One of my oldest mates, with whom I started school at age five, has asked me if I’ll be guest speaker at his next car club night. Gavin’s first car was a Fiat, a 125 sedan that he and his dad bought cheap and fixed up in time for his driving licence. He’s been a member of the Fiat Car Club and has owned a variety of 124 coupes for about as long. Which is now – eek! – more than 45 years.

My first thought was: well, what do I know about Fiats?

I was always about Alfa Romeos, an affair that was cemented at age 12 when a family friend let me drive his Alfasud 1.2 ti around the old Catalina Park circuit. I later bought my own Sud 1.5 and just recently received a badge from the Alfa Romeo Owners Club for – eek! – 40 years of membership.

My second thought was: hang on, I owned a Fiat. Not only did I own that beautiful light green 1963 500 Giardiniera, I fully restored it (Wheels, April 1992) and kept it for 24 years. Our time together started with me regularly begging Robbo, decamped to Italy in the late-1980s, to help track down and surface-mail spare parts for me, and ended with the El Dorado of internet forums and online ordering.

I replaced the Fiat with the ’89 Porsche 911 Carrera 3.2 that I’ve now had for 13 years. I plan to die with it. Although, not in it.

There’s a belief system I’ve identified here. Among my handful of motorcycles and scooters, all registered and ridden, are a 1972 MV Agusta 350 and 2000 Yamaha 100 scooter that I’ve owned for 24 years. Both bow down to a Mongoose BMX bike that I got for my 14th birthday, in 1976.

What delights me most is when a friend remarks that all my stuff looks like it’s only five years old. I know I’m not alone. Someone else very close to this magazine confessed to me that he has only ever sold one car – his first. So much did he regret it, he has kept everything since. He now has 26 cars and bikes.

My wife thinks that people like us are hoarders. But I’ve directed her to a photo of racing driver Dario Franchitti’s fabulous man cave, where a tapestry cushion proclaims: “It’s not hoarding if your shit is cool.”

Which reminds me that in 2003, while living in Europe, I had the extraordinary experience of accompanying Jay Kay, frontman of funk band Jamiroquai, to Maranello to take delivery of his Ferrari Enzo. His shit was cool. Among his 17 cars, which included a Lamborghini Miura, Aston DB5 and Mercedes 300SL roadster, was a BMW 1602.

It was his first car, which he’d later sold to a band member and subsequently bought back. “The only thing I regret is selling the F40,” he added, “but you’ll always be able to find a good F40.” Easy for him to say.

Over the years I’ve heard countless people wishing they’d never sold that Dino 246, or Alfa Montreal, or Aston DB6, or whatever infuriating, fiscal sinkhole they’d been ecstatic to offload for $4000 at the time.

Right now, I’m in the opposite predicament. Within four years of buying my 911 in 2012, its value more than trebled as air-cooled 911s enjoyed a demographic sweet spot. I’m watching those values soften, but I have no interest in selling.

It’s never been an investment. It’s my car.

For all of this, I can blame my late father and the 1966 Volvo 122S that was our family car. My dad bought ‘Victor’ in 1968 and only sold it in 2014 when, at 79, he could no longer cop the manual steering. I drove it, for the first time, a year earlier (Wheels, April 2013).

Yes, it sure did hurt to see it leave the family. And yes, I think almost every week about how I want it back.

This article originally appeared in the June 2025 issue of Wheels magazine. To subscribe, click here.