Edric recalls some colourful people from his early motoring days.
A large part of my early 20s was misspent hanging out at car workshops, cluelessly having some miracle part or other fitted to my vehicle in the name of heightened output, improved braking, increased chassis rigidity or lightening.
Probably the only thing that got lightened was my wallet, but I did meet some memorable characters during those endless hours sitting around industrial estates with a packet of kopi-c.
There was the short, loud chap who looked to be in his late 40s, married with kids, who would regale me with accounts of how he and his kakis would compete to see who could turn up at their regular gatherings with the youngest ah lian.
He held the record, he proudly told me, thanks to the teenager that he had shown up with at the last meet-up.
I smiled politely at his tale, assumed it was wishful thinking on his part, and soon forgot about it. Until some years later, when I read the chap’s name in the newspapers – in connection with a conviction for statutory rape. Guess he wasn’t kidding then.
Then there were the two buddies who each owned a different model of turbocharged coupe. Both cars were preened and modified to the last degree, naturally, and were clearly the pride and joy of their respective owners.
The guys seemed the best of friends, chatty and relaxed, until I, in my youthful naivete, asked them which of the two cars was faster. The jocular air suddenly turned tense as the chaps hesitated and eyed each other carefully. Finally one of them broke the silence. “Sensitive question,” he said tersely, and left it at that. I did, too.
And then there was this other executive type chap in his 30s with a Subaru WRX. It was beautifully kept; even the engine bay was spotless. The man loved his car, and ever so often he would have it in for some new upgrade to be fitted.
Nothing unusual with that, except that each time he would take the day off , park himself in the workshop with a newspaper and keep an eagle eye on his car all day as it was being worked on.
Given how regularly he was having something new done to his car, he must have pretty much exhausted his annual leave just sitting there like some expectant father at the delivery suite.
Finally, there was the skinny young guy who was always milling about the workshop.
He would pore relentlessly through tuning brochures to compare specs and prices of components, ask a million questions, and make a general pest of himself, before eventually going with the cheapest option because, well, he was a cheapskate.
That last character was me, actually.
Edric is still skinny, but less young, and with less time to sit around car workshops in industrial estates.
