How I Nearly Trashed My Dream Car On Its First Outing

Love is a potent thing. It catches us off-guard in the first instance, sweeping us up in passion as we glow in ecstasy at the joy of a new connection. In time, that love becomes a part of us. A comfortable presence, it can at times get lost in the background noise of daily life. It’s then that you have a choice. You either put the work in to sustain that love, or let it fade into nothing.

My relationship with cars has followed that same trajectory. When I was a child, a magnetism drew me towards them. At age four, as my mother filled up at the gas station, I asked if I could drive us to the shops. Upon being told I had to wait until I was sixteen, I immediately started counting down to when I would first get behind the wheel. In the meantime, whether it was die-cast toys, slot cars, or RC models, I reached for everything I could lay my hands on.

I would go on to claim my license, drive across half of the country, and even took in a track day or three. As the years went by, though, my love was slipping away. I lived off a tight budget as I made my way into the adult world, and between rent and grown-up commitments, I never quite found the time or money to commit to my automotive passions. I realized that this neglect had gone too far. I’ve since been trying to reconnect with cars. My first attempt went a little sideways to say the least!

The Grand Outing

If you’re a regular around these parts, you’ll recall that I’ve recently made some real steps in the right direction. I laid down my cash to pick up my dream car—a 2000 Audi TT. With 225 horsepower, a six-speed stick, and gorgeous lines from that buoyant turn-of-the-millenium era, it spoke to me from the first test drive. I knew this was a car I needed to own.

Armed with a sweet turbo roadster, you might assume I’d headed straight for the canyons to carve some new memories. Only, it’s been a big year for me. I moved to a new city at some expense. I planted myself in a walkable neighborhood for the first time, and loved it. It was a big shift, though—suddenly I didn’t need to drive anymore.

The months flew by, and I really wanted to get out to the good roads. The problem was they were now hours away. In my old hometown of Adelaide, you could find yourself some fine tarmac within half an hour of the city. My new town, not so much. Things finally came to a head when the Audi started choking on old fuel. I was driving so rarely, the premium gas in the tank was losing its potency and I’m pretty sure the ECU was cutting timing and boost. I realized I just had to get out and do it. When a fresh tank of 98 octane brought the kick back to my German friend, I knew the Petrol Gods were on my side.

I set aside a whole morning, woke up at 6 am, and pointed my Audi mountainwards. I had the roof down, the sun at my back, and a decent community radio station bumping dance tunes on the stereo. After a long ride out to the sticks, I was finally blessed with that most beautiful of sign posts. You know the one, it’s yellow and a diamond and it’s got a flirty little squiggle on it. I dropped my seat into a low and comfortable position, slotted into first, and released the clutch to bring forth my reward.

Right from the drop, the Audi did not disappoint. It might be based on the same platform as a Mark IV Golf, but the TT really is a different animal. Particularly with a sick set of coilovers and ridiculously wide tires. It points like a monster and grips like high-quality duct tape. The five-valve engine also proved a delight, boosting up eagerly with all the appropriate wooshy fanfare that makes turbos so exciting.

I was enjoying the little rush of adrenaline that came with each throttle application. I wasn’t going crazy hard, just feeling out the basic parameters of how the TT behaved. I might have owned it for six months, but this was my first real trip out to the twisties with my sleek silver friend.

I love a good hills run or canyon blast as much as anyone. Still, you’re always wary of traffic, road laws, and the ever-present gaze of the local constabulary. While I’ve met a few young guns with hot shoes in my time, I’m not one of those street racers that’s out crossing double lines at 2 a.m. in the morning. If I’m gonna push the limits, I’m not going to put the public or my license at risk. Of course, the problem I have there is that I bought a convertible—which is not as suitable for track work. Something to think about going forward.

In any case, I was really enjoying myself out there. Feeling the kick in the back out of the turns, loading up the tires as the lateral Gs poured on in the sweepers, it was great stuff. Eventually, my gleeful run came to a natural pause as I wound up in a train of cars dawdling behind a bus. This prompted a rather fateful decision.

I chose to peel off and pick a different route. I came across a C-road, smaller but typically less patronized than the busier B- and A- roads in the countryside. I peeled in, and noted a strange sign. “Watch out for logging trucks,” it read. I took the note and powered on, down a path that was barely wide enough for two cars. With all the bark and leaf litter, it seemed seldom few cars ever ventured down this way.

I was treading carefully, enjoying the scenery and the fact that I seemingly had the whole place to myself. A little boost here, a little apex there, making the most of it while staying within the rules. The first hint of trouble was when I struck a medium-sized stick in the center of the road. A bit of a clunk as I went over, but no harm done. I should have turned back. I had no phone signal and limited intel from whatever was left in the Google Maps cache. Unfazed, I surged forward. I should have turned back.

A few clicks in, the road turned to gravel. Hard packed, to be sure, but this was not a sealed road any longer. I was uncertain whether it was quicker to go forward or pull a U-turn, so I pressed on. I figured, even if my car was a touch low, I could probably make it through okay. Heck, maybe the slippery surface might even teach me a little something about car control. Colin McRae didn’t get good just from driving to Sainsbury’s, after all.

I should have turned back. Lowered sports car plus gravel equals bad. That’s obvious to anyone. I should have turned back.

Tarmac was okay. It wasn’t long before I realized my error. CA-THUNK! went the car as I slammed the left front through a small pothole. The gravel trail was a little pockmarked in places, and I’d struck that a little harder than I’d hoped to. I would have dodged, but I only saw the pothole at the last minute. Now several kilometers into the gravel road, I was growing a touch frustrated. I elected to take things a little more slowly, certain if I pushed on I’d soon reach tarmac on the other side. I should have turned back.

The road liked to play tricks. It would become beautifully smooth, almost as if it had just been graded, only to then throw a couple of potholes out where I least expected. I dodged one, two, three, with something less than ease.

Weaving on the straights was challenging enough, but it was a hairpin by which I was finally undone. I came around the bend. I’d picked a safe line in the middle of the road to avoid the soft edges. As I accelerated out, three feet ahead, I spotted it.

This was no mere pothole. A trench, a full six inches deep, I’d near enough call it. An array of nasty divots, stretching the whole width of the road. I want to say I hit the brakes, but I was too close. It made no difference. I smashed headlong into it and the Audi bounced through.

“That’s it,” I thought, breathless, as I rolled to a stop amid the rattle of gravel shaken loose. “I’ve binned it. No more dream car.” As I opened the door to survey the damage, smoke was already rising from under the hood. The front grille dangled loose, hanging from the bumper.

At this point in our tale, our hero suffers. All appears lost. The sun beat down, sweat on his brow, any potential rescue many miles and many dollars away.

The Petrol Gods, though? They were on my side. The steam billowing? Just water from the pothole hitting the hot exhaust. The front grille trim? Easily popped back into place. A quick whip around the car amazingly confirmed that all the wheels were still intact, undented, and holding air.

I wasn’t out of the woods yet, and I mean that quite literally. Checking my map with a fragment of signal, I realized that forward was indeed the way to go. I realized that sitting so low in the car was causing some of the problem, too—I couldn’t see some of these the potholes early enough to avoid them. I jacked the seat up, started the car, and resumed my progress at a glacial 30 km/h (19 mph).

It took me another 40 minutes to get out of that gravelly hellpath. This included a memorable stop where I had to clear a shattered log from the path so I didn’t high-center on it. The benefit of a fallen tree is that you can spot it a mile away, at least.

Eventually, though, I was greeted with that most beautiful of sights: asphalt, smooth as a mango. I was home free.

Never been so happy to see tarmac https://t.co/QEYIB0RiMZ pic.twitter.com/M3PLyqTzRJ

— Lewin S. Day (@rainbowdefault) December 4, 2024

The Audi gave me one last heart attack. Almost immediately upon finding the road, it flashed up a warning symbol I’d never seen before. I ended up idling the car downhill all the way to the petrol station, just in case this was some obscure German signal for “zere is zero coolant in ze engine YOU NUMBSKULL.” Do Germans say numbskull? I bet they might. I only learned the language from video games set in World War II. I think my friends would react more quickly to a yell of “GRANATE!” than “GRENADE!”

Ultimately, though, all was well. I filled up with gas, and topped off the windscreen washer tank, the latter of which cleared the error symbol. In retrospect, the fact there wasn’t an angry thermometer symbol flashing at me should have indicated this wasn’t a coolant issue, particularly as the temperature gauge was still behaving itself.

Back on proper roads, the Audi honestly astounded me. It was fully functional. It still ripped, it still gripped, and the steering wheel wasn’t even cocked off at some asinine angle when I was driving in a straight line. I’d gone out to have fun, made a grievous error, and gotten away with it.

I won’t call it the perfect day in the hills; far from it. But I did get to sample—just a little taste—of what this car can do, and I want more. I definitely reconnected with what I love about cars. I love the sound, I love the wind in my hair, and forgive me for quoting Max Power here, but I love feeling the Gs. Driving is a good time.

I’ve also been reconnecting in other ways, too. I’ll have more to say on that soon, but I remembered that my love of cars wasn’t just about the machinery, but about hanging out with the cool characters in the scene, too. I’ve needed to do more of that, and I think I’ve found just the way to do it.

I still wish that I had better roads on my doorstep. I wish that I had a dedicated track car and a trailer to tow it and all the space to house those things. Still, I consider myself blessed all the while. It might be a hike for me to get out to a good road, but I’m fit, healthy, and I’ve got a turbocharged roadster in my garage. It’s a good place to be.

I’m glad to have woken my benzinlust from its slumber. Just … next time? We’ll keep it off the dirt tracks, please and thank you.

Image credits: Lewin Day