Driving Sports

Short of any new cars to review this week, I’m going to go ahead and talk about one of my own cars, a 1990 Mazda Miata. I suppose most folks would rather take public transportation than attempt to navigate city streets in a bolt bucket like this: The gear-changer is sketchy, the brakes are weak, the chassis is creaky and the interior is worn beyond any reasonable repair.

The same could be said for my friends. They aren’t the most successful, they don’t have perfect marriages and they don’t always pay their credit cards on time. They have their flaws, but that’s okay. I wouldn't want to share a pint of ale with anyone else.

I have one friend in particular who moved to Los Angeles after high school, presumably to try his hand at becoming a big Hollywood star. It’s either because he didn’t have the right look, didn’t have the right talent or because he wasn’t the time to perform sex acts to advance career, he didn’t make it. Eventually, he returned to the Northwest, a little beaten up and a little worn out. (If you're worried about him, don't be. He's feeling much better these days.)

My Miata had a very similar path, only it didn’t involve any hookers, blow or shady casting agents—at least as far as I know. I bought it in 2003 from a nice old lady who owned a used car dealership. She was retiring from the business, moving to Arizona and the car wasn’t going to go with her. It had horribly ugly wheels, and was very white. In short, it looked like it would have been very popular in San Francisco. Still, it was mechanically sound and had a newly replaced drop-top. In spite of the car’s obvious gender identity issues, we cliqued right off.

For the next couple years, I made some minor modifications to the Miata: Bought it a new exhaust system, some better looking tires and had a roll-bar welded in. I eventually had to say good-by, however, as I was starting a new Subaru magazine and needed to pick up a new project car for the title. I didn’t have the wherewithal for both, so I introduced the Miata to a new owner. He was a young guy that was talking about dropping a V8 into the chassis and would most likely kill himself within a fortnight. But who am I to judge. With the exchange of some cash, the Miata was gone and that was that.

You can imagine my surprise when two years later I received a letter from the police department. It told me my car was abandoned, hooked on crack and was pregnant with its dealer’s love child. Well, okay, maybe not the latter, but it was abandoned. The letter instructed me that if I wanted to get “my” car, it was locked up in impound and would be sold at auction if I didn’t spring it from the joint.

Turns out, Mr. “gonna swap a V8” never bothered to register the car, racked up a few tickets and, after having his way with it, ditched the little Miata on a street corner. Legally, the car was mine again.

The reunion wasn’t as joyous as you may have imagined. The little Miata was in a sad state. Everything was as I had left it, only battered and beaten. The motor no longer turned over, the interior had the heavy funk of mold and the dash was ripped to pieces. The car had aged beyond its years though its experiences.

That didn’t dissuade me. I paid the outstanding tickets and the impound lot, hired a truck and towed it home. It may have been a wreck, but I genuinely liked this car and I was happy to have it back once again.

A few thousand dollars later and the little Miata is running with new purpose and strength. The interior is still ragged, but the motor has been rebuilt and fitted with a turbo kit. I think it’s safe to say the car has finally put its roughest years behind it.

I will be the first to agree that it doesn’t handle particularly well. In fact, the suspension is completely shot, and the power is anemic compared to my much newer and much more talented RX-8. Somehow its foibles, no matter how unreasonable or irrational they are, make it more endearing of a car.

It’s in this way that my Miata is like one of my old friends. No matter how long it’s been gone, how poorly it’s behaved or how bad it’s been treated by others, it will always be welcome home.