Classic Cars – Part of the Family

It’s 2012, I think, and I’m stood at the front gate of my house. On the street in front of me there is a 4×4 with a Brian James trailer hitched up to it. Atop that trailer sits a 1961 Ford Zodiac Mk2 ‘lowline’. My 1961 Zodiac. Except it’s not anymore, because I have cash in my hand. It’s someone else’s car now, and it’s going away to live a new life with someone else. The diesel engine of the 4×4 grumbles under the load of the trailer and the car resting on it. I stand there, silent, as I watch ‘my’ car disappear into the distance. And I take no shame in saying this; I shed more than one tear. It was more than a car, it was a member of the family, but one that had to leave the nest. I went back inside, slumped down on the sofa, and wiped away another tear or nineteen. The cash sat on the table opposite me doing little to alleviate my sadness. 

Cars, especially classics, do that, don’t they? They get under your skin, they become part of the family. You refer to them and think of them as living entities. You go away on holiday, and you hope your classic is okay sitting in the garage. If your classic is parked outside and the heavens open, you run out and stick it back in the garage. Not for your sake, but because the car wouldn’t like it. You don’t have that relationship with a fridge, or your drill, or any other machine you may own. Weird. 

I think it has something to do with the way in which a classic car – or any car for that matter – entwines itself within the rich tapestry of our lives. Your car is there for your first date, it takes your new-born child from the hospital, it goes on holiday with you. It’s a companion throughout your life. Whether you like cars or not, you still remember the ones in your life. Your fridge doesn’t attend your milestones, so you don’t care about that.

Then there is the fact that cars, these frankly insane collection of hundreds of thousands of moving parts, flowing fluids and coursing currents, have personalities. I’ll die on that hill, personally. They do have personalities. It might be me pushing some anthropomorphic agenda upon them, but even if it is, I don’t do that with the fridge. Cars are different. We perceive them differently. We bond with them on an emotional level. We treat them like a family pet, not a… you guessed it, fridge. 

You may, of course, be reading this and wondering if it’s perhaps time I seek professional help. But let me explain why I think it makes owning a classic car special. For starters, while I’m confident cars have personalities, I’m not suggesting they’re alive or anything. I just think that their years of service, along with the many hands that have worked to keep them going for so long, have ensured that no one classic is the same. That’s why they seem to have a mind of their own. Then there is the way a classic car just… is. In a classic, the engine, the suspension, the steering, they all require proper engagement from us. A modern car doesn’t have this. It’s all fly-by-wire and electric. There is no mechanical and physical interface. Of course, a new Fiesta drives differently to a new Ferrari, but neither have the same ‘soul’ as older versions. Older cars are laden with charming idiosyncrasies that in turn give us reason to bond with them. I like that. 

And it’s this way in which we bond that I think, at its core, is the bedrock of classic car ownership. We buy them not just because of what they are, but also because of how they are. A classic car is something you really consider with some emotion. Picking the right classic car is a process more closely linked to getting a new pet than buying a modern car. Even if you don’t see any of this in classics, you can’t deny that buying one is a very personal thing. And it’s because a classic car is something we want. Nobody needs one. And because it’s a want rather than a need, we choose with our hearts, and that is what makes owning a classic so special. It’s personal, a classic is bought to represent our individual tastes and desires. 

And when we get one, it becomes – despite being a machine – a member of the family. It becomes valued and loved and cared for. It becomes more than just a car. And that’s why, when the time comes to move them on to a new home, it’s so very hard indeed. I miss my Zodiac like I miss a human, but like a human, I’m delighted to know it’s doing well today. Now restored and in incredible condition, it’s got a new life, with a new family. I’m just glad for a short few years, it got to be a member of mine.