Live, or exist
Do or Die
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.
Jack London wrote that, and it’s stayed with me for years. You might recognise it from No Time to Die, or perhaps it’s just one of those profound truths floating around in the ether. London, of course, wasn’t talking about being a complete lunatic. He was talking about a quiet, steadfast refusal to sleepwalk through whatever brief sliver of time we have on this rock. Which, inevitably, brings me to cars.
Why do so many folks fritter away their twilight years living for steamed broccoli and hospital appointments, in a hopeless bid to dodge the Reaper? It’s like slathering anti-ageing cream onto a face that’s already got more lines than Keith Richards’ forehead. The exact same absurd tango plays out in our garages. When do you finally look at your beloved motor, whisper “enough,” and find some other schmuck to take it on? Having spent decades rubber-necking, I’ve identified three distinct religious factions when it comes to car ownership.
The Pragmatic Puritans junk their car the instant it so much as hiccups or threatens to strand them. A flat tyre? Heresy! A dodgy alternator? Straight to the auto-inquisition! They’re the type who buy a beige Nissan Qashqai on lease and divorce their spouse for leaving a mug on the coffee table.
The Patchwork Penitents cling on like limpets, patching up their motors with duct tape, prayers, and whatever spare change they can fish from the sofa - and they do this long after the bills have completely eclipsed the car’s value. It’s the automotive equivalent of nursing a biblical hangover with tequila, just to postpone the inevitable vomit of defeat.
The Restoration Resurrectionists will happily spend fifty grand to rebuild a car worth ten. They’re the fanatics of the motoring world, willing to remortgage their house to restore a shed.
It’s life’s grand dilemma, isn’t it? Do you rage against the dying of the light, or do you flick the switch, crack open a cold beer, and start watching daytime TV? This isn’t a sermon but a greasy-palmed dissection of the human condition - because it bleeds into everything. Relationships? Some move on at the first sign of trouble (“She forgot my birthday - next!”); others patch with therapy until the emotional bill bankrupts the heart. Houses? Even pets - but let’s not go there.
Most people fall squarely into Group One. They treat cars like white goods: appliances for schlepping from A to B with the frictionless efficiency of a suppository. They're not fussed about torque or cylinder heads, as long as it starts and stops. It's like subscribing to Netflix instead of pirating dodgy streams - pay the premium, skip the hassle, get on with life. And honestly? There's a coherent philosophy in that. Choosing an easy life is still a choice. It’s just a choice that makes your heart beat like a resting sloth's.
The latter two tribes are often lumped together as "classic car enthusiasts," but that's like calling a Lada and a Lamborghini both "cars" - technically true, but missing the gulf in pedigree. Both harbour a passion hotter than a V8 exhaust, yet the distinction between them is brutally simple: money.
The Penitent adores their motor with a fierce, blue-collar devotion, but their wallet whimpers at the thought of the next expense. They'd love to splash the cash if only the bank balance - or Mrs. - permitted. So they improvise. They bodge. They make do with elbow grease, but they love their cars no less.
The Resurrectionist commits the dosh to make those dreams roar to life. Their garages are museums; their logbooks are love letters. But here’s the thing: the Penitent doesn’t love their car any less. They just can’t say it in chrome. And there’s something quietly noble in that - the devotion that persists without the means to prove it.
Boil it all down: Group One has made peace with boredom, and they probably sleep very well. Groups Two and Three are the romantics - bonded to their beasts like a dog to a suspicious bone, shelling out whatever they can (or spectacularly can't) afford for that sweet hit of adrenaline. Value for money? Practicality? These are the lies we tell ourselves at three in the morning while scrolling through AutoTrader, looking at a decaying Alfa Romeo we can’t afford.
Life’s not a dress rehearsal. Merely existing in a bland, hybrid SUV, shuffling silently toward the grave in a cocoon of grey plastic, is not living. It's surviving. Why do that, when you can actually live - behind the wheel of something that makes a noise, makes you sweat, and makes you feel alive? You’ve no time to die.
I shall use my time. But, preferably not always under Bertie’s bonnet!
Thank you again Allister