This Was Supposed to Be a Car Review.

A personal story on cars

I don’t call myself a car journo and I really don’t want to be one, ever. It’s not the aim of my writing and not what I have on my vision board — probably covered in spider webs anyway. However, I’ve had the really amazing experience of being able to test cars for a week and I’ve even had some of those experiences printed in magazines. I do this because I love cars. It’s one of those things I don’t really have the right words to explain, but since I can remember… it’s always been a car. I don’t know how to service them, no… even though I should maybe look into that with my current trauma bond. But no, I’m not going to tell you how much horsepower a Tesla has or how many gears the Nissan Magnite CVT has or how many litres per 100km an Audi does. (Yes, those were jokes…) I will write the truth about what one week with a car does for me, what it makes me feel, how I see it and the experience shared. I just love cars. Not supercars, not the dropped Polo in Parkhurst and not the non-OEM gusheshe. I write from my experiences — crying in Jags, buying WeBuyCars BMWs with oil leaks, Stanley’s that become my identity — and having a place to share and express as a form of happiness without worrying if I get a view or not. Fine, sometimes I write the normal-to-me reviews and I’ll always do that because I like sharing an opinion on something.

This week I turned 32 and I also got a random press car delivery. A car I don’t really pay attention to or find myself looking at twice, not because of anything other than it’s never left an impression on me — a Mazda CX-30. Annoyed, to be honest, because I had to wait for this car to be delivered and it threw my day out. The lack of communication until it was just here was irritating. But let’s look at the positives — I get to find that excitement with a new car again. Yay. The Mazda CX-30 was delivered, I signed the papers and tried to make conversation, but I can confirm they aren’t strong in that department at all. Fine. I looked at the key, the car, and I will say this — Mazda did make a rather sexy-looking car in some way. I did find it beautiful. I got in and then I found something. The steering wheel. Sexy… guys, a steering wheel needs to give a feeling. It needs to make me feel something — don’t know why, it just does. This steering wheel was lush. The best part of this car that I didn’t understand or know anything about.

I couldn’t find the right driving position. Everything felt weirdly arranged and my brain was already spinning about this article because I was not comfortable with the seat. The mirrors annoyed me and the car’s shape didn’t make sense from the driver’s seat. It was very nicely put together, the materials are beautiful and the sound system was superb. However, I was annoyed because this wasn’t in the plan — not that I knew what the plan was, to be honest — but when the aircon vents irritated me the way they did, I knew it wasn’t the car itself. I wasn’t sure yet, but it was the experience. See, it’s not about the car or what it drives like. I rushed to where I was meant to be, tried not to be what I was, and chose peace. Smile. Let it go. Let them. The car review ends there. The Mazda I never noticed and don’t have a minute for is getting on my last nerve. I got a missed call from the delivery company followed by “Mistake.” Okay. Then more calls — which I didn’t answer because I was busy with something I was meant to be doing three hours earlier. They delivered the car to the wrong person. Same name. It wasn’t meant to be with me yet. They’re coming to collect it. Firstly, you do not arrive at my house unannounced. Just no. I’ll leave the car at the coffee shop and you can collect it there. Over it. And when I’m over it, I’m over it. It’s done. We can never change it. I looked at that same steering wheel and felt nothing positive anymore. Time is precious to me and I don’t like wasting it on nonsense. Mazda will always be nonsense to me from that moment onwards. Forgotten, just as before.

But while in that red tin can, I did think — as I do when driving. Do I love cars? Yes. I thought about my BMW’s sport seats squeezing me on the sides to calm my nervous system — apparently a PTSD trait. I have two cars that highlighted my week that I drove longer than this thing (it was only Wednesday), and they both did something. In short, a G-Wagon makes me happy. Smile. Enjoy the world in ways only I will really understand — not for pretence but connection. And BMWs hook you with the driving position. Tell me I’m wrong. The Mazda? It left me annoyed. Not because I didn’t get to experience it longer. I am very fortunate to love the cars we own and I prefer them. But you literally had one job. Is it that hard to think?

I stopped writing this because it didn’t feel like it had purpose. But I smiled today because someone mentioned they love reading my blog at the gym. It gave me a little smile. I know people read this. I know I sometimes make it spicy. I know the higher the numbers, the more conversations happen about me by people who don’t really like me. But if I can share some of this utter chaos into the world for one person to actually enjoy me, I’m in. So, let’s get personal.

Cars are a huge part of me. It’s in my blood, my DNA. My last job where I had a salary and worked for someone else was a car. And so many people find it pretentious. Shallow. Not “normal.” Well, I’m not normal. And this is the problem with life — we don’t want to understand more than we can judge. You have two choices: ask questions and spend a little longer understanding something, or judge it and make a comment purely to put someone down for who they are. This isn’t something we can change. It’s just who we are. Stephan said to me the other day that when my car isn’t with me, he avoids me because I’m not human. Shame, he goes through it. But he’s right. I freak out completely. It feels unsafe. And maybe this is an overshare some don’t need to hear, but it’s my safety — not personality. We went for lunch in December. I sat in the back of the car. My dad was driving. That’s all I remember. I fell asleep. Head banging on the window, neck hanging, drooling away. At peace. How? I have no idea. It was probably the only deep sleep I’ve had in years — something Garmin loves reminding you about just to make you feel bad about one more thing. I don’t sleep in cars. If Stephan drives, I keep busy — face sheet masks, writing business strategies, trying not to get car sick while the Macarena is on 100% volume, worrying if Kirby in the back is comfortable, aircon on, portable fan because Stephan “doesn’t need tinted windows.” BMWs are so low you can literally look down at us from an i10, which is not a risk I feel like taking. And my poor dog with the sun on her? La Roche-Posay doesn’t make products for dogs. We’re tinting the windows. Safety first. … how we got here, not sure.

I prefer driving. It’s a control thing. I don’t like passengers much — unless it’s Kirby — and don’t talk to me either. So why did I fall asleep that day? I figured it out the other night. My car broke down. I’m still processing this car of mine. It’ll come eventually. I’m not having a good time with life, so it’s 11pm and I’m in the garage. Stephan’s car is parked in the middle getting an interior valet and I’m listening to What Was I Made For and crying my eyes out… on repeat. Leather seats covered in tears. I went there to cry but hid it by vacuuming until the one piece of sand from new was gone. I cry in my car. I drive when I need comfort. I obsess when I feel alone. I go out when I’m emotional or going through a hard time or brainstorming something for work. The car I drive has one non-negotiable — connection. My Polo? Connection goals. I ended up with this car because I needed it. I had paid a deposit on another BMW and when I went to collect it, I changed everything and took this one home instead. It wasn’t on my list. I didn’t have a desktop folder with everything about it saved. I didn’t know its story. But it found me — flaws and all. It needed love. Attention. A chance. I was convinced it was owned by a Stellenbosch student with too much daddy’s money and too much time at festivals, or that it sat at the bottom of a lake for 12 months. It’s not that anymore. It’s pearl white now, not Jukskei Light Brown. Who knew. But I have that connection because my car gives me something people have taken away — a safe place without judgement. I can be me. My nervous system calms. I keep going because I can just be me. It’s safe. It’s mine. Don’t change anything. I keep it neat. Everything has a space. Mess it up and I’ll probably hate you for 13 minutes. I won’t share a car with anyone because that opens vulnerability and I’m not doing that with everyone. But it’s the one thing I don’t need to explain or overthink. It’s just me — crying, laughing, angry, excited, sad, lonely, confident, scared, hurt, motivated — and I feel supported. Sport seats tight? Max needed a hug. Hooting BMW? Someone annoyed me. Screeching Billie Eilish? Max isn’t okay. I don’t know how this happened. It’s been like this as long as I can remember. Car smells remind me of people. The sound of a BMW locking reminds me of my brother’s sneeze. And no, you may not wash my car. That energy is sacred.

I don’t know what the point of this is. I write to cope. To deal. To let go and not carry it. I turned 32 this week and felt sadness for reasons I can’t explain. I almost did a review on a Mazda and instead found love in my car and the way I sit. I know I’m not quite the norm and maybe that’s the point. We don’t like what we don’t understand. But when we open our eyes and minds more, the world has so much more than we realise. More happiness than you could imagine. Acceptance for everyone. A place to feel safe. Sometimes the smallest things make the biggest impact — like hearing someone liked my blog. That was enough. One person seeing it for what it is. And that was all I needed, just to be Max.