Why I Love Cars – Creative Writing Informal Essay
Ever since I was little, I’ve liked cars. Fast cars. Expensive cars. Cars that I wouldn’t be able to afford for decades, much less even see in person. Granted, I grew up around cars, but I was never taught to enjoy them. It was something that I had been around so much, that I grew to love it. As a kid, you would find Road & Track magazines and Porsche books and brochures
on my shelves and Ferrari posters on my walls.
Don’t ask me why cars are my passion, I can’t give you a qualified answer. I do know that my dad’s expensive taste has certainly rubbed off on me. Two of his cars stand out from my childhood, a Cloud White Nissan 300ZX Turbo and a Guards Red Porsche 944. I can remember riding in the Nissan, but not the Porsche. My mom has a picture of me “helping” my dad wash the Porsche. At the time of the picture I was about two and half. Even though I was far too young to appreciate the marvel of engineering that lay before me, I was happy and enjoying myself. I was probably more fascinated by the soap bubbles rather than the sexy sheet metal though.
My first car was a Volkswagen Jetta. It was no road going race car, but I loved it anyway. Sure, I could talk all day about cars I didn’t own, but at the time I couldn’t change the oil on the car I did own. So began my learning about Volkswagens. In my case, experience was the best teacher. Eventually it came time to change brake pads. With all of my tools and parts gathered, I set off to the garage to get to work. In theory, the brake job should have been completed without any trouble. Not so fast. As tools are wont to do when needed most, my piston compressor gizmo went AWOL. After quickly scouring the immediate area, I realized that if I didn’t figure something out, I wasn’t going to be doing much driving that weekend. Resolve and determination firmly engaged, I cobbled together a substitute device. With the power of C clamps, blocks of wood, foul language, and elbow grease, I finished the job. Two hours behind schedule. Not only was it a pain in the ass, it was a pain in the ass I enjoyed.
Enter stage left, my younger brother ready to inherit my Jetta. Enter stage right, my replacement, a Volkswagen GTi 337 Edition. Halleluiah. It was actually quick enough to get out of its own way and didn’t feel like it was riding on a block of Jello. It was my new favorite toy, my new baby. I would spend hours washing and waxing it only to have it dirtied by two trips up and down my limestone driveway. I didn’t mind, I got to spend quality time with something I loved. I would become the giddy little kid with the Porsche again.
Then it was wrecked. A woman in a tank of Buick didn’t yield on a turn for me. She raked down the entire driver’s side of the car. Needless to say, I was fuming. I’ll forego the graphic description of the events that followed. A fender, door, rear quarter panel, two wheels, and three months later I got it back. I wasn’t impressed. My 337 Edition, one of 1500 produced, would never be like its brethren. I was certainly not happy about the whole thing, but after awhile I cooled off. The car and I had shared an experience together. We learned how to deal with insurance agencies and body shops together. However nonsensical it sounds, after spending so much time and money on the car, I couldn’t help but feel a bond with it.