Understeer

Lexus GS 300. Infiniti M30. Crown Victoria. Old mail trucks. When I pull back and take a macro view of my vehicular habits, a clear trend emerges. It’s undeniable: I fall in love with shitboxes. This is not how God or father intended, but since my teens, I have only had eyes for the shitty.

A large part of my obsession with ugly ducklings is rooted in my unshakable pragmatism: cars are depreciating assets (and on top of that, I’ve never had an excess of assets myself). So while I can appreciate the intricate mechanical workings of a Ferrari, I’ll never spiritually connect with one like I have with my former turd chariots.

This all started leading up to getting my learners permit. I would grab an Auto Trader and pore over every listing, checking the price first. At the time I had a few hundred dollars to my name, and based on my upcoming employment options, I estimated my 15-year-old net worth to top out around $1500.
With my given financial limitation, the Auto Trader became a much smaller publication. Only a few vehicles lived in my price point, many of them foreign, front wheel drive sedans; while this would be acceptable transportation for the working man, I abhorred the idea of pulling up to school in one.
When all seemed lost, I flipped to the back of the rag, and jumping off the page like a pin-up girl was my first crush: a decommissioned DJ postal jeep, 1973 vintage, running and driving for the low low price of $800. That jeep stared up at me with hope and wonder like the second prettiest girl at the trailer park.

This is the key to falling in love with the unlovable: you need to bend reality with obsession. Any problem was just an opportunity in disguise. No A/C? I’m just gonna open up that side door. 2WD instead of 4WD? Well, technically, it will be more reliable. Maximum speed 60 mph? I love back roads, who needs highways anyway.
For the year leading up to my 16th birthday, I inhaled every bit of information available on the postal jeep and by infatuating myself with the mail jeep through print advertising, then the internet, then celebrating them upon seeing them in the wild, I was teaching myself a pattern that I would follow into adulthood: the deep connection with the different. I never ended up getting the jeep (my father stepped in at the last moment with a nice 16-year-old stimulus package), but the shitbox seance had been completed, and there was no going back. I was drawn to the inexpensive and forgotten forever.

As I grew up, I came to learn that I needed my transportation to be reliable. While I love turning wrenches, at the end of the day I’m below average at it. Those front wheel drive foreign sedans were suddenly looking a whole lot sexier.
Around this time, I was driving a 1994 Toyota Camry station wagon on its last legs. This was a hand me down car, and while grateful, I didn’t love it like I would have my own. So when it finally wouldn’t pass emissions anymore, I went hunting for my next love.
Like an oak barrel to wine, age had refined my shitty palette, and I now viewed amenities like reliability and air conditioning as mandatory. After a few weeks of browsing craigslist I found myself gazing at my next long term relationship: a 2000 Toyota Echo coupe with a 5 speed. If I squinted just right it kinda looked sporty, a trick Tercel and Paseo owners perfected before me. One owner, 62,000 miles, and $3200 dollars. While the jeep showed me the power of delusion, the Echo helped me master it.

I learned patience with the Toyota early on. My twenties were turbulent times, and through it all I loved the Echo like it was an AC Shelby Cobra. Given there weren’t a plethora of modification options, I would study each one for months.
When I found Toyota made a factory trunk spoiler, I debated for a full year about it, savoring every thought. When an old man rear ended me and offered to pay cash for the damages, I knew it was my time. I purchased the decklid spoiler and had the body shop paint it with the rest. I had marked the beast: it was no longer an Echo, it was my Echo. And in the end, she was a masterpiece: meticulously cleaned and detailed, filled with premium fluids, and topped off with a service record that looked like a military flight log. This turd reliably took me to work for seven years and was polished to a mirror sheen the entire time.
When I finally went to let the old girl go, I saw in the buyer’s eyes what I knew to reside in my own. He loved the shitboxes too. He asked all the right questions of someone who had the bug. He had twenty-five $100 bills and big plans for how he was going to love this car and make it his own.
It was nice to know that another person like me was out there,
This love has never left me, and manifests now, every morning, in the form of browsing Facebook, eBay, BaT, or this site, looking for the sub-$4000 forgotten girl. I fantasize about a Buick Lesabre’s 3800 V6 purring, picture myself restoring a junkyard GS 300, or finding the right box Caprice Classic to mob around in. I could probably do better, but I’m reminded of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons crooning:

Little rag doll…
I’d change her sad rags into glad rags
If I could (if I could)
My folks won’t let me
‘Cause they say that she’s no good
She’s a rag doll, such a rag doll
Though I love her so
I can’t let her know

There’s space in my driveway for a third car, so when I see that 1993 base model Del Sol, I linger on the listing and wonder what that little rag doll would look like if I gave her glad rags and all of my heart.

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The last major depression this country faced in 2008 basically killed the ricer fad, which had gained traction in the ’90s and was shot to the forefront of pop culture via 2001’s Fast and the Furious. Throughout the early to mid 00s cruising hangouts once once only graced by rumbling Camaros, Corvettes, and Mustangs were suddenly overflowing with glowing, buzzing Civics and Integras, revving and looking for races at every stoplight.
Then gas prices skyrocketed during the financial crisis, cruising got expensive, and as a pop culture movement, the whole Fast and the Furious street racing culture thing washed out. The Rock and Jason Statham joined the cast and the gang became superheroes, leaving their humble glowing green Honda Civic roots behind. But rice burns eternal, and now, in 2020, the stage is set.
Fast and the Furious 9 is delayed until 2021, but the streets are empty. Gas is cheap (like, really cheap, approaching $1 a gallon cheap), there’s nothing left to do but watch Netflix or go for a drive, and right now, millions doing the latter are noticing that their car, reliable as it may be, just isn’t fun.
Luckily, the secondhand market is overflowing with cheap, interesting cars (hundreds of which are featured here daily) and you just got $1200. That doesn’t sound like much ($1200 is basically one adult dollar), but it’s enough to put a (ratchet, high mileage) racer in your (soon to be oil-stained) driveway. Here are a few models to look out for while hunting your own bargain.

Note: All of the following vehicles were found using our archive search tool, available on our Discord server. Several have appeared in previous daily Feed posts (check out today’s here).

Nissan Sentra SE-R

The SE-R spans several generations, but the B15 gen seems to be the most bountiful. The Spec V gets 175 horsepower out of a somewhat anemic, but ever faithful 2.5 liter four cylinder, mated to a six speed manual with a helical LSD. This would be a great car to throw around some curves; here’s one for $1800 or best offer. And a couple more (at slightly higher prices) were in The Feed, April 14th.

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Toyota MR2

Toyota’s mid-engine unicorn is surprisingly attainable. You’re not getting a cherry turbo SW20 or supercharged AW11 for twelve hundred dollars, but that’ll get you most or all of the way to a clapped naturally aspirated first or second gen, no problem. The image above is a ’91 with a quarter million miles and some electrical issues, listed for $2000 or best offer, but be warned, seller knows what he has.
Below, there’s an ’86 with only 117,000 miles (and some messed up paint), found all the way back in March 31’s daily Feed.

Ford Focus SVT

Ford held out on the America in the early 00s, and this front wheel drive, naturally aspirated Focus is all we got. But it does have a Getrag six-speed manual, 170 horsepower, and an optional subwoofer, just like the Sentra SE-R it directly competed against in the halcyon days of 00s rice. 2004, 158K, needs a clutch, $1200. Or, you could enter 24 Hours of Lemons in this heap: it’s beat but the price is $500.

Toyota Celica GT-S

Nobody likes these. Save going to a seventh-gen Celica forum, I can’t find a single person who likes these. And yet, this car features the same VVTI 1.8 liter 2ZZ powerplant found in the Lotus Elise, putting down 180 horsepower with an 8300 RPM redline! Here’s one for $2200 OBO, and another with only 124K on the clock for $2900.

Ford Crown Victoria

This is not a sports car or even a sporty car, but a 4.6 liter v8 Crown Vic will blow the doors off every other car in this list, and you don’t need a police interceptor or LX Sport to enjoy most of what they have to offer. These all came with a 4.6 liter v8 making around 230-250 horsepower. They encourage and reward bad behavior: there’s a traction control button on the dash so you can roast your tires when the light turns green, and the spongy, soft suspension will happily bounce through potholes and over broken pavement without issue. Here’s a 2003 P71 for $1800, and another for $1500. These were both found with our Discord search tool, but we do see lower mileage LX Sports and Mercury Marauders in The Feed almost daily.

Mazda Miata

You already know everything about this car. It’s Always The Answer. something like 110 horsepower to the wheels out of either a 1.6 or 1.8 liter 4 banger, a manual top, pop ups on the older and cooler ones. This is the definitive 90s sports car, and they’re everywhere, all the time, for three grand or less, and if you keep your eyes peeled, you’ll regularly find beater high mileage NAs for $1500 or less. The example above is a 1993 with only 108,000 miles on the chassis (and quite a story to tell, based on the mismatched panels and lack of rear window or title); $2000 or interesting trades.

There’s never been a better time to grab a cheap beater and hit the road, and thanks to current circumstances, if you have no other pressing responsibilities, you’re equipped to do exactly that. Let me know in the comments or on Discord what cars you’re eyeing, and keep checking The Feed, published seven days a week, for an obscure dream car to call your very own.

Editor’s note: This Understeer series tells the story of CCF contributor Netgear57’s 25 Year Law-imported 1991 Toyota Celsior, from the shores of Japan to the side of the road in El Paso. Check out Part One and Part Two if you haven’t.

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TOP TEXT

“No. No, this isn’t happening,” I tried to convince myself. The Celsior’s strength that had brought me up the mountain was waning: the previously nearly-imperceptible hiccup was now felt like a slight misfire.  I made it to work and limped the car into the parking lot, defeat once again looming in my soul as I sat at my desk and pondered what the cause of the issue could be.  As I mentally diagnosed the car, I made several trips outside to inspect the engine to lend credence to my theories.  Unfortunately, not a single one panned out.  I surmised it may be a wire leading to the crank or cam position sensor, as the engine bay for the 1UZ is quite cluttered, and leaves little room for error regarding wiring position.

I left work early and took the long way home, as the misfiring had now grown quite severe, and I didn’t think the Celsior would be able to make it up the mountain.  My destination was the mechanic shop I had just picked the car up from, and I went in to talk to the owner after I arrived.  The misfire was now so bad, the car sounded like I was shaking a can full of coins as I drove.  I’d never heard anything like it before.  
Now, I know there are stupid people who want to blame the last person that worked on their car for everything, so I was very clear that I was not blaming them for the misfire that had developed, however there likely was a refrigerant leak that would need to be addressed.  With my tail solidly between my legs, I called my wife to pick me up from the shop.  So began The Great Wait.

I waited.  And waited.  Then waited just a little bit more.  I don’t really remember how long this shop had my car, but it was at least 2 months, maybe 3.  Then came the call.  “Hey, can you come pick up the car tomorrow?” Hell yes I could.  I happily had my wife drop me off, excited to get behind the wheel of my luxury sedan again after so long.  I was greeted with a dead battery, and after using the shops charger and getting it started, I discovered the misfire had not been resolved.  The owner had not told me they were giving up, and I had assumed the car was repaired.  I went and verified this with the owner, and yeah, they were giving up.  My thoughts lingered on the judging veers and remarks that my wife was no doubt going to grace me with as I limped the once mighty Celsior out of the mechanic’s parking lot.

During The Great Wait, I started driving my S13 Silvia to work, and as the summer months approached I discovered my once-working A/C had been reduced to a hot air recirculation device; I decided to remedy this.  I went to a shop that was poorly reviewed online, and decided to give them a shot after speaking with the owner.  This is how I met MY mechanic, Lutz Fuggmann. 
Lutz is a retired engineer, a little bit over 6 ft tall with a full head of white hair, and speaks in a heavy German accent.  His shop cleanliness rivals most airplane hangars, and all four of his bay doors remain closed at all times because Lutz cannot be in the sun.  I didn’t ask the reason, but I assumed it was vampiric.  I quickly figured out why his shop is rated so poorly: Lutz does not give a fuck.  He will do the job correctly, and charge you accordingly, and this doesn’t fly well in El Paso, TX.  His passion for vehicles is evident, and the Porsches in his bays spoke of the clientele that do put up with him.  He converted my Silvia from R12 to R134a and had the A/C once again blowing cold. 
When I picked up the car, Lutz scolded me for not driving the car enough. Like a doctor, he gave me instructions to drive the car at least once a week or at the very least idle until up to temp.  I assured him I would meet his demands.

So as I’m limping away from the shop that gave up, I know exactly where I’m going.  I drive straight to Lutz’s and park the Celsior behind his shop.  I go inside and regale him with the tale of my Celsior, and the shop that gave up.  This lights a fire in his belly, as Lutz has an innate hatred of “garbage shops” that “can’t fix anything”, which had been the subject of one of his rants on a previous visit.  He assured me he would figure out what was wrong with the car, and I left the keys with him as I walked home, feeling confident that Lutz would no doubt get me back on the road.

But at what cost?

BOTTOM TEXT

-Netgear57

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