It is… already in the shop, obviously. This isn’t a fairy tale.
Astons, especially those at the turn of millennia are world renowned for their British excellence in electronics, reliability, and (most important for a fledgling 27-year-old) very affordable repair service.
In a short period of ownership one thing has made itself incredibly clear: just admiration for the car is simply not enough. You need to fall in love with what it offers to you immediately. It is absolutely stunning, from the iconic front grill to the almost subtle double rear exhaust pipes. Inside it’s not much worse. A saddle brown leather interior gives your periphery an almost soothing sensation, a comfort in simplicity that I hadn’t realized I had missed until I got inside. But the real gem here is having access to a naturally aspirated V12 paired to 6 speed manual transmission.
At its heart, it isn’t a sports car, it’s a tourer. It accompanies you with a soundtrack that you will not beat with your best playlist. Wherever you’re going becomes that little bit more beautiful, that little bit more scenic. You don’t zone out, you’re ever-present on any journey you are making (if it is running). It makes the not so exciting trips in life just a little easier to appreciate.
Some side effects from my purchase have been impractical down shifts. Using the audio pedal a little more while under a tunnel. Small actions that cause disproportionally large smiles. That is what I bought. Not a badge, not a flex, a smile.
It always yearns for your attention. However, its beauty and sex appeal are its magic trick. Keeping your attention on the shallow beauty, almost tugging your head away from the depths of its soul, one likely fueled by a self-sabotaging drug problem, probably.
I mean if you have human friends, they will likely have legs. This means you will not be taking them in the back seat of your DB7. Aston had also not considered a driver taller than the average British man. Because if you are, you will soon be reminded that your kneecaps do exist! As it will be impossible stop the steering column from making some attempts to access your meniscus cartilage. And yes, I can sing the praises of the engine note all day, but it sings as if it were a Siren. Pulling any fair and genuine self-criticism of how stupid you are for buying an old Aston off the mast and out to sea. Never to be seen again. Or until I get the bill from the shop.
Basically, she’s gorgeous. I see absolutely no red flags. Clear sailing ahead.
And in no way is this an allegory to any of my past relationships.