So many tales so little time.
We did car surf on the top of Uncle Rab's Suzuki Super Carry micro panel van down a dirt track. Scared the crap out of me, left a dent in his roof.

I am led to believe that thirteen people also managed to fit into it on a trip up the motorway even managing to scare the crap out of the McDonalds drive-through staff when they slid the door back to reveal a writhing mass of limbs to collect their vast food order.

Oh, and there was the time that certain individuals (nameless for security as they are far more respectable now) rode their (standup) jetskis on a double trailer being pulled at speed down the main road.

We also may have setup a dinghy complete with sail raised on top of Wiggy's Astra in the middle of the night in a gale.

The Skoda Estelle with battery acid in the footwell.

Bouncing schoolmates' cars into impossible parking spots.

And then there was the bus with the window and the fog and the alcoholics....a story for later perhaps along with many many many more.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 22 Apr 2010, 18:10, 1 reply)

My dad
Years ago my dad and his friends would go metal detecting in fields, quite late at night. If you so happened to fall asleep in the back of the car, you were fair game.
You'd be alright for the first ten or so minutes, sleeping soundly in a warm car when you'd been bollock-freezing outside for a few hours digging up random bits of crusty tat.
This is the part my dad tells with relish and still has a little chuckle about today.
He'd get everyone awake in the car to count to three, then he'd slam on the brakes and they would all scream!
(funnily enough, he always offered to drive on those occasions)
(Rocket, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 18:06, Reply)

White car turns red.
A good many years ago a friend of mine borrowed his dads pride and joy to take him and his mates to a gig.
This involved driving back late on the motorway.

You know how there are dark stretches on the motorway? Well he hit something and wrecked his dads car.

It was a cow.

I think he pretty much wrecked that too.
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 18:01, Reply)

1982 Mark 1 Ford Fiesta 1.1L in Strato Silver (not any old silver , oh no, Strato Silver)
I had saved long and hard from my pitiful Saturday/holiday job earnings from the age of 15 and was able to buy myself the very second hand beauty above. It had everything a child of the seventies could dream of, steel wheels, Audioline cassette deck with green backlight, a 'The Fiesta Touch' decal in the back window, oh yeah I was the man and my motor was the best car in the world...except for the fact that the day I passed my test I dicked the front bumper into a granite wall, the constantly overheating radiator that couldn't handle traffic for more than five minutes (one day going so far as to explode), the stick I kept in the boot for hitting the starter motor every morning, the Doc Marten sole marks on my dashboard (thanks Nelson), the creaking passenger door (thanks DJ Wakner), the red hot glowing break disc brake that had a bit of gravel trapped between it and the pad (I did mention it had proper disc brakes on the front ??), the milk stains on the middle of the passenger seat (again Nelson, thanks), the shattered rear brake light cluster with the faint outline of a 50cc bike wheel in it, the vibration that made it nigh on impossible to steer at it's stated maximum speed of 96mph (and the brown trousers after trying to brake in way too short a distance afterwards).

But like Bagpuss I loved it very much.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:58, 1 reply)

I can't drive, and am not really interested in learning, but there are two things that do interest me about doing so:
1. Tunes. Getting onto the sliproad of the motorway, being about to join, and that tune coming on, putting the pedal to the floor and racing away.

2. Having a festival van. Go with me on this - I'm not a bloody hippy, but I do fancy the idea of getting an old removal lorry, and decking out the back of it in absolutely 1950s living room style - wallpaper, a sofa, a standard lamp, a drinks cabinet, armchairs, pictures on the walls, carpet, a table, ashtrays and preferably an old stereogram unit like my dad had. On this last I shall play dub and reggae tunes at top volume, with the doors wide open, while we sit in armchairs on the elevator, smoking, drinking champagne and chatting with friends in the summer sun.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:54, 3 replies)

When I was poor
My family had moved all the way from Hertfordshire to Nairn in the Highlands of Scotland. I had stayed in Herts and had a taken a job with the DHSS, I only had to do 5 minutes work every fortnight so the hours were good but the pay was shit.

I was driving up to spend Christmas with them and had turned all of my money into petrol hoping that it would be enough to get me the 515 miles to my destination*. I had forgotten that there was a toll on the Forth Road Bridge. I got to the toll booth, the charge was a very reasonable 30p. I took out the last of the coins in my pocket: 18p in coppers:
Me: "Umm, hello"
She: "Hulloo"
Me: "I'm afraid I've only got 18p"
She: "Have you got a credit card?"
Me: "No"
She: "Have you got a cheque book?"
Me: "No"
She: "Have you got any stamps or phonecards?"
Me: "I've got a phonecard but there's no credit on it"
She: "Oh"
Me: "Well, I suppose I'll have to turn back"
She: "I can't let you do that"
Me: "Oh dear, looks like I'm stuck here then"
She: "I'll have to let you through and pay the 12p out of my own pocket. Are you planning on driving back down south soon?"
Me: "Yes"
She: "My names Fiona**, make sure you put the 12p in an envelope marked with my name and hand it to whoever is on the booth"

She let me pass and true to my word, on my return journey I handed an envelope containing 12p and a thankyou note to the man in the booth.

*It was but for the last 50 miles the fuel gauge showed empty, mobile phones were only for the very rich, there was snow, it was very cold and I was in fear of my life.
**Could have been Morag, bound to be one or the other.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:53, 3 replies)

Where I grew up
on Saturday and Sunday mornings it was fairly usual to find one or two cars on their roof in a field or in a ditch at an odd angle, bereft of passengers.

Without fail there would always be a packet of chewing gum or a scattering of audio cassette tapes in / around / near the vehicle. To this day I always associate tapes and chewing gum with pissed-up driving.

On a more negative note I've also seen some fairly horrific accidents in that locale as well. One that sticks in my mind was a head on collision which propelled one (big, heavy, german) vehicle some distance up a hillside. Given that one or both cars were apparently approaching 100 or so when they hit, there wasn't much left that you could identify as having been a vehicle (or person).

Cars, eh? A laugh a minute!
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:45, Reply)

I
grew up in Belfast and back in about 1990 I had my car nicked from outside my parents' home the morning after I got back from uni at the end of term. First I knew about it was when I went to drive into town and it wasn't there; my sister had been up for a few hours and hadn't thought it worth mentioning that my car had vanished because, I quote, "I thought maybe you'd loaned it to somebody". Reported it to the police, and within the hour it turned up in a rather sorry state in a cul-de-sac a couple of miles away. The police very kindly gave me a lift there, asked me to identify it, then asked me to see if it would start. "But," they said, "would you mind waiting until we've driven the landrover around the corner before you put the key in? There might be a bomb attached to the ignition." Cheers for that, lads.
(Wong Fei-Hung - now with added flickr.com (see profile), Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:38, Reply)

Pearoast from the Captain
The A5
Some years ago I was the proud owner of an Austin/MG Maestro turbo (fairly rare, I later found out) a truly mental car with far more power than the stone-age chassis and suspension could safely handle.

I was driving along the A5 on the straight bit just west of Cerigyddrudion at about 6 am on a fine, clear june morning when I decided to see just what the car was capable of. Silly, I know, but there was no traffic about, and this was before the advent of GATSO cameras (bastard bastard bastard things).

Pedal to the metal etc and I was flying! As I hit the 119mph mark I spied a couple of lorries in the distance coming the other way. "No prob", thought I, "the closing speed is fairly rapid but they're on the other side and I've got lots of time to slow down".

As I got within about 400 yards of them I eased off the throttle. All was well.


Then the front offside wheel blew into a million bits.

According to the marks on the road, I pirouetted three times, swerved BETWEEN the lorries and back to my side of the road before coasting to a stop, facing the wrong way and shaking like a freshly raped whippet. I don't remember the accident itself, just the aftermath of incoherent babbling and crying to the two rural coppers that turned up. I was mentally going through the rest of the route through the mountains in my mind and picturing all the places I could have plunged to my death. The shock took me weeks to get over and I was very close to jacking in my job.

It seemed that there was a casting fault that had caused the wheel to crack between the bolt-holes on the wheel, under the paint, which meant that it could have come off (leaving the centre of the wheel still attached) at any time.

On examination by the dealer, three of the wheels had the same fault, albeit to a lesser degree. I'd done over 12,000 miles in this car, transporting my then wife (pregnant with our first child), my parents, her parents and loads of mates on various jaunts.

Never drove it again.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:36, 4 replies)

Driving test OF DOOM
All the best drivers failed their driving test at least once. This makes me, then, the best driver in the whole, wide world.

My difficulties with driving were: starting, stopping, going up hills, going down hills, going round corners, driving in a straight line, driving backwards and trying not to stare at my instructor's tits. Excuse: I was seventeen.

The test. The emergency stop:

"Quick! There's a child in the road!" the examiner shouted.

Knowing my Spike Milligan and being a wise-ass, I replied "No there isn't" and drove on.

"No, no, no. Let me explain. When I hit my clipboard against the dashboard, I want you to assume there is a child in the road and make an emergency stop."

"Riiiiight."

My right foot slammed down on the brake.

At least I thought it was the brake.

"BAAAAAAARRRRRN!" went the Mini Metro as it hurtled towards a bus queue, their wizened old faces contorted with the kind of fear they hadn't experienced since their wedding night.

I missed.

I failed.

In fact, I had already failed for a number of reasons.

In particular, shouting "get your fucking truck out of the fucking road, you fucking fucker!" to a lorry driver who had jack-knifed in the centre of Henley, as I allowed the Mini Metro to roll back slowly under the front axle of a dust cart.

Also: Going the wrong way round the Henley one-way system to avoid said dust cart and jack-knifed lorry.

Also also: Beeping and waving at a mate, whilst shouting "Oi oi Marty you wankaaaaah!" out of the window.

Things, I admit, could have gone better.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:28, 2 replies)

Engine trouble?
My dad was a member of a relatively posh golf club in Kent and as a treat one Sunday (or due to the fact all his normal playing partners were unavailable) he invited me along to indulge in one of my traditional hacking, swearing, kicking the ball off the green rounds on the promise I was well behaved.

Now a certain ex-Arsenal and Crystal Palace footballer was a member of the club too and my dad always took great delight in pointing out the fact. I was never overly impressed - like his presence made the club that much classier - but humoured the stories of sharing a pint with "Wrighty" after a round (though I suspect the closest they came was perhaps a cursory nod).

This particular day my dad spotted him across the car park with the bonnet up at the front of his Ferrari 360 Spyder. We approached from the rear end of his car and with barely contained glee at getting to show me to my face that he was on speaking terms with him my dad strode over and said, "Engine trouble, mate?". Ian's head popped up from in front of the car, pulled out his golf clubs and said "No mate, this is the boot. The engine is under the big glass bit at the back". Cue Ian Wright's wryly amused expression, my facepalm and my dad never mentioning whenever he saw him at the golfclub again.
(bigjonnydynamite, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:20, 1 reply)

Time dilation and the sound of silence
That second or two of silence....its horrible, and it seemed to stretch out forever. All I could do was grip the wheel tighter and wait....wait and wait. I had enough time to think all kinds of thoughts, consider many different scenarios and to reflect on life, yet to someone observing from the outside, only 2 seconds would have passed.

5 seconds previously, I had been happily driving along in my Ford Orion. It was a 1.4GL with electric mirrors. It was gold with a brown and tan interior. It had alloys from an XR3i and a pumping Kenwood stereo system.
It was a left - right "s" bend which was normally not any kind of problem at anything up to about 55 mph. I had been doing a tad under 50 and all was well as I turned left. Turning into the right hand section, I spotted a car on its roof in the middle of the road. Unusual. I did the wrong thing and hit the brakes quite hard. The weight transfer of braking the already slightly unbalanced car sent the back end sliding out. Lift-off oversteer, they call it.
Steer into the skid? I didn't even have time to think about it.
Perhaps a whole two seconds into this unfolding drama and Rod Stewarts music on the stereo was being drowned out by the dull SCREEEEEEE noise of tyres moving sideways on tarmac.
Shit.
Two seconds further on in time and the screeching was replaced by a heavy thud which rattled every part of the car as I went sideways up the kerb. This was followed by a manic rustling noise as I plowed through a small hedge, then another thud as I hit a grassy hump, now going backwards.
The car took off, and this is where the silence happened. The engine must have stalled and as I sailed though the air, time stretched indefinately. Even Rod had gone quiet.
There was quite a drop into the field beyond the hedge, and as the Orion flew majestically backwards, I had enough time to reflect upon my chances of injury amongst the many other things going through my mind.
Those two seconds of silence were brought to an abrupt halt as the car landed vertically, boot-first in the field and proceeded to somersault end over end in an explosion of noise and violence. I remember it being very odd to see a handfull of cassettes hovering in the air by my head as the car went over and over.
Things came to a halt. I slumped against the seatbelt and the tapes rattled to a standstill against the drivers window. The car was on its side.
I extracted myself from the seatbelt and made my way out through the hole where the rear window used to reside. I had somehow lost one of my trainers during this metallic ballet and had cut my heel on something.
"holy fuck, that guy must be well dead" a voice said from the road as I stood next to the car as it made its final clicking, ticking and pinging noises as hot, twisted metal cooled and steam bubbled from the radiator.
I didnt have the presence of mind to count at the time, but looking at the marks in the field, I guess the car had tumbled 4, maybe 5 times end over end. I walked away from it with a nick in my heel that has left a little indentation in the flesh to this day.
Long before Ncap safety ratings, long before airbags were commonplace, in a time when cars were sold on performance, economy or practicality rather than safety, I somehow survived a seriously fucking big accident with hardly a mark. The guys in the overturned car on the road had clipped the verge on the bend and flipped over, also uninjured. When they saw my flight, they were certain I would have been killed.
Crashing sucks, but if you are going to do it - do it properly!
(dave likes cheese, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:19, 1 reply)

The Ex-wifes Saab...
...we bought it when we were still married, and it was a nice car back then. Since we split though, it has suffered a lot. It's full of child detritus. it runs like a bag of shit, it's filthy and it sounds like a tractor.

One night last year, some scrotes crept into the house and took the keys. The car was later found abandoned after a presumably wild and lairy joy-ride. Or not. It was found 500 yards down the road, keys still in it.

Yes, my ex-wifes car was so bad even 16 year old thieves didn't want it.

She still has it though.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:13, Reply)

Another...
There are two friends of mine, brothers in fact, called Stu and Craig.

When Stu caught up and hit 18, the two brothers splashed out on a Saxo VTR each. It was possible back then as A)they were brand new and B) it was during that time which Citroen foolishly offered a years free insurance with the sporty little buggers.

Anyway, they go and collect them. They pull out of the dealership in convoy. They approach traffic lights. Craig slows down. Stu is busy looking at the girls on the pavement, he does not slow down.

They were both written off within sight of the dealership. The girls were not impressed either.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:07, Reply)

Fess up - not me, a former colleague (now sadly departed but that's a different tale)
Used to work for an environmental management consultancy - loads of travel, had a company car as part of the package.

Went to choose said company vehicle, and rather than go for the rep-spec Mondeo, he came back with an Impreza, complete with fairly rude spoiler on the back.

Got it home, proudly showed it off to his wife, whose rather hurtful observation was "Oh an ironing board. How nice."
( barryheadwound Mul-ti-pass? Multipass!, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:01, Reply)

I saw an automobile once

(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:01, Reply)

Angry Dad and the Tension Mobile
I once had to endure a car journey from Stirling to Perth with my pal's dad who was quietly furious for the entire ride (I have no idea why). He was playing a Steve Miller Band greatest hits cd, in attempt to chill himself out I assume. Whenever I hear Abracadabra I get flashbacks of his knuckles, bone white with the pressure of his grip on the wheel, and his eyes popping out of his head like angry gobstoppers.

It's not a thrilling story but it raises a smile now when I remember it.
(Pat Shatner ,in it for the buzz, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 17:00, Reply)

AA
Jon, myself and 3 young ladies of our acquaintance went to spend a weekend at his parents' place. Swansea - Bedfordshire. Less than 10 miles short of destination the car started making some strange noises so onto the hard shoulder. Even though I have no mechanical knowledge whatsoever I looked under the bonnet for a minute and then said "I think you'd better call the AA and got the girls up on the verge. The very nice man turned up and decided he couldn't fix it and would tow us to the nearest garage. To reduce the weight on the tow I got in the AA van. We got to the top of the slip road off the motorway and gently pulled away when there was a clunk. I looked in the mirror and saw the car was no longer following us. We had pulled the towing eye off. AA man found something to attach a rope to and we continued on our way.
(jvz, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:57, 1 reply)

My Dad's car
My old man loved his car, more than me, more than Mum, more than anything. He didn't even drive it, he just kept it in the garage, clean and fresh.
The only time he was happy was when he was sat in his pristine vehicle.

One day we had a huge argument because he wouldn't let me get a tattoo of a moustache on my finger. Really the argument was about much much more and we ended up fighting each other with our tops off.
He beat me up but I didn't cry, I just had hayfever.

To get my revenge I decided to hurt the one thing he cared about, his pristine, vintage Honda Accord.

I propped the wheels up on jacks and set the engine running at full in reverse then I kicked the jacks away and it drove at full reverse speed through the garage and into some trees.

Looks like it was me who got the last laugh as the Honda Accord landed right on top of him whilst he was having an affair in the woods. Lol
Cheers
( WormuIus, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:50, 1 reply)

When I was 19, I had a Porsche...
...no, really, stay with me. I'm not some spoiled brat, nor do I have rich parents. It was my Porsche, paid for with my own money. It cost a fortune to insure, despite being on a classic policy and it was so slow and rattly it made my ears bleed. But fuck it, I was 19 and I had a Porsche. Kind of.

It was a 944. Those of you who know about cars will be smirking now, those who don't, let me educate you...



...now that's not it, but it looked the same. Nice from about 250 yards. Up close though, it was dented, the paint was crap, it smelled a bit like wee and it used more oil than fuel, but fuck it, it was MY Porsche.

It cost me £500 and had about 25 seconds tax and MOT left on it, there was no way it was going to pass another MOT without me spending £23,000 on it, but I didn't care, fuck the MOT, it was a Porsche!

So, the day I collected it I did what any 19 year old with a Porsche would do, I went to the pub to show it off to my mates. They laughed at me, lots. But fuck them, they didn't have a Porsche. I did, no matter how shit it was. (By this point in the day it was slowly creeping up on me that it was a lemon, but I dug deep and held onto the positives)

It gets worse though. I got talking to a girl at the bar, a pretty girl at that, so using brick like subtlety I told said girl that "Yeah, I've got a Porsche". Her eyes lit up, she was shallow and only interested in the car, brilliant! I'd show my mates who was the king of the pub! We walked outside, my mates to the left sitting in the sun, my Porsche directly in front, looking all Germanic and Porsche like.

"Where is it then?" Enquirers the lady.

"Urm, it's there" says me with a sheepish point.

"Ha, that's not a Porsche, it's rubbish!" Says the lass, loud enough for my mates to hear.

I sold it a week later.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:48, Reply)

Saab 900 Turbo is Really a Tardis.
On New Years Eve/New Years Day after a night of bouncy lovely house tunes at a Club in Blackpool. We decided to drive to the Services with several hundred North West Clubbers to carry on the party.

We only had my mates fucked 1989 Saab 900 (Not Turbo as it had fell off) to get us there in. We had the following in the car :

1 Driving
1 In Front Passenger Seat
1 In Front Footwell
4 In Back Seat
1 in EACH rear Footwell
2 In the Boot.

The look on several chemically induced clubbers at Charnock Services as 11 People got out of 1 Saab 900 was superb.

That was until we tried to set off in it an hour later, and the rear suspension had broken.

Stupid Swedish Twat
(hoogie Original Cunt Horse Author, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:39, 2 replies)

Cross ply and radial tyres
I didn't check how I mixed them.

Thankfully, I did live to regret it.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:38, Reply)

Whenever I see a really flash car
I always make sure not to stare at it as it goes past, as that's exactly what the smug git driving it wants every single person he passes by to do.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:37, 7 replies)

i've never had a car, i can't drive
but that doesn't stop me being a total tit.
several years ago, i'd been out for a meal with a friend. upon leaving the restaurant, we discovered that no lights had been lit in the carpark, which was in total darkness. getting into the car, i complained about feeling bloated and decided not to fasten my seatbelt. yes, i know now.
due to the darkness and the fact that the lampposts were painted black, we didn't see the damn things until we hit one of them. i shot forward, banging my head on the windscreen.
i had no idea a severed artery could bleed so much.
within an hour, i was in the hospital with 5 new stitches in my head and looking like an extra from a zombie film. at least i had the sense to stay in my mate's house, just in case i had concussion.
3 days later, i looked like a panda, with 2 very black eyes.
10 days after that, i had the stitches removed. i now have a harry potter-esque scar, which is nowhere near as cool as the local kids think it is.
still, it's a constant reminder of just what an utter tool i can be at times.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:34, Reply)

I saw a Bugatti Veyron
outside my office in Liverpool

It drew quite a crowd with lots of people taking photos.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:34, 5 replies)

My friends first car
was a Talbot Samba. My friend was a bit of a ned from Paisley. He was really proud of that rust bucket and enjoyed nothing better than driving around the streets of Paisley with his souped up...Talbot Samba with it's pumping stereo system and other mod-cons and us winking at all the burds...I'm sure they would have loved a quite ride in our fanny-mobile...our beloved Talbot Samba. Got a bit cold in there. The passenger window was in a constant state of being open...it was fucked you see..great in the winter...3 guys driving around Paisley in a Saturday night...shivering and blue..hmm

If you're there Wullie...then I'm talking about you :-)

I heard it could do up to 30...on a good day.
(scotsbloke, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:33, Reply)

Easily confused local.
When I had just passed my driving test I inherited my Mum's old Skoda Favourit. I know they weren't the car you grew wanting to have as your first set of wheels but I loved it, cheap to run and it got me where I wanted to go.

After about 6 months of driving one day the front runners on the drivers seat snapped so I just took out the drivers seat and replaced it with the passenger seat. This left the car looking a little strange as it had only one front seat and you could walk from where the passenger seat had been into the back of the car. A Stretch style Skoda if you will.

One day I had left some shopping in the car in a rather dodgy part of town while I went for some lunch. When I returned to the car a little later I saw a man of the knuckle dragging persuasion looking into the car. Thinking he was about to liberate me from my shopping I engaged jog made and had skirmish mode on standby.

Then the strangest thing happened.

Me: "Y'alright mate"

Mkdp: "This your car mate?"

Me: "Yup"

Mkdp "There's something not quite right about it but I can't quite work out what it is"

Nothing unusual I do things like that sometimes. Stare intently at something knowing it's not quite right but not being able to work out what it is that isn't quite right.

I decide in my wisdom to have a little fun.

"BASTARDS, some shit has nicked my front seat" says I turning to look at the bloke thinking he'll just laugh and at my lame attempt at humour.

But he doesn't.

Mkdp: "Aye the kids are reet little shits round 'ere"

I made my excuse got into my car and began to drive away leaving Mkdp muttering about the little shits that lived round there.

I got to the other side of the carp ark before I had to pull over and wipe the tears of laughter away.

Length and other measurements can be found here.

new.skoda-auto.com/COM/model/olders/models/Pages/Favorit.aspx
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:31, Reply)

My first car...
was a '72 Chevy Impala. I bought it just before my senior year of high school in 1994 when I was 17 years old.

It got about four miles to the gallon, but we could never figure out the exact mpg because the gas gauge didn't work. The number of times I had to call someone to bring me a bit of gas prompted my dad to get me a AAA membership. The power steering pump didn't work, so I had one of the best sets of biceps you've ever seen on a 17 year old girl. My last class of the day in school was Honors Algebra, and once 13 people skipped the class and we all piled into my car and went to the lake. The next day our teacher never said a word about only having 9 people show up for her last class.

I drove that car to the homecoming dance in the fall and to the prom in the spring. And while I didn't lose my virginity in the car, it was only about 30 feet away from the blanket we were on. My then boyfriend (and current husband) didn't have a driving license, so that car took us everywhere, and if gas prices weren't so high, I'd encourage hubby to find me another and fix it up for me.

I really miss that car.

Apologies for lack of funny and disgusting amounts of nostalgia.
(ladydyani, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:27, 4 replies)

I am stupid.
2 summers ago I had just passed my driving test, here in London.
I spent my holiday in the Netherlands, where my parents live and made use of my dad's VW Golf. They had no problem with me using the family car for the occasional drive out and about.

As the only driver in my group of friends, I was asked to drive everyone to the Dutch equivalent of Thorpe Park, for fun rollercoaster times.
In Holland (well, the part we drove through, it seems) there are lots of bridges. When the flashy light goes, it means 'Stop, the bridge is opening' and not 'Drive yourself and your friends into the river in your dad's car'

I didn't know that.
Luckily whoever was operating the bridge closed it, just as we crossed the middle of it. They also raised the barrier on the other side, just in time.
So we didn't drown or anything, I just scared the shit out of everyone with my rubbish driving.

I don't really drive much now.
(Lalalalou, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:18, 1 reply)

DIY car maintainance
I was 17, just passed my test. The folks had just bought a new(ish) car, and as the garage had offered them peanuts for the old motor, they gave it to me.

Trouble was, the brakes squealed a bit. This was irritating, so using my extensive knowledge of engineering related matters and the infallibility of the youthful mind, I figured squeaking car parts required oil. So I oiled the brakes. Specifically the bit that was squeaking, the bit between the brake disc and the brake pads. The bit where the pads had worn away to bare metal. The bit that requires friction, not copious amounts of lubrication, to work effectively.

I shot through the first junction I came through like a stabbed Henri Paul.
(Chimpmonkey has nothing better to do, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 16:17, 2 replies)