I can’t do that (financially and space-wise). I need to make room for new adventures, a new grown up life. I’ve grown up. I’ve developed new ambitions.
I’m so, so sorry. I’ll miss you horribly. I’ll miss you chugging when you realise you’re almost dry, I’ll miss your bounciness, your wonderful ambience, the absolute joy of sitting behind your steering wheel and laughing at the fact I can’t actually go very fast but I’m still moving very fast towards places I want to go. I’ll never forget all the adventures we had together, all the things we’ve done, all the roads we’ve traversed, all the shops we’ve been to, those times when I’ve gotten so angry at you, and those times I’ve missed you horribly while you were being borrowed or when I was on holidays. The people we’ve shuttled around, the arguments that have been had in the car, the songs that have been sung, the feeble attempts to improve your simpleness. Everything we’ve done, I’ll never forget.
Thank you, especially though, for being the car who helped me discover the girl of my dreams.
The new car, he’s a classy monster of a machine. He’s great and an absolute joy to drive, and I love him too, but he’ll never replace you. Nothing will never replace you. I could never find a mod appropriate for you, you were a boring unmoddable car, but you were a great car, and you were my first car. But I have to move on. Like I said, it’s time to grow up. It’s a hard decision, but I had to make it.
Please don’t cry as I am, you’re going to a good home now. You’re going to someone who will love driving you as much as I did. Perhaps you’ll once again be a first car for someone else. You are an absolutely wonderful first car and I know you’ll make someone else as happy as you made me.
…who am I kidding, you’re going to the scrappers. Have a great retirement. You deserve it now.
Farewell, my sweet friend. It’s been an absolute honour.