If you’re reading this you probably have something hot, curvy, and Italian stretched across your desktop (and no, I’m not talking about Monica Bellucci - you pervert). By virtue of you even being here, you must have formed some opinion on the very latest slew of superduperhyper-hybrid cars (it’s the 918, anyone who says otherwise is wrong). You, dear reader, are a petrolhead. Sure you’ve probably already told yourself just how much you really hate the Chrysler PT-Cruiser, or if it’s okay to admit to other people that you actually kinda like the new Bentley SUV, but have you ever asked yourself exactly why it is that you have so many different opinions on so many different bits of metal? No? So let me ask you dear reader: why do you like cars?




“Well...gosh...I dunno” I hear you think “what am I supposed to say?” I might as well have asked you whether you prefer your left kidney on Tuesdays or your right foot on Thursdays, but not to worry – for it is a tough question, and I too am unsure which bit of my anatomy I prefer on any given day of the week. However, dear reader, you are in luck because (after about twelve and a half minutes of deliberation) I have found the answer to this great question – it’s my right foot on Thursday.



Forgive me, dear reader, for I have digressed. Please don’t leave, I shall return promptly to the matter at hand, answering all your burning questions in the process. In order to do so, however, we must consider the Nissan GTR.




At the 1968 Tokyo Motor Show, Nissan released a blistering four-door saloon – the Skyline GT-R. Short for Gran-Turismo Racing and armed with 160 horses, it made its debut alongside the Prince R380. From even before the moment of its conception, the GT-R was bred with a racing pedigree in mind. Imbued with the DNA of a land-speed record breaker, the Skyline GT-R was born to appeal to the Japanese petrolhead (known in the vernacular as あなたはこれを翻訳します). After an unsuccessful second generation, the Skyline GT-R was cancelled in 1973; only to be resurrected from the ashes in 1989 as the fire-breathing R32. With the sole intent of terrorizing Group A Racing, it did all that and more. Soon enough the world would watch both the GT-R and its cult following grow from something of a local phenomenon to a worldwide automotive tour de force. It is, and I think you’ll agree, in its current iteration an absolutely astonishing machine (I’ll let this small child testify for you). So why exactly is the GT-R so popular? Why do we like this car?

The GT-R is a winners’ car. From the Japanese Grand Prix, to Group A, to Group N, to Super GT, to GT1 and GT3, the Nissan GT-R terrorizes its rivals by tearing up tracks with a ferocious AWD system and breakneck lateral acceleration – and always has done. Even Stuttgart’s finest specimen of forced-induction struggles to fight off the mighty Godzilla even on home soil. It seems that Porsche’s only option now, if it is to successfully defend its territory, is to take on the form of a giant moth.



Now if we look to Porsche for a moment, the reason as to why we like cars stares right back at us.


No, not that. That’s a Panamera. We do not speak of it.

Forget the racing pedigree. Forget that the engine is in the wrong place. Forget the Cayenne. Porsche has been, for 50 years, engineering its way in the pursuit of driving purity. We can appreciate the high-revving flat six. We can appreciate the seamless PDK gearbox. We can appreciate the clean and aerodynamically effective design. But, much more than this, we can appreciate the way in which engineers combine these components into a whole that is much much greater than the sum of its parts. It is not only the rich motoring history that we buy into, but also the dedication and passion that the engineers – both past and present – have put into laying down this mighty machine’s name in thick black tread on the tarmac of history.


Though many of the vehicles that we associate with our passion for petrol do indeed have some form of esteemed motorsport legacy, many others do not. Neither Lamborghini nor Pagani held any claims to a racing pedigree, yet they have still managed to powerslide their way into the history books. Why? It is because each marque has an individual ethos – a spirit, a character - associated with it that we acknowledge and admire. Lotuses, for example, are complicated with added lightness. Audis vorsprung durch techniks (whatever the hell that means), Volkswagens lie about emissions, and Rolls Royces part plebeian seas with polite nods. Be it the driver focused ethos of a BMW, the regal practicality of a Range Rover, or the loveable unreliability of an Alfa Romeo, we admire and are attracted to the ideas and values that are stamped into the very metal of each vehicle. That is why, says the head, we like cars.



But what does, to misquote a famous Scandinavian artist, the heart say? For starters, it most certainly doesn’t go “fraka kaka kaka kow”. It does, however, sound very much like an angry naturally aspirated AMG V8, revving to the rhythm of brazen rock and roll. Yes, the heart responds with a resounding “fuck that”.


Sure I can rub (theoretical) Turtlewax over the (theoretical) arches of my (theoretical) Ferrari over and over again, lusting after the marque’s performance know-how, bathing in ecstasy over its illustrious racing history, and buying expensive hard-back books with pretty pictures of my car in it until either hell freezes over or Trump becomes president (I’m still very much sitting on the fence in regards to which is more likely), but nothing compares to hurling the damn thing around a track. No amount of appreciation - be it technical, aesthetic, or historic – for your favourite car can ever hold even a candle to the cocktail of emotions and sensations shaken up by testing the limits of both car and driver along an empty stretch of road.




But why? Why does driving provoke so much feeling in petrolheads? Does a Volkswagen Passat not get you from point A to point B just as well, if not better, than a Ferrari F40? No. To those snivelling practitioners of practicality, the petrolhead will proudly present his (or her) finger.


A car is not just for getting from your house to the shops and back again, it’s a time machine. As soon as you slide over the low slung door sill of your two seat dream machine, strap yourself into a hunkered down bucket seat, and grip the rim of that flat bottomed steering wheel, you start feel the years drop from your aging body. Then you start the engine. Suddenly, as the cylinders come to life with much wailing and gnashing of teeth and fire and brimstone and lasers, you’ve been transformed into a giggling heap of childish wonder.


The F40 accelerates you into a previous, more exciting reality when things were either black or white, Christmas or the other 364 days, good or bad. Whereas the Passat lies to you about its fuel economy and makes you feel shitty for buying the biggest hunk of German deception since the annexation of Poland. In the Ferrari, you arrive at the shops not wanting to get out to spend $42 on asparagus or toilet paper or some other household item which serves as a sad reminder that you too have become just another adult with an endless list of responsibilities and obligations. In the Volkswagen, however, you pull into the parking lot, get out, come back with a trolley full of value-packed existential anguish, and weep as you are reminded that even your car is lying to you. While you’re driving the F40, you become a child once again and never ever want to go back. While you’re in the Passat, on the other hand, you want to get home as fast as possible - lest someone you know sees you…driving a VW.

Sure, in both cases you’re an adult when you get in the car and you’re an adult when you get out of it again. Fine. But, once the cylinders are firing, the wheel is turning, and the gears are shifting, it’s as if you’ve strapped into the Millenium Falcon of possibilities and spontaneously punched open-ended coordinates into the hyperdrive. Sure, in the real world not everyone can or will have the chance to own or even drive the kind of exotic metal enshrined on a 10-year-old boy’s bedroom wall. But everyone will have - at some point - a choice between buying something impractical and exciting, or reliable and boring. When you eventually face this dilemma dear reader, I implore you to say to yourself:




“I know this thing can’t even get me to work on one tank of petrol, I know that I’ll have to saw my wife in half if we are all to fit in this thing, and I know that I will have to make eight trips to Costco instead of one if we are to have enough asparagus and toilet paper to last through the week…BUT FUCK IT! This machine is the culmination of many decades of motorsport heritage, engineering passion and technological ingenuity! This machine isn’t held together by nuts, screws, and bolts, but by the very blood, sweat, and tears of those who have striven to create well-damped dreams out of an oily reality! This machine is a proud ambassador for the technological and aesthetic tour de force that is the power of the human mind and….and…I’m considering buying a minivan instead? NO! SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY!”



And that, dear reader, is why we like cars. The car is a showcase of human ingenuity and capability. It isn’t just a depreciating asset that aids in transporting you from A to B. It is all encompassing, encapsulating technical and aesthetic achievement within a unique legacy of triumph, passion, and dedication. Not only is it something that appeals to the head, it is something that also appeals to the heart. The car is a vessel in which you can outrun the tedium of everyday life chasing revs and escape from the mind-numbing traffic of grown-up responsibilities with a spontaneous downshift or two. The car is a very tangible symbol of escapism, representing the child-like and self-indulgent option of just going nowhere in particular – but don’t get me wrong, I’d sure as hell much rather go nowhere in an LFA than somewhere in an Aygo.


Disclaimer: all the images employed above are not my own, and I’m really sorry if you disapprove of their use. Also please refrain from being offended by what I’ve written, I occasionally use hyperbole and sometimes even really bad jokes. If you still care to disagree with what I’ve said, please do so politely in the comments section. If you wish to remove my freedom of speech, please message me and I’ll quickly get in touch with my lawyer.

