Escorts of the Ford variety

Escorts of the Ford variety

To say you can tell a lot about a man from the car he drives is a false notion. Personal situations change and so do vehicle requirements and a man who once owned a muscle car may now drive a mini-van. It may be true however that you can tell something about a man by asking the best car he has owned.

So instead of using my first blog entry to allow myself to introduce¦ myself, I will use this opportunity to talk about Escorts, not of the expensive female variety but Ford Escorts.

After owning around 10 cars, that have met various fates, it has only been the humble Escort that has captured my heart. My Escort wasn’t the nicest car I have owned or the fastest but it had character and spirit, something absent from so many more modern vehicles. Mine wasn’t a restored Mk I model or a modified Mk II, mine was a UK import MK III a 1985 XR3i to be exact. It was from a time when British Ford was in bed with Cosworth and their sweet love making magically filtered down to all models through that era. On paper I shouldn’t have loved the car at all, it only had a 1.6 injected motor, it had no electrics or even power steering. It did look cool however with a chunky 80’s style body kit and distinctive Ford four circle rims, it had a low laid back stance and weighing just 900kg was as dangerous as it looked. Sometimes it seemed that everyone hated the car; my mother hated it because it dropped oil on her driveway, my neighbours hated it because of its big bore exhaust with a hole in it, and my girlfriend hated it because it apparently inspired me to act like a dickhead. So it was me and my Escort against the world.

We would often return home late at night along the Auckland waterfront at a sprint. Sitting only inches from the ground my Escort would tell me about every bump in the ground, every movement in the wheels and every knock in the motor. New cars with their fancy ESP, power steering, firm suspension, and sound deadening have lost that communication between man and machine which once existed. However, it was on one of these waterfront races home that my Escort sucked through its K&N filter for its final breath. I pushed it too hard that night, but it was a more meaningful end for my Escort than just collecting rust in a car port somewhere.

Like an escort of the leggy female variety it was an encounter that was expensive and cut short too soon. I couldn’t own another Mk III Escort, not now I have been ruined by modern conveniences. I have also watched enough Knight Rider recently to know that nostalgia can be misleading. If your reading this blog you’re probably into cars, and if you’re into cars you must have been inspired sometime by some car. It was an Escort that inspired me, what inspired you?

To say you can tell a lot about a man from the car he drives is a false notion. Personal situations change and so do vehicle requirements and a man who once owned a muscle car may now drive a mini-van. It may be true however that you can tell something about a man by asking the best car he has owned.

So instead of using my first blog entry to allow myself to introduce¦ myself, I will use this opportunity to talk about Escorts, not of the expensive female variety but Ford Escorts.

After owning around 10 cars, that have met various fates, it has only been the humble Escort that has captured my heart. My Escort wasn’t the nicest car I have owned or the fastest but it had character and spirit, something absent from so many more modern vehicles. Mine wasn’t a restored Mk I model or a modified Mk II, mine was a UK import MK III a 1985 XR3i to be exact. It was from a time when British Ford was in bed with Cosworth and their sweet love making magically filtered down to all models through that era. On paper I shouldn’t have loved the car at all, it only had a 1.6 injected motor, it had no electrics or even power steering. It did look cool however with a chunky 80’s style body kit and distinctive Ford four circle rims, it had a low laid back stance and weighing just 900kg was as dangerous as it looked. Sometimes it seemed that everyone hated the car; my mother hated it because it dropped oil on her driveway, my neighbours hated it because of its big bore exhaust with a hole in it, and my girlfriend hated it because it apparently inspired me to act like a dickhead. So it was me and my Escort against the world.

We would often return home late at night along the Auckland waterfront at a sprint. Sitting only inches from the ground my Escort would tell me about every bump in the ground, every movement in the wheels and every knock in the motor. New cars with their fancy ESP, power steering, firm suspension, and sound deadening have lost that communication between man and machine which once existed. However, it was on one of these waterfront races home that my Escort sucked through its K&N filter for its final breath. I pushed it too hard that night, but it was a more meaningful end for my Escort than just collecting rust in a car port somewhere.

Like an escort of the leggy female variety it was an encounter that was expensive and cut short too soon. I couldn’t own another Mk III Escort, not now I have been ruined by modern conveniences. I have also watched enough Knight Rider recently to know that nostalgia can be misleading. If your reading this blog you’re probably into cars, and if you’re into cars you must have been inspired sometime by some car. It was an Escort that inspired me, what inspired you?

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