Other People’s Cars. That’s literally the story of my life. If you grew up on the Cape Flats like me, CARS were everything to you. They represented freedom and a way to escape. They represented adventure, embodied spirit and passion and flair. They were an outlet for hooliganism. The noise, the smell of.burnt petrol and tyres. I’m a product of it. Those cars defined us.
I watched them long before I was old enough to drive them, but when that changed, I was unstoppable. I had to drive them all.
They’re addictive, each one different from the next, from the raw and visceral stuff of three or four decades ago, to the technologically charged metal of today. I’ve been at the wheel of my fair share of unobtanium in my life, rare and exotic gems and overpowered beasts of all descriptions, felt them stir, heard them bark. And in the best places in the world. But it’s easy to stay humble when you’re just a boy from the tip of Africa and ultimately, you’re just playing with Other People’s Cars.
PS Tag them if you know them.